This article appeared in The Guardian newspaper on 25 November 2005. Click here to read it as published.
When I left Britain I'm sure many of the people I worked for expected me to miss deadlines as I succumbed to the attractions of party island Ibiza. I hoped for a little more in the way of sun, sea and siestas, but without the missed deadlines.
To achieve my aim I thought all I needed to do was work a little more efficiently and reduce my reliance on the almost infinite number of displacement activities offered by an internet-connected computer. There'd always be another website to be checked. What if something really important was happening in the world? Ping. There's another email. It could be vital.
But in order to earn a living in Spain I still need my broadband, so none of those distractions have disappeared. Now I feel guilty, not just about putting off work, but putting off pleasure as well.
My personal productivity is challenged in other ways. There's a totally different rhythm of life here. The US-led "live to work" mentality hasn't got the grip it has in Britain. Work here remains a means to an end. It doesn't even define who you are in the same way as it does in the UK.
At the same time working life isn't organised solely for the benefit of the customer. Most shops, including garden centres and hardware stores, don't open on Sunday. Many are closed on Saturdays as well. And forget trying to do anything during the afternoon siesta. Even after you've been here a while this lack of customer focus can catch you by surprise.
This attitude is contagious which doesn't necessarily go down too well if, like me, you do most of your work for UK businesses. Everybody's supposed to be in favour of an improved work-life balance. In theory.
In practice, most of my British paymasters seem to think I'm on holiday all the time anyway. The fact that I always meet my deadlines does nothing to diminish this belief. And that is all the more frustrating because it's actually quite difficult to take a holiday. Every time I've left the island it's been for a hectic round of business meetings interspersed with the odd family visit and wedding. I wouldn't get much sympathy if I took a break away from them and Ibiza.
An added difficulty is the distinctly two-tone nature of the Ibizan year. From November to April there are no flights at all to anywhere outside Spain. Getting back to Scotland, where many of my clients are based, is an expensive, multi-hour nightmare. It's often quicker and cheaper getting from there to the States or Australia. The advantage is that this gives you half the year free of visitors to get on with your work undisturbed. You hope.
But the winter is also the time when you see your local friends. The chances are, along with 80% of the population, they'll be directly reliant on tourism for their income and a season which peaks for a few short weeks around August. Some make enough to head for Thailand, Goa or Brazil. The rest eke out the chilly winter nights with cheap red wine and home-grown herbs. There's no work, but it's still a sociable time.
Summer or winter, though, one unexpected bonus has saved my working life on numerous occasions. There's a one-hour time difference which means that if I stagger down the hall from my bedroom to my computer at 11am it's still the mildly more respectable 10am in the UK. An extra hour on a deadline or for sleep is just enough for that little bit of depravity on the side.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
A desk in the sun
This is the second of my Ibiza columns for The Guardian newspaper. Its title has changed from the misleading 'Homeworker' to 'A Desk in the Sun' which sums up the column much better. Unlike the first column which was cut from 700 words to 500 words, this one appears pretty much untouched.
You can read it on the Guardian website by clicking here.
How to be in two places at the same time
Last year I had a cunning communications plan which I hoped would make it look as if I was in Britain while I was really in Ibiza. It was simple. I'd leave a phone line in Edinburgh on permanent divert to my home in the sun. After all, few people actually saw me in the course of work. I was just a disembodied voice on the phone, or words in an email.
Despite my already virtual work existence I was concerned that moving a few thousand miles away would be a psychological barrier for the people who pay for my services. Setting up a diversion wouldn't be expensive, just line rental and, at most, 4p a minute for calls transferred to Spain. Using a cheap "carrier pre select" (CPS) service meant I wouldn't even have to pay BT's international rates.
Of course, nothing's simple. For a start, BT's diversions have to be set up from the home phone, but I didn't know what my Spanish number was going to be. And, by the time I had a line set up, my Edinburgh flat was being let out in order to pay the rent in Ibiza.
Then, once the diversion was apparently working properly, I couldn't understand why the phone would ring once and stop. It turned out business contacts were fooled by the Spanish ring tone's similarity to the British engaged tone. When I did manage to grab the phone before the caller hung up, there would be complaints about a disconcerting echo on the line. I quickly gave up pretending to be in the UK, but, much to my surprise, being by the Mediterranean often worked in my favour. I was living the dream of many of my business contacts and they seemed to enjoy having somebody to moan to about the weather. Suddenly I also went from being a techie hack to being somebody vaguely exotic.
My new location was even partly responsible for getting me one job, as web editor for the August Club, an online organisation for retired and soon-to-retire professionals. There I was, a practical demonstration of how you can earn a living in the sun as a consultant, without even the cushion of the pension enjoyed by most of the club's members.
But actually, even within the space of a few months, technology has advanced to the point where nobody needs to know where in the world I am when they phone me. That's the wonder of internet telephony.
I've been a Skype enthusiast almost since it launched, a whole two years ago. Computer to computer calls over broadband are generally of a much higher quality than ordinary phone calls. They're also free. That makes Skype great for keeping in touch and the August Club runs on its conference-call facility. But, even though you can now make and receive Skype calls to or from a landline, you still have to keep a computer switched on. And a headset remains the best way to use Skype.
Now, I don't mind that call centre look. But really what I want is a substitute phone service and Vonage is the best I've found so far. It comes with a box which hooks up to your broadband router, then you plug in an ordinary phone. That's it. Because I bought it in Britain it behaves as if that's where I am. I have an Edinburgh number and a subscription which allows me to make unlimited calls to UK landlines for less than £10 a month.
To all intents and purposes I have now created a situation where I live in Ibiza and work in Scotland. Yesterday I interviewed two venture capitalists, one apparently in Edinburgh, the other in Aberdeen. In fact they were both in London. It was only after the inevitable ice-breaking conversation about the weather that we all admitted that phone diversions meant we weren't where we seemed to be. The difference was they were in city offices with the prospect of either an impersonal hotel room or hours of trains, planes and automobiles. I was already where I wanted to be.
You can read it on the Guardian website by clicking here.
How to be in two places at the same time
Last year I had a cunning communications plan which I hoped would make it look as if I was in Britain while I was really in Ibiza. It was simple. I'd leave a phone line in Edinburgh on permanent divert to my home in the sun. After all, few people actually saw me in the course of work. I was just a disembodied voice on the phone, or words in an email.
Despite my already virtual work existence I was concerned that moving a few thousand miles away would be a psychological barrier for the people who pay for my services. Setting up a diversion wouldn't be expensive, just line rental and, at most, 4p a minute for calls transferred to Spain. Using a cheap "carrier pre select" (CPS) service meant I wouldn't even have to pay BT's international rates.
Of course, nothing's simple. For a start, BT's diversions have to be set up from the home phone, but I didn't know what my Spanish number was going to be. And, by the time I had a line set up, my Edinburgh flat was being let out in order to pay the rent in Ibiza.
Then, once the diversion was apparently working properly, I couldn't understand why the phone would ring once and stop. It turned out business contacts were fooled by the Spanish ring tone's similarity to the British engaged tone. When I did manage to grab the phone before the caller hung up, there would be complaints about a disconcerting echo on the line. I quickly gave up pretending to be in the UK, but, much to my surprise, being by the Mediterranean often worked in my favour. I was living the dream of many of my business contacts and they seemed to enjoy having somebody to moan to about the weather. Suddenly I also went from being a techie hack to being somebody vaguely exotic.
My new location was even partly responsible for getting me one job, as web editor for the August Club, an online organisation for retired and soon-to-retire professionals. There I was, a practical demonstration of how you can earn a living in the sun as a consultant, without even the cushion of the pension enjoyed by most of the club's members.
But actually, even within the space of a few months, technology has advanced to the point where nobody needs to know where in the world I am when they phone me. That's the wonder of internet telephony.
I've been a Skype enthusiast almost since it launched, a whole two years ago. Computer to computer calls over broadband are generally of a much higher quality than ordinary phone calls. They're also free. That makes Skype great for keeping in touch and the August Club runs on its conference-call facility. But, even though you can now make and receive Skype calls to or from a landline, you still have to keep a computer switched on. And a headset remains the best way to use Skype.
Now, I don't mind that call centre look. But really what I want is a substitute phone service and Vonage is the best I've found so far. It comes with a box which hooks up to your broadband router, then you plug in an ordinary phone. That's it. Because I bought it in Britain it behaves as if that's where I am. I have an Edinburgh number and a subscription which allows me to make unlimited calls to UK landlines for less than £10 a month.
To all intents and purposes I have now created a situation where I live in Ibiza and work in Scotland. Yesterday I interviewed two venture capitalists, one apparently in Edinburgh, the other in Aberdeen. In fact they were both in London. It was only after the inevitable ice-breaking conversation about the weather that we all admitted that phone diversions meant we weren't where we seemed to be. The difference was they were in city offices with the prospect of either an impersonal hotel room or hours of trains, planes and automobiles. I was already where I wanted to be.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
The first of my monthly Guardian columns
Here's the uncut version of my introductory column about living in Ibiza while working in the UK. In order to make an advertisement fit, it was cut from 700 words to 500 words. This often happens in newspapers and I've butchered many a journalist's copy, but it's still frustrating.
Actually I was more fed up at the headline: 'Wherever I lay my Mac, that's my home'. I'm strictly PC these days having used Apple Macs when I worked in an office.
You can read edited article as it appeared in The Guardian if you click here. Or you can read it in full below...
Many people who’ve worked from home will recognise the picture. And it isn’t pretty. I’m sitting in front of my computer in my dressing gown, unshaven. The clock shows it’s 4pm, but doesn’t reveal that I haven’t set foot outside for three days. That’s because I had no need to venture onto Edinburgh’s cold, wet November streets. My work, and most of my life, was reduced to a screen, 19 inches corner to corner, and a telephone.
It was actually a couple of days later in the chilly sunshine that something clicked. I really didn’t need to be here. If most of the human contact necessary to earn a living could be made via phone and internet, I could be anywhere.
So I started to formulate a plan. There was nothing to stop my wife Barbara and I taking off to Ibiza for a year, celebrating my 50th birthday along the way. We had a small inheritance after my father died which, as long as I continued to earn something, would tide us over. We could put most of our belongings into my “home-office” and let our flat out as a two-bedroom which would, hopefully, cover most of the rent for a place in the sun.
Barbara wasn’t totally convinced. But I persuaded her Ibiza’s climate would be good for her rheumatoid arthritis and enable her to sell the jewellery she makes. So we wiled away the winter hours looking on the internet for somewhere to rent. Eventually it became clear we weren’t going to find anything and I’d have to spend a few days actually on the island. That’s when the first flaws in my plan became apparent.
Property seemed to be divided into two types. There were places which looked idyllic in summer when indoors was just for sleeping. In the spring drizzle, however, they felt barren and isolated. Alternatively there were apartments built for locals with tiny balconies barely large enough for a coffee table and two chairs. Watching sunshine through the window wasn’t the dream.
After four hectic days I found the ideal spot. It was modern and owned by a British architect and his wife. Okay, his work designing car showrooms did show a little in the décor, but it was a spacious compromise between local and holidaymaker’s tastes. It also managed to be quiet despite being two minutes from the beach and ten minutes from the island’s capital Ibiza Town. Getting a phone line and ADSL was also supposed to be easy, but that’s another story.
Feeling extremely pleased with myself I headed back to Edinburgh. The 25 hours it took gave me ample opportunity to think about whether it was really such a good idea to try and work from a small island with no direct flights outside Spain throughout the winter.
But, over a year later we’re still here. It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still unshaven, but it’s too warm for me to wear my dressing gown. As much by accident as by design I’ve ended up as a global telecommuter earning my income in the UK, but living by the Mediterranean. I edit the August Club’s website which is aimed at people retiring from business and the professions, write regularly for a number of publications and act as a confidential consultant on website content for several large private and public-sector organisations.
It’s all work that can be done anywhere there’s access to an internet connection. Even in the year I’ve been away, advances in technology, particularly internet telephony, keep making it easier to enjoy this way of working. I’m certainly not alone.
That doesn’t make it straightforward. Dealing in a foreign language with tax, bureaucracies which appear unreconstructed since Franco’s day and a postal service that doesn’t recognise your existence can reduce you almost to tears.
But I’ve learned a lot about working abroad in the UK over the last year or so. I’m sure now Ibiza is not the rational choice, but if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Hopefully, over the coming months through this column I’ll show you how.
Actually I was more fed up at the headline: 'Wherever I lay my Mac, that's my home'. I'm strictly PC these days having used Apple Macs when I worked in an office.
You can read edited article as it appeared in The Guardian if you click here. Or you can read it in full below...
Many people who’ve worked from home will recognise the picture. And it isn’t pretty. I’m sitting in front of my computer in my dressing gown, unshaven. The clock shows it’s 4pm, but doesn’t reveal that I haven’t set foot outside for three days. That’s because I had no need to venture onto Edinburgh’s cold, wet November streets. My work, and most of my life, was reduced to a screen, 19 inches corner to corner, and a telephone.
It was actually a couple of days later in the chilly sunshine that something clicked. I really didn’t need to be here. If most of the human contact necessary to earn a living could be made via phone and internet, I could be anywhere.
So I started to formulate a plan. There was nothing to stop my wife Barbara and I taking off to Ibiza for a year, celebrating my 50th birthday along the way. We had a small inheritance after my father died which, as long as I continued to earn something, would tide us over. We could put most of our belongings into my “home-office” and let our flat out as a two-bedroom which would, hopefully, cover most of the rent for a place in the sun.
Barbara wasn’t totally convinced. But I persuaded her Ibiza’s climate would be good for her rheumatoid arthritis and enable her to sell the jewellery she makes. So we wiled away the winter hours looking on the internet for somewhere to rent. Eventually it became clear we weren’t going to find anything and I’d have to spend a few days actually on the island. That’s when the first flaws in my plan became apparent.
Property seemed to be divided into two types. There were places which looked idyllic in summer when indoors was just for sleeping. In the spring drizzle, however, they felt barren and isolated. Alternatively there were apartments built for locals with tiny balconies barely large enough for a coffee table and two chairs. Watching sunshine through the window wasn’t the dream.
After four hectic days I found the ideal spot. It was modern and owned by a British architect and his wife. Okay, his work designing car showrooms did show a little in the décor, but it was a spacious compromise between local and holidaymaker’s tastes. It also managed to be quiet despite being two minutes from the beach and ten minutes from the island’s capital Ibiza Town. Getting a phone line and ADSL was also supposed to be easy, but that’s another story.
Feeling extremely pleased with myself I headed back to Edinburgh. The 25 hours it took gave me ample opportunity to think about whether it was really such a good idea to try and work from a small island with no direct flights outside Spain throughout the winter.
But, over a year later we’re still here. It’s four in the afternoon, I’m still unshaven, but it’s too warm for me to wear my dressing gown. As much by accident as by design I’ve ended up as a global telecommuter earning my income in the UK, but living by the Mediterranean. I edit the August Club’s website which is aimed at people retiring from business and the professions, write regularly for a number of publications and act as a confidential consultant on website content for several large private and public-sector organisations.
It’s all work that can be done anywhere there’s access to an internet connection. Even in the year I’ve been away, advances in technology, particularly internet telephony, keep making it easier to enjoy this way of working. I’m certainly not alone.
That doesn’t make it straightforward. Dealing in a foreign language with tax, bureaucracies which appear unreconstructed since Franco’s day and a postal service that doesn’t recognise your existence can reduce you almost to tears.
But I’ve learned a lot about working abroad in the UK over the last year or so. I’m sure now Ibiza is not the rational choice, but if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Hopefully, over the coming months through this column I’ll show you how.
- Nick Clayton is a freelance writer, editor of the August Club website and a web content consultant.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Real price of a cheap flight
One of the main topics of conversation amongst Brits in Ibiza is the price of flights. With so many budget airlines landing here over the summer finding out which one has the best deals can mean many frustrating hours on the internet, although there are some useful tools such as Skyscanner which searches across multiple airlines.
It’s easier for Londoners than the rest. For them, there’s direct flights into Luton, Stansted or Gatwick. And even if they land at 4am, there’s always a taxi into to town. For the rest of us, even landing in the early evening on British soil can make a cheap flight very expensive. Somehow you have to make a connection and if you miss the last onward flight, train, bus or whatever you’re stuck. A night in most airport hotels costs more than the flight.
Now, you might think from looking in travel agents windows that there would be regular cheap flights to Ibiza from Edinburgh or Glasgow. And you’d be right. Sadly for me, you can’t get the same bargains flying from Spain to Scotland. Sometimes, however, if you know you’re making several trips over the summer you can book that cheap return originating from the UK. So this summer Barbara and I flew to Doncaster, stayed in Edinburgh for three weeks, got a cheap return for two weeks from Glasgow and finally flew back to Ibiza from Doncaster. The total cost for four flights was less than £200.
But, sometimes those cheap summer flights provide more than a bargain. That was certainly the case when we flew back from Glasgow. The reason the ticket was cheap, incidentally, was because it straddled the end of the Scottish school holidays. It’s always worth checking term times to find bargains if you’re not too far from the border.
Anyway, the trip started badly. At check-in we were told there was a delay of probably two hours. But, tt least that made the game of guessing who would be on the same plane a bit easier. There weren’t any more flights that evening. Glasgow Airport was staying open just for us, at least WH Smith and a bar was. Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, even the drinkers watching Rangers playing a minor Cypriot team, and winning, seemed fairly subdued. It wasn’t until we made our way down to the departure lounge that it became clear that relieving the tedious journey with sleep was not going to be possible.
Several groups of shaven-headed lads were obviously enjoying themselves, to put it politely. As we got on the plane one group in front of us was being moved, none too politely, by a stony-faced stewardess. They were sent to the back of the plane while she confiscated their bottle of duty-free vodka. Unfortunately, although they had only got their seats wrong by one row, so they were soon back.
Meanwhile, an even rowdier group had got on. The one who couldn’t be right by his pals sat next to me. “Aw, nae luck big man,” he said. “You’ve got me for the whole flight.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it as he looked me up and down. “Hey, it’s Jerry Sadowitz,” he shouted to his pals. I’ve never been mistaken for a foul-mouthed, Jewish-Glasgow comedian before. It could have been worse. Looking at their football shirts, at least they didn’t think I was a Catholic.
Having got a laugh out of the Sadowitz comparison he then continued to repeat it for most of the trip, though fortunately a space had opened up next to his pals giving me some breathing space. That didn’t stop them offering me a swig of their Buckfast. I had a strange feeling of being back at school. Every time one of the cabin crew passed there was a clink of bottles, but I certainly wasn’t going to point the finger at who was to blame.
Also, their high spirits weren’t malicious. They were just having fun. Although, part way through the flight, it did look as if fists were about to fly. The middle-aged man who had complained originally about the two lads with the contraband vodka who were sitting in his seat suddenly turned round. “I’ve warned you three times about your language. There are children here,” he shouted.
I didn’t feel too much sympathy. The “children” were teenage boys who, I’m sure, would have heard their share of bad language at school, which was presumably where they should have been, rather than on a late-night flight to Ibiza.
Earlier in the flight I’d talked to the young woman in front. She was travelling alone, but had obviously consumed enough alcohol to join in with the lad’s banter. I’ll admit to being a little surprised when she explained she was an engineering graduate. It’s not a discipline that attracts too many females and, my prejudice shows again, she was quite attractive. Unless engineering students have changed dramatically since my day, I’ll bet she featured in more than a few of her classmate’s dreams. However, she said she now hated engineering and was completing a second degree in marketing. “With that combination I should be minted,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.
But she also brought out my usually well-hidden puritan instincts. For much of our conversation she was massaging the upper thigh of the guy sitting next to her. No doubt his Rangers top made him irresistible, but they had only known each other for a maximum of ten minutes. It was, anyway, a short relationship as she left him for his pal and they spent most of the flight chewing each others’ faces, pausing only for the occasional swig of Buckie.
My contribution to the conversation had, anyway, come to an end. It is on occasions like these that portable music players really come into their own. With a pair of earphones and the volume turned up, you can be in a world of your own.
It’s easier for Londoners than the rest. For them, there’s direct flights into Luton, Stansted or Gatwick. And even if they land at 4am, there’s always a taxi into to town. For the rest of us, even landing in the early evening on British soil can make a cheap flight very expensive. Somehow you have to make a connection and if you miss the last onward flight, train, bus or whatever you’re stuck. A night in most airport hotels costs more than the flight.
Now, you might think from looking in travel agents windows that there would be regular cheap flights to Ibiza from Edinburgh or Glasgow. And you’d be right. Sadly for me, you can’t get the same bargains flying from Spain to Scotland. Sometimes, however, if you know you’re making several trips over the summer you can book that cheap return originating from the UK. So this summer Barbara and I flew to Doncaster, stayed in Edinburgh for three weeks, got a cheap return for two weeks from Glasgow and finally flew back to Ibiza from Doncaster. The total cost for four flights was less than £200.
But, sometimes those cheap summer flights provide more than a bargain. That was certainly the case when we flew back from Glasgow. The reason the ticket was cheap, incidentally, was because it straddled the end of the Scottish school holidays. It’s always worth checking term times to find bargains if you’re not too far from the border.
Anyway, the trip started badly. At check-in we were told there was a delay of probably two hours. But, tt least that made the game of guessing who would be on the same plane a bit easier. There weren’t any more flights that evening. Glasgow Airport was staying open just for us, at least WH Smith and a bar was. Actually, it didn’t seem too bad, even the drinkers watching Rangers playing a minor Cypriot team, and winning, seemed fairly subdued. It wasn’t until we made our way down to the departure lounge that it became clear that relieving the tedious journey with sleep was not going to be possible.
Several groups of shaven-headed lads were obviously enjoying themselves, to put it politely. As we got on the plane one group in front of us was being moved, none too politely, by a stony-faced stewardess. They were sent to the back of the plane while she confiscated their bottle of duty-free vodka. Unfortunately, although they had only got their seats wrong by one row, so they were soon back.
Meanwhile, an even rowdier group had got on. The one who couldn’t be right by his pals sat next to me. “Aw, nae luck big man,” he said. “You’ve got me for the whole flight.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it as he looked me up and down. “Hey, it’s Jerry Sadowitz,” he shouted to his pals. I’ve never been mistaken for a foul-mouthed, Jewish-Glasgow comedian before. It could have been worse. Looking at their football shirts, at least they didn’t think I was a Catholic.
Having got a laugh out of the Sadowitz comparison he then continued to repeat it for most of the trip, though fortunately a space had opened up next to his pals giving me some breathing space. That didn’t stop them offering me a swig of their Buckfast. I had a strange feeling of being back at school. Every time one of the cabin crew passed there was a clink of bottles, but I certainly wasn’t going to point the finger at who was to blame.
Also, their high spirits weren’t malicious. They were just having fun. Although, part way through the flight, it did look as if fists were about to fly. The middle-aged man who had complained originally about the two lads with the contraband vodka who were sitting in his seat suddenly turned round. “I’ve warned you three times about your language. There are children here,” he shouted.
I didn’t feel too much sympathy. The “children” were teenage boys who, I’m sure, would have heard their share of bad language at school, which was presumably where they should have been, rather than on a late-night flight to Ibiza.
Earlier in the flight I’d talked to the young woman in front. She was travelling alone, but had obviously consumed enough alcohol to join in with the lad’s banter. I’ll admit to being a little surprised when she explained she was an engineering graduate. It’s not a discipline that attracts too many females and, my prejudice shows again, she was quite attractive. Unless engineering students have changed dramatically since my day, I’ll bet she featured in more than a few of her classmate’s dreams. However, she said she now hated engineering and was completing a second degree in marketing. “With that combination I should be minted,” she said. I couldn’t argue with that.
But she also brought out my usually well-hidden puritan instincts. For much of our conversation she was massaging the upper thigh of the guy sitting next to her. No doubt his Rangers top made him irresistible, but they had only known each other for a maximum of ten minutes. It was, anyway, a short relationship as she left him for his pal and they spent most of the flight chewing each others’ faces, pausing only for the occasional swig of Buckie.
My contribution to the conversation had, anyway, come to an end. It is on occasions like these that portable music players really come into their own. With a pair of earphones and the volume turned up, you can be in a world of your own.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Strange times
Something happened last week which illustrates how different from the rest of the world Ibiza is. A man died at the club DC10. Sadly, there’s nothing especially unusual about that. Deaths happen at discos all over the world as a result of fights, too much alcohol or too many drugs.
What made this death seem strange to anybody unconnected with Ibiza was the victim’s age. He was 77. I didn’t actually know him, but he was certainly a familiar figure in the island landscape. With his long grey hair and odd name Zgy Om was, as you might guess, a hippy. The universal reaction to his death was that it was a great way to go, if you have to go. Certainly nobody ever raised an eyebrow about him being in a club, other than a bowling club, at his age. It’s hard to imagine that happening in the UK or most other places.
The other thing which Augustians might find hard to understand, I certainly did until a couple of years ago, is the nature of the place where Zgy died. DC10 is what’s called a “day club”. The name’s fairly self-explanatory: It’s a nightclub which operates through the day. Until I cam here I certainly couldn’t understand why anybody would want to go to a disco when the sun’s up, but it makes a strange kind of sense.
There are seven so-called “superclubs” on the island, massive places with a capacity of up to 10,000. They are rented out to promoters who book the deejays and publicise their events in return for a share of the admission charge and bar profits. That means the clubber coming over for a week’s holiday in July or August will have at least 40 events, each with a different music policy, to choose from every week. And that doesn’t include the hundreds of smaller bars and clubs across the island.
Competition between promoters is intense, and there are inevitably winners and losers. Generally, every night there is one event that is the most popular. The rest are also-rans. Even people who aren’t big fans will even go to the most popular event because nobody wants to dance in an empty disco. And once you’re dancing you don’t want it to end, even at 7am when the club closes.
To cash in on this feeling a few clubs in the 1980s began opening in the morning. The most successful is Space which, for much of the summer, is open from 8am through until 6am the following morning. It’s a neat business trick to keep revenue generation going for 22 hours a day, albeit during a season that is less than10 weeks long.
That makes it sound as if the day club concept was a carefully planned business strategy. It wasn’t. The club started opening during the day almost as an act of desperation because not enough people wanted to come to its unfashionable location at night. Space only really became hugely successful when deejays started to move their equipment up from the subterranean bunker, which was the original disco, into the sunlight above. There’s something particularly pleasurable about dancing in the open air.
The only disadvantage was for the neighbours. Underground the sound doesn’t travel, but that changes when you move outside. In fact most of the island’s clubs used to be substantially outdoors,under the stars or the sun. Now they’re covered to meet the increasingly stringent noise pollution laws. It’s understandable, but a shame.
Those laws mean music is only allowed outdoors until midnight. Even the busy bar areas are now strangely quiet after the witching hour even though they continue serving drinks until 4am or so.
Space is trying to get round the noise restrictions, apparently, by putting a sliding roof on the outside terrace. In the past clubbers had to move inside at twelve, so many left at this point. But, in true Ibizan style, the building work at Space hasn’t finished even though the season’s begun. Perhaps half the club’s capacity is still rubble. When up to 5,000 guests are paying 40 euros or more to get in and 6 euros for the cheapest drink, a small bottle of water, (that’s over £25 and £4) it’s a substantial financial blunder.
Of course those prices put some people off including those who run DC10, the place mentioned at the beginning of this article. Now the last club to operate substantially in the open air, it embodies one part of the spirit of Ibiza. There are constant threats to close the club down because of noise, even though it takes its name from a plane thanks to its position right under the last few feet of the airport flight path. You can see the passengers’ faces from the dance floor. If Zgy had to go, it was arguably the right place.
What made this death seem strange to anybody unconnected with Ibiza was the victim’s age. He was 77. I didn’t actually know him, but he was certainly a familiar figure in the island landscape. With his long grey hair and odd name Zgy Om was, as you might guess, a hippy. The universal reaction to his death was that it was a great way to go, if you have to go. Certainly nobody ever raised an eyebrow about him being in a club, other than a bowling club, at his age. It’s hard to imagine that happening in the UK or most other places.
The other thing which Augustians might find hard to understand, I certainly did until a couple of years ago, is the nature of the place where Zgy died. DC10 is what’s called a “day club”. The name’s fairly self-explanatory: It’s a nightclub which operates through the day. Until I cam here I certainly couldn’t understand why anybody would want to go to a disco when the sun’s up, but it makes a strange kind of sense.
There are seven so-called “superclubs” on the island, massive places with a capacity of up to 10,000. They are rented out to promoters who book the deejays and publicise their events in return for a share of the admission charge and bar profits. That means the clubber coming over for a week’s holiday in July or August will have at least 40 events, each with a different music policy, to choose from every week. And that doesn’t include the hundreds of smaller bars and clubs across the island.
Competition between promoters is intense, and there are inevitably winners and losers. Generally, every night there is one event that is the most popular. The rest are also-rans. Even people who aren’t big fans will even go to the most popular event because nobody wants to dance in an empty disco. And once you’re dancing you don’t want it to end, even at 7am when the club closes.
To cash in on this feeling a few clubs in the 1980s began opening in the morning. The most successful is Space which, for much of the summer, is open from 8am through until 6am the following morning. It’s a neat business trick to keep revenue generation going for 22 hours a day, albeit during a season that is less than10 weeks long.
That makes it sound as if the day club concept was a carefully planned business strategy. It wasn’t. The club started opening during the day almost as an act of desperation because not enough people wanted to come to its unfashionable location at night. Space only really became hugely successful when deejays started to move their equipment up from the subterranean bunker, which was the original disco, into the sunlight above. There’s something particularly pleasurable about dancing in the open air.
The only disadvantage was for the neighbours. Underground the sound doesn’t travel, but that changes when you move outside. In fact most of the island’s clubs used to be substantially outdoors,under the stars or the sun. Now they’re covered to meet the increasingly stringent noise pollution laws. It’s understandable, but a shame.
Those laws mean music is only allowed outdoors until midnight. Even the busy bar areas are now strangely quiet after the witching hour even though they continue serving drinks until 4am or so.
Space is trying to get round the noise restrictions, apparently, by putting a sliding roof on the outside terrace. In the past clubbers had to move inside at twelve, so many left at this point. But, in true Ibizan style, the building work at Space hasn’t finished even though the season’s begun. Perhaps half the club’s capacity is still rubble. When up to 5,000 guests are paying 40 euros or more to get in and 6 euros for the cheapest drink, a small bottle of water, (that’s over £25 and £4) it’s a substantial financial blunder.
Of course those prices put some people off including those who run DC10, the place mentioned at the beginning of this article. Now the last club to operate substantially in the open air, it embodies one part of the spirit of Ibiza. There are constant threats to close the club down because of noise, even though it takes its name from a plane thanks to its position right under the last few feet of the airport flight path. You can see the passengers’ faces from the dance floor. If Zgy had to go, it was arguably the right place.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
An empty gesture
Slightly nervous, Barbara and I headed for the lawyer’s yesterday. In theory the vendor could have decided he didn’t fancy the deal and pulled out. Having shaken hands on it, this was highly unlikely. But you never know. Of course, we could do the same as well. We joked that we should turn up an hour late for the meeting, just to worry them.
We couldn’t do it, though. And as we were just about to go into the lawyer’s office we spotted the vendor dawdling slowly along the street, looking in every shop window. He was in danger of being on time. When he spotted us it was all smiles, a firm handshake for me and a kiss on both cheeks for Barbara. Up the steep stairs in the lawyer’s office we had to wait a few minutes which was slightly more awkward because we simply don’t speak enough Spanish to make small talk.
After a few minutes we were called through. The reason for the delay was that our negotiator was meeting the lawyer about another deal she’s involved in, a slightly bigger one than ours, involving millions of euros. We went into the boardroom and sat in exactly the same places as before, Barbara and I next to each other facing the negotiator and vendor with the lawyer in between. There was the usual long process of photocopying documents and the lawyer taking details of things such as the number of the certified cheque for the deposit. (This counts as part of the declared price, so it didn’t need to be cash.) Meanwhile the seller was asking the negotiator about the coloured bands on her wrist and she was explaining how they represented feelings including “serenity”, which was the last word anybody would use to describe her frantic lifestyle. Then he pointed to the ordinary elastic band on his wrist which he said he wore for luck. It had been wrapped round a bundle of notes from the bank. Then he proudly showed us pictures of his young boy on his mobile phone.
We carried on signing and countersigning documents. Then the vendor gave us details of who to contact for pool maintenance and so on. Other details were exchanged until Barbara asked the question which completely stopped everybody dead in their tracks. “What’s the address?” she said. The vendor looked at the contract, then at the lawyer. The negotiator looked at the lawyer who eventually said: “It is not unusual for a house in Ibiza not to have an address. There is no postal service for this area.” It’s still hard to imagine that happening in the UK.
Eventually we went with our negotiator for a triumphant bottle of Cava in a square we always bump into friends, well nearly always, because this time there was nobody to share the moment with us. That was a shame because a big disappointment was on the way.
Although we’d discussed renting the house furnished and when we’d visited it on Monday there had been some furniture, we’d never formally agreed anything. So, although we knew it might happen, we couldn’t quite believe it when we opened the door and found there was nothing left at all. Even the curtain rails had gone. We phoned our negotiator and she said she would come up to the house the following day to help sort things out. That turned out to be the only time she forgot to meet us.
So there we were sitting on the window sill of our new house on a Friday lunchtime with no beds, bedding, chairs, tables or anything useful. Even our mobile phones wouldn’t work because of the hills around us. We did, however, have one piece of luck. In the process of moving our stuff into the warehouse for storage I’d dropped our phone and it was still under the seat in the car. And it worked.
It’s at times like these, as they say, that you find out who your friends are. A couple of calls and people rallied round. One, who was on his way back from Barcelona, offered us a bed if we could find a way to transport it, not an easy task as it’s a king-size four poster. Fortunately another friend Steve has an ex-army Land Rover and trailer so helped with that, along with providing us with an awful lot of stuff he had in storage. He and his wife Diana are, in some ways, in the opposite position to us having a rented a furnished house and having to find storage space for much of their own stuff.
By ten that evening we at least had a bed to sleep in and chairs to sit on, but we needed to eat. Zombie-like we drove to the local town and sat outside a bar eating cheese sandwiches wondering if we were completely mad. It was a question we asked ourselves repeatedly as we rushed, or attempted to rush, round shops trying to buy essentials. I always hated Ikea, but I was beginning to see the advantage of having everything in one place. In Ibiza there’s a different shop for everything, none open on a Sunday and many shut on Saturday afternoon.
There are some good things about an enforced break from shopping. Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and in the UK we’d have spent in B&Q. Instead, friends had booked a table at a restaurant by the beach for a late lunch. Eating paella and drinking Cava on a balmy afternoon began to revive our faith in our new home. Then we moved on to another beach and a club called “Bora Bora”. A few hours dancing in the open air restored our endorphins to face a week of trying to make the house habitable.
We couldn’t do it, though. And as we were just about to go into the lawyer’s office we spotted the vendor dawdling slowly along the street, looking in every shop window. He was in danger of being on time. When he spotted us it was all smiles, a firm handshake for me and a kiss on both cheeks for Barbara. Up the steep stairs in the lawyer’s office we had to wait a few minutes which was slightly more awkward because we simply don’t speak enough Spanish to make small talk.
After a few minutes we were called through. The reason for the delay was that our negotiator was meeting the lawyer about another deal she’s involved in, a slightly bigger one than ours, involving millions of euros. We went into the boardroom and sat in exactly the same places as before, Barbara and I next to each other facing the negotiator and vendor with the lawyer in between. There was the usual long process of photocopying documents and the lawyer taking details of things such as the number of the certified cheque for the deposit. (This counts as part of the declared price, so it didn’t need to be cash.) Meanwhile the seller was asking the negotiator about the coloured bands on her wrist and she was explaining how they represented feelings including “serenity”, which was the last word anybody would use to describe her frantic lifestyle. Then he pointed to the ordinary elastic band on his wrist which he said he wore for luck. It had been wrapped round a bundle of notes from the bank. Then he proudly showed us pictures of his young boy on his mobile phone.
We carried on signing and countersigning documents. Then the vendor gave us details of who to contact for pool maintenance and so on. Other details were exchanged until Barbara asked the question which completely stopped everybody dead in their tracks. “What’s the address?” she said. The vendor looked at the contract, then at the lawyer. The negotiator looked at the lawyer who eventually said: “It is not unusual for a house in Ibiza not to have an address. There is no postal service for this area.” It’s still hard to imagine that happening in the UK.
Eventually we went with our negotiator for a triumphant bottle of Cava in a square we always bump into friends, well nearly always, because this time there was nobody to share the moment with us. That was a shame because a big disappointment was on the way.
Although we’d discussed renting the house furnished and when we’d visited it on Monday there had been some furniture, we’d never formally agreed anything. So, although we knew it might happen, we couldn’t quite believe it when we opened the door and found there was nothing left at all. Even the curtain rails had gone. We phoned our negotiator and she said she would come up to the house the following day to help sort things out. That turned out to be the only time she forgot to meet us.
So there we were sitting on the window sill of our new house on a Friday lunchtime with no beds, bedding, chairs, tables or anything useful. Even our mobile phones wouldn’t work because of the hills around us. We did, however, have one piece of luck. In the process of moving our stuff into the warehouse for storage I’d dropped our phone and it was still under the seat in the car. And it worked.
It’s at times like these, as they say, that you find out who your friends are. A couple of calls and people rallied round. One, who was on his way back from Barcelona, offered us a bed if we could find a way to transport it, not an easy task as it’s a king-size four poster. Fortunately another friend Steve has an ex-army Land Rover and trailer so helped with that, along with providing us with an awful lot of stuff he had in storage. He and his wife Diana are, in some ways, in the opposite position to us having a rented a furnished house and having to find storage space for much of their own stuff.
By ten that evening we at least had a bed to sleep in and chairs to sit on, but we needed to eat. Zombie-like we drove to the local town and sat outside a bar eating cheese sandwiches wondering if we were completely mad. It was a question we asked ourselves repeatedly as we rushed, or attempted to rush, round shops trying to buy essentials. I always hated Ikea, but I was beginning to see the advantage of having everything in one place. In Ibiza there’s a different shop for everything, none open on a Sunday and many shut on Saturday afternoon.
There are some good things about an enforced break from shopping. Sunday was Barbara’s birthday and in the UK we’d have spent in B&Q. Instead, friends had booked a table at a restaurant by the beach for a late lunch. Eating paella and drinking Cava on a balmy afternoon began to revive our faith in our new home. Then we moved on to another beach and a club called “Bora Bora”. A few hours dancing in the open air restored our endorphins to face a week of trying to make the house habitable.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Crunch time on the property ladder
Last night we had the crunch meeting in our quest to buy a house in Ibiza. As ever, nothing had gone smoothly in the run up.
We arrived back on the island at about 3am on Sunday morning. The flight was on time. But there were annoyances along the way, as there always will be, as long we divide our lives between Ibiza and Edinburgh. There are, for instance, direct flights in the summer between the two places, but you can only make the return trip if you start in Scotland, not Spain. So every trip requires hours of internet searching for the best deal. This time it was to Gatwick with First Choice Airways. (Basically it’s a way for the holiday company to flog unused package seats.) The rest of the journey was with BA which beat easyJet on both price and timing between Edinburgh and Gatwick.
The trouble, however, with using two airlines is you have to allow several hours to make the connection or risk the cost of missing the second flight. Gatwick though has an enormous shopping centre and there were a couple of tax-free things I intended to buy as presents for friends in Ibiza. Unfortunately, the terminal was eerily empty and and just about everything was shut when we arrived on Saturday evening. (If anybody’s planning a late flight on a Saturday from Gatwick, get your shopping done before 7pm.)
This will not be a problem on our next trip back to Edinburgh in June. We’ll be flying into the exciting new Robin Hood International Airport near Doncaster. Looking at its website there’s all sorts of “proposed” developments, but current facilities seem to consist of a coffee bar and a Spar. (That’s not a misspelling. I do mean the convenience store rather than a place filled with Jacuzzis, steam and relaxation treatments.)
Anyway, less of the future and back to the recent past. After arriving at the hotel at 4.30am on Sunday, knackered, it seemed only minutes before we had to drag ourselves up to see the house. We’d only spent half an hour there in total, and always accompanied by the tenants who were under the impression we were going to be renting the place when they left. Hopefully they would have gone as I’d also arranged for a friend who’s an engineer to come round with me to see if he could spot any real nasties in the construction. (There’s no such thing as surveying as a profession in Spain.)
Then my mobile rang. We couldn’t get access that day as the vendor wouldn’t answer his phone because it was Sunday (none of that American 24/7 service here) and the tenant had taken the other set of keys back to England. So we arranged another appointment the for yesterday lunchtime. That fell through too. My mate the engineer was almost as delighted as me.
That meant when we had the meeting at the lawyer’s office Barbara and I still hadn’t had chance for a proper look round the house. And while we’d been in Scotland for two weeks the vendor had been busy rearranging the goalposts. This time he wanted to double the amount of the deposit to pay an urgent bill.
As it happens, this was something of a fortuitous problem. While in Edinburgh I’d had a call from a credit card company asking if I wanted to transfer any outstanding balances from other cards. I don’t have any debts from plastic as I feel this is a very expensive way to borrow money. Telling the operator this, I was immediately offered a loan which would be interest free for the first six months. Obviously the company hopes you won’t be able to pay the cash back at the end of that period, but I will and I had a feeling that extra cash could prove useful. Of course, I didn’t tell the vendor any of this and instead explained to him that getting the extra money was expensive and difficult.
This all took place at the meeting which was scheduled for 5pm, not an unusual time in the land of the siesta. Barbara and I, however, arrived five minutes early which amused our lawyer who felt it showed how foreign we still are. A few minutes later our negotiator arrived and, some time after that, the vendor. But the wait at least gave the lawyer chance to explain the intricacies of the proposed sale contract. It was just as well because we weren’t going to be involved in any of the actual negotiations.
All along our negotiator’s main words to me were: “Don’t worry darling. It’ll be fine.” I never believed it. And, as the negotiations went on, I believed it even less. Barbara and I could make out much of the Spanish, but not quite enough to take part. The vendor was still avoiding eye contact and we knew enough to understand he was trying to change the rules yet again. Our lawyer would make one point, the negotiator would back it up in slightly pidgin Spanish and the deal seemed to be crumbling before our eyes. Then our negotiator started to speak very firmly to the vendor. Suddenly it was all sorted. We shook hands. There were lots of smiles and we agreed to go through the formalities of paying the deposit and signing on Thursday evening. But before that, we actually got to see the house again. It would have been a bit of a shame if we’d hated it on second appearances.
I must admit to feeling more dazed than exhilarated as we left the lawyer’s office with our negotiator. It was also now clear that she was rather less certain the deal would come off than she made out. As we’d guessed, the pivotal moment came as she became stern with the vendor. She was playing the maternal card. She told us she’d learned at least some of her negotiating skills while married to an Italian, the boss of a Sicilian construction company even. (Use your imagination.) She believes Mediterranean machismo is basically matriarchal, so she treated the vendor as a mother would a misbehaving child. But she admitted it didn’t always work and the vendor had threatened to pull out when she tried it before.
As we drove to the house we still couldn’t believe we’d bought it. In fact we couldn’t even find it to begin with, overshooting the narrow road leading up to it twice. On arrival we could see why the vendor was reluctant to show us the place. A few weeks in the care of an alcoholic had left the place looking rather sad and, in the kitchen, distinctly smelly. Still, we’re promised that by Friday it will be spotless thanks to the efforts of a team of cleaners, gardeners and pool maintenance people.
But underneath the grime the house looks as fabulous as we’d remembered. And we managed to drag along my friend who’s a qualified engineer and a builder. He couldn’t see any problems apart from a couple of minor damp patches. This is one of those things that’s both more prevalent and less problematic than in the UK. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.
So, Thursday afternoon we hand over a certified cheque and sign the initial papers. There’s the standard Spanish agreement that if we renege on the deal we lose the deposit. If the vendor backs out he pays us twice the deposit. Friday should be our first night there, not that we have any furniture. But that’s for the next episode of the blog.
We arrived back on the island at about 3am on Sunday morning. The flight was on time. But there were annoyances along the way, as there always will be, as long we divide our lives between Ibiza and Edinburgh. There are, for instance, direct flights in the summer between the two places, but you can only make the return trip if you start in Scotland, not Spain. So every trip requires hours of internet searching for the best deal. This time it was to Gatwick with First Choice Airways. (Basically it’s a way for the holiday company to flog unused package seats.) The rest of the journey was with BA which beat easyJet on both price and timing between Edinburgh and Gatwick.
The trouble, however, with using two airlines is you have to allow several hours to make the connection or risk the cost of missing the second flight. Gatwick though has an enormous shopping centre and there were a couple of tax-free things I intended to buy as presents for friends in Ibiza. Unfortunately, the terminal was eerily empty and and just about everything was shut when we arrived on Saturday evening. (If anybody’s planning a late flight on a Saturday from Gatwick, get your shopping done before 7pm.)
This will not be a problem on our next trip back to Edinburgh in June. We’ll be flying into the exciting new Robin Hood International Airport near Doncaster. Looking at its website there’s all sorts of “proposed” developments, but current facilities seem to consist of a coffee bar and a Spar. (That’s not a misspelling. I do mean the convenience store rather than a place filled with Jacuzzis, steam and relaxation treatments.)
Anyway, less of the future and back to the recent past. After arriving at the hotel at 4.30am on Sunday, knackered, it seemed only minutes before we had to drag ourselves up to see the house. We’d only spent half an hour there in total, and always accompanied by the tenants who were under the impression we were going to be renting the place when they left. Hopefully they would have gone as I’d also arranged for a friend who’s an engineer to come round with me to see if he could spot any real nasties in the construction. (There’s no such thing as surveying as a profession in Spain.)
Then my mobile rang. We couldn’t get access that day as the vendor wouldn’t answer his phone because it was Sunday (none of that American 24/7 service here) and the tenant had taken the other set of keys back to England. So we arranged another appointment the for yesterday lunchtime. That fell through too. My mate the engineer was almost as delighted as me.
That meant when we had the meeting at the lawyer’s office Barbara and I still hadn’t had chance for a proper look round the house. And while we’d been in Scotland for two weeks the vendor had been busy rearranging the goalposts. This time he wanted to double the amount of the deposit to pay an urgent bill.
As it happens, this was something of a fortuitous problem. While in Edinburgh I’d had a call from a credit card company asking if I wanted to transfer any outstanding balances from other cards. I don’t have any debts from plastic as I feel this is a very expensive way to borrow money. Telling the operator this, I was immediately offered a loan which would be interest free for the first six months. Obviously the company hopes you won’t be able to pay the cash back at the end of that period, but I will and I had a feeling that extra cash could prove useful. Of course, I didn’t tell the vendor any of this and instead explained to him that getting the extra money was expensive and difficult.
This all took place at the meeting which was scheduled for 5pm, not an unusual time in the land of the siesta. Barbara and I, however, arrived five minutes early which amused our lawyer who felt it showed how foreign we still are. A few minutes later our negotiator arrived and, some time after that, the vendor. But the wait at least gave the lawyer chance to explain the intricacies of the proposed sale contract. It was just as well because we weren’t going to be involved in any of the actual negotiations.
All along our negotiator’s main words to me were: “Don’t worry darling. It’ll be fine.” I never believed it. And, as the negotiations went on, I believed it even less. Barbara and I could make out much of the Spanish, but not quite enough to take part. The vendor was still avoiding eye contact and we knew enough to understand he was trying to change the rules yet again. Our lawyer would make one point, the negotiator would back it up in slightly pidgin Spanish and the deal seemed to be crumbling before our eyes. Then our negotiator started to speak very firmly to the vendor. Suddenly it was all sorted. We shook hands. There were lots of smiles and we agreed to go through the formalities of paying the deposit and signing on Thursday evening. But before that, we actually got to see the house again. It would have been a bit of a shame if we’d hated it on second appearances.
I must admit to feeling more dazed than exhilarated as we left the lawyer’s office with our negotiator. It was also now clear that she was rather less certain the deal would come off than she made out. As we’d guessed, the pivotal moment came as she became stern with the vendor. She was playing the maternal card. She told us she’d learned at least some of her negotiating skills while married to an Italian, the boss of a Sicilian construction company even. (Use your imagination.) She believes Mediterranean machismo is basically matriarchal, so she treated the vendor as a mother would a misbehaving child. But she admitted it didn’t always work and the vendor had threatened to pull out when she tried it before.
As we drove to the house we still couldn’t believe we’d bought it. In fact we couldn’t even find it to begin with, overshooting the narrow road leading up to it twice. On arrival we could see why the vendor was reluctant to show us the place. A few weeks in the care of an alcoholic had left the place looking rather sad and, in the kitchen, distinctly smelly. Still, we’re promised that by Friday it will be spotless thanks to the efforts of a team of cleaners, gardeners and pool maintenance people.
But underneath the grime the house looks as fabulous as we’d remembered. And we managed to drag along my friend who’s a qualified engineer and a builder. He couldn’t see any problems apart from a couple of minor damp patches. This is one of those things that’s both more prevalent and less problematic than in the UK. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.
So, Thursday afternoon we hand over a certified cheque and sign the initial papers. There’s the standard Spanish agreement that if we renege on the deal we lose the deposit. If the vendor backs out he pays us twice the deposit. Friday should be our first night there, not that we have any furniture. But that’s for the next episode of the blog.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Fast movers
This time I’ve a few good excuses for being late with my blogging. As of last Thursday we’d decided that there was no way we were going to get into our new home before a trip to Scotland which we’d already booked for first thing on Sunday morning. Nothing had been resolved on the split between “black money” and the declared price for the house.
So, Thursday evening we were deciding what we’d need to take with us back to Scotland while leaving sufficient room for the new clothes we planned to buy. (Ibiza’s a great place for wealthy stick insects to get their gear or little old ladies to buy sensible clobber, but there’s not a lot in between.) In the midst of this first Barbara’s aunt phoned and, almost simultaneously, my mobile went.
Barbara saw me turn white. It was our English landlord. We were supposed to ring him the night before, but as we were no further forward with finding somewhere new to stay, I hadn’t got round to it. He’d seemed quite relaxed last time we’d spoken and I assumed he’d let us know if they were coming over. But, no. His flights were booked for a week on Saturday. We had two days to empty and clean the apartment and nowhere to put our stuff, let alone a place for us to sleep.
Fortunately our erstwhile negotiator was planning on opening a second-hand furniture shop and so had an empty warehouse. So, all we had to do was put our lives into boxes and one problem would be solved. It is, however, rather harder to pack everything than it is to spend a few days slinging stuff such as clothes in the back of the car and hanging them straight up in a new home.
But, that new home was not going to be available immediately even if we could come to an agreement on rental or purchase terms. The problem was the tenant. Yes, the one with a penchant for bad business deals and unfortunate friendships. Apparently, after his last disagreement he hadn’t stopped drinking. His wife phoned our agent saying: “Help. You’ve got to rescue me.” So they slipped a few valium into his drink and ,while he was asleep, got the wife packed and onto a plane. They also took his car keys for his own protection. Unfortunately he didn’t see things in quite that way. After countless phone calls our negotiator gave in. She does have several businesses to run along with single-handedly bringing up two primary-school-aged children. It kind of goes without saying that as soon as he got the keys back he wrote off the car.
We heard all this on Saturday when in the midst of packing we got a call from our negotiator who’d spent the morning with the seller. He wasn’t going to budge on the amount of money to be declared as the official selling price.
So, Thursday evening we were deciding what we’d need to take with us back to Scotland while leaving sufficient room for the new clothes we planned to buy. (Ibiza’s a great place for wealthy stick insects to get their gear or little old ladies to buy sensible clobber, but there’s not a lot in between.) In the midst of this first Barbara’s aunt phoned and, almost simultaneously, my mobile went.
Barbara saw me turn white. It was our English landlord. We were supposed to ring him the night before, but as we were no further forward with finding somewhere new to stay, I hadn’t got round to it. He’d seemed quite relaxed last time we’d spoken and I assumed he’d let us know if they were coming over. But, no. His flights were booked for a week on Saturday. We had two days to empty and clean the apartment and nowhere to put our stuff, let alone a place for us to sleep.
Fortunately our erstwhile negotiator was planning on opening a second-hand furniture shop and so had an empty warehouse. So, all we had to do was put our lives into boxes and one problem would be solved. It is, however, rather harder to pack everything than it is to spend a few days slinging stuff such as clothes in the back of the car and hanging them straight up in a new home.
But, that new home was not going to be available immediately even if we could come to an agreement on rental or purchase terms. The problem was the tenant. Yes, the one with a penchant for bad business deals and unfortunate friendships. Apparently, after his last disagreement he hadn’t stopped drinking. His wife phoned our agent saying: “Help. You’ve got to rescue me.” So they slipped a few valium into his drink and ,while he was asleep, got the wife packed and onto a plane. They also took his car keys for his own protection. Unfortunately he didn’t see things in quite that way. After countless phone calls our negotiator gave in. She does have several businesses to run along with single-handedly bringing up two primary-school-aged children. It kind of goes without saying that as soon as he got the keys back he wrote off the car.
We heard all this on Saturday when in the midst of packing we got a call from our negotiator who’d spent the morning with the seller. He wasn’t going to budge on the amount of money to be declared as the official selling price.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Getting closer? Maybe
In common with just about every diarist and letter writer I start with an apology for the tardiness of my latest missive. The reason this time is that although most of Barbara and my thoughts are focused on getting the house, we can’t admit it. We have to maintain this pose that says we’re not thinking about the house so we won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen.
Actually, the fact that we now probably have a fallback position means we won’t be horribly disappointed if it all does fall apart this evening. We’ll just stay on where we are which, if nothing else, will be much easier than having to scrabble around for money, chase mortgages and so on. If we don’t get the house, the difficulties will arise later.
We’d already decided that we wouldn’t look for anything over the summer. People are too busy and there are people visiting the island who may be persuaded to part with silly money when in holiday mood. But in the autumn our sights will be set much higher and we’ll be disappointed by places that don’t match up to the house we’re after now.
The other reason we’ve been trying to talk as little as possible about our potential home is that the decision’s largely out of our hands. That does not, however, mean there are no silly nagging doubts. For instance, what do we wear for this evening’s meeting? In Scotland it would be easy for me. Lawyer equals suit. Here, not only do I not possess a suit, but wearing one could be counter-productive. The seller could try to push the price up on the basis that we look as if we could afford it. On the other hand, we don’t want to seem disrespectful. Barbara will tell me that these are problems women have to face all the time.
Anyway, in three hours we should know the worst, or best…
It’s good to see the world’s two biggest car-hire companies Avis and Hertz involved in a marketing competition which I hope will spread. In the United States in particular both are promoting their ability to provide cars with adaptations so that anybody can drive.
Of course, the Americans with Disabilities Act provides a strong stick to hit organisations with that discriminate against people by not making their services accessible. But there’s an equally powerful carrot in the form of the spending power of people with impairments. As the population ages this is represents a fast-growing market.
The services now offered free by Avis include:
Obviously you should make requests for these services and adaptations as far in advance as possible. Avis and Hertz both have websites with full contact details.
Today I should have definite news about where we’re going to be living at the end of this month, but I don’t. Yesterday’s meeting with the lawyer was neither good nor bad, but it certainly didn’t go according to plan. Actually, if events so far have often made us feel as if we were living a reality television programme, yesterday was closer to a soap opera. You know the sort of thing, people turn up conveniently and unexpectedly in order for the plot to unfold.
The latest episode began at 6pm. Unusually for me, I was actually ready in time to get to the lawyers early. So after a quick once round the block, looking in estate agents’ windows to assure ourselves we were getting a bargain, we walked up the steep stairs to the lawyer’s office.
Our first surprise was to see the woman who had negotiated the property deal for us sitting in the waiting area. We hadn’t asked her to come, but assumed she’d turned up to help the deal go through. But no, she was there to see her lawyer before appearing in court the following day. She’d had a car accident last year and, she told us, assumed her ex-husband had insurance.
Her presence was pure coincidence. But she did have some gossip for us. The guy who is currently living in our intended house was involved in a deal to buy a hotel which apparently went disastrously wrong. After he’d had a few drinks, she told us, he had visited the hotel and started shouting the odds in the reception. Later that evening he had been badly beaten up. Fortunately, that had nothing to do with our house, although one could only feel sorry for the guy. It’s a full story which I probably don’t want to know.
Eventually our lawyer called us into the boardroom. There was no sign of the seller, which gave us a few minutes to ask questions and get answers in ponderous legalese. Sometimes I get the feeling that what defines a “professional” is the ability to respond to any question without giving a definitive reply. After a few of these carefully hedged answers he went to see if maybe the seller had got lost. Certainly, all I’d been able to see through a crack in the door was a youngish guy in a tee shirt going into the reception area, no old “Ibicencan” as the seller had been described.
A few minutes later we found out that the “old” guy was no more than 35. He was the chubby guy I’d seen outside wearing a “Dissident” tee shirt. (No I don’t think that had any significance.) From the moment he came into the boardroom the seller studiously avoided looking either Barbara or I in the eye, talking only to our lawyer in Spanish. Although this made it hard for us to follow it was obvious that he was unhappy with the amount of tax he would have to pay on the deal. As I’ve said in previous blogs, this was largely a problem of his own making. The tax authorities would almost certainly smell a rat if the amount he was declaring he had sold the property for was considerably less than the mortgage.
During this discussion our negotiator put her head in to see if things were going okay. She came in. Fortunately, she was able to explain the taxation problems more simply to the seller. (We learned from her later that although he had developed a number of properties, this was his first sale.) He seemed surprised that the detail of his mortgage was on display to us the public and, of course, the tax authorities. It also transpired that his plan to conclude the sale next year was pointless because he’d already sold the property to a company he’d set up for the purpose. This is a common technique in Spain to reduce liabilities, but obviously needs to be done with professional advice.
The lesson in taxation for our seller lasted about an hour while our lawyer explained the problem in detail and the negotiator simplified it. All we could do was watch. There simply wasn’t room to negotiate and anyway this wasn’t supposed to be a negotiating meeting. Everything was supposed to be agreed. Now we could see the deal ebbing away. I wasn’t totally despondent, however, because the seller had brought some of the missing papers which our lawyer had requested and he was happy to have them taken away and copied.
After the seller had left our negotiator stayed to discuss possible outcomes. She comforted us by saying that buying property is always like this in Ibiza. Our lawyer didn’t seem convinced.
But, once again, all we can do is wait.
Actually, the fact that we now probably have a fallback position means we won’t be horribly disappointed if it all does fall apart this evening. We’ll just stay on where we are which, if nothing else, will be much easier than having to scrabble around for money, chase mortgages and so on. If we don’t get the house, the difficulties will arise later.
We’d already decided that we wouldn’t look for anything over the summer. People are too busy and there are people visiting the island who may be persuaded to part with silly money when in holiday mood. But in the autumn our sights will be set much higher and we’ll be disappointed by places that don’t match up to the house we’re after now.
The other reason we’ve been trying to talk as little as possible about our potential home is that the decision’s largely out of our hands. That does not, however, mean there are no silly nagging doubts. For instance, what do we wear for this evening’s meeting? In Scotland it would be easy for me. Lawyer equals suit. Here, not only do I not possess a suit, but wearing one could be counter-productive. The seller could try to push the price up on the basis that we look as if we could afford it. On the other hand, we don’t want to seem disrespectful. Barbara will tell me that these are problems women have to face all the time.
Anyway, in three hours we should know the worst, or best…
It’s good to see the world’s two biggest car-hire companies Avis and Hertz involved in a marketing competition which I hope will spread. In the United States in particular both are promoting their ability to provide cars with adaptations so that anybody can drive.
Of course, the Americans with Disabilities Act provides a strong stick to hit organisations with that discriminate against people by not making their services accessible. But there’s an equally powerful carrot in the form of the spending power of people with impairments. As the population ages this is represents a fast-growing market.
The services now offered free by Avis include:
- Transfer Board: Eases the driver or passenger from their wheelchairs into the car seat.
- Swivel Seat: Allows the driver or passenger to turn their bodies in the car seat with limited effort. The seat can easily be removed from underneath the person.
- Spinner Knob: Enables a full turning radius of the steering wheel while using only one hand.
- Panoramic Mirror: Provides a much larger field of view for any driver, and is a legal requirement in the USA for hearing-impaired drivers.
- Accessible Bus Service: Offers an electrically operated ramp or lift, two ADA compliant wheelchair positions, special aisles and low luggage racks.
- Additional Driver Fee Waiver: Customers with visual impairment can rent an Avis car without incurring any additional driver fees for their designated driver (All drivers must meet Avis' standard licensed driver requirements).
Obviously you should make requests for these services and adaptations as far in advance as possible. Avis and Hertz both have websites with full contact details.
Today I should have definite news about where we’re going to be living at the end of this month, but I don’t. Yesterday’s meeting with the lawyer was neither good nor bad, but it certainly didn’t go according to plan. Actually, if events so far have often made us feel as if we were living a reality television programme, yesterday was closer to a soap opera. You know the sort of thing, people turn up conveniently and unexpectedly in order for the plot to unfold.
The latest episode began at 6pm. Unusually for me, I was actually ready in time to get to the lawyers early. So after a quick once round the block, looking in estate agents’ windows to assure ourselves we were getting a bargain, we walked up the steep stairs to the lawyer’s office.
Our first surprise was to see the woman who had negotiated the property deal for us sitting in the waiting area. We hadn’t asked her to come, but assumed she’d turned up to help the deal go through. But no, she was there to see her lawyer before appearing in court the following day. She’d had a car accident last year and, she told us, assumed her ex-husband had insurance.
Her presence was pure coincidence. But she did have some gossip for us. The guy who is currently living in our intended house was involved in a deal to buy a hotel which apparently went disastrously wrong. After he’d had a few drinks, she told us, he had visited the hotel and started shouting the odds in the reception. Later that evening he had been badly beaten up. Fortunately, that had nothing to do with our house, although one could only feel sorry for the guy. It’s a full story which I probably don’t want to know.
Eventually our lawyer called us into the boardroom. There was no sign of the seller, which gave us a few minutes to ask questions and get answers in ponderous legalese. Sometimes I get the feeling that what defines a “professional” is the ability to respond to any question without giving a definitive reply. After a few of these carefully hedged answers he went to see if maybe the seller had got lost. Certainly, all I’d been able to see through a crack in the door was a youngish guy in a tee shirt going into the reception area, no old “Ibicencan” as the seller had been described.
A few minutes later we found out that the “old” guy was no more than 35. He was the chubby guy I’d seen outside wearing a “Dissident” tee shirt. (No I don’t think that had any significance.) From the moment he came into the boardroom the seller studiously avoided looking either Barbara or I in the eye, talking only to our lawyer in Spanish. Although this made it hard for us to follow it was obvious that he was unhappy with the amount of tax he would have to pay on the deal. As I’ve said in previous blogs, this was largely a problem of his own making. The tax authorities would almost certainly smell a rat if the amount he was declaring he had sold the property for was considerably less than the mortgage.
During this discussion our negotiator put her head in to see if things were going okay. She came in. Fortunately, she was able to explain the taxation problems more simply to the seller. (We learned from her later that although he had developed a number of properties, this was his first sale.) He seemed surprised that the detail of his mortgage was on display to us the public and, of course, the tax authorities. It also transpired that his plan to conclude the sale next year was pointless because he’d already sold the property to a company he’d set up for the purpose. This is a common technique in Spain to reduce liabilities, but obviously needs to be done with professional advice.
The lesson in taxation for our seller lasted about an hour while our lawyer explained the problem in detail and the negotiator simplified it. All we could do was watch. There simply wasn’t room to negotiate and anyway this wasn’t supposed to be a negotiating meeting. Everything was supposed to be agreed. Now we could see the deal ebbing away. I wasn’t totally despondent, however, because the seller had brought some of the missing papers which our lawyer had requested and he was happy to have them taken away and copied.
After the seller had left our negotiator stayed to discuss possible outcomes. She comforted us by saying that buying property is always like this in Ibiza. Our lawyer didn’t seem convinced.
But, once again, all we can do is wait.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Losing power in every sense
Most of this would have appeared yesterday if I hadn’t been hit by a power cut which wiped out most of what I’d written. Electricity – another thing I can no longer take for granted living on this island.
I was railing about our local estate agents who seem to come up with ever more inventive ways of cocking things up. The day before, Barbara and I had been to see Annette, a somewhat dizzy Swede. As you may remember from my last posting, she’d phoned to say she’d got an apartment to show us which was good quality and at the right price. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in her office so couldn’t tell us any more than that.
We set off with a feeling of optimism. The sun was shining and although the flat wasn’t exactly what we were looking for, it sounded a possibility. Annette was in a colleague’s car in front, a relief to us as it meant we didn’t have to do the usual forced conversation. Mind you, it would have been even worse if we’d had to share a car with her dour colleague. There had never been any danger of a smile crossing her face.
We followed the red Volkswagen through the security gates and turned left, away from the sea. The view’s still beautiful, forested hills with a golf course at the bottom. But as we drove along the narrow road an awful realisation began to dawn on us. The reason Annette couldn’t accurately describe the apartment was because the block hadn’t actually been built yet. I’m sure the apartments will look lovely in June 2006, which is when they’re due for completion, but we’ve got to find somewhere by the end of next month. Annette knows that and even told her colleague who, for the first time, smiled when she was told. (They don’t realise how much Spanish we can understand.)
It should be said that they also offer some text book examples of how not to behave when you’re trying to sell a property. When we arrived at the show flat there were two parking spaces, using one of which meant negotiating piles of rubble, the other was simple and straight in. Guess which one our dynamic duo from the agency used? Then, when showing a property, is it really the best idea to always make sure that you enter a room first so the potential customers have to peer over your shoulder? And finally, they were really good at preventing the customers feeling self-important. They simply ignored us and talked amongst themselves. But, being British, we responded in the only way we could. We apologised.
Then we went back to what we currently call home. I was hardly cheered up by an email from my accountants telling me I’d be pleased to know that the Inland Revenue wouldn’t be asking for any more money from last year’s return. I’d asked them to apply for a rebate.
Yesterday didn’t get any better. We headed off to meet another estate agent, German this time. This time we knew the apartment was old and therefore, at least, was not a figment of the imagination. But my mobile rang and it seems the people currently renting the apartment had changed the locks or something. Anyway, we couldn’t get in. An email from the estate agent later said she didn’t like the building very much anyway.
By the way, we still haven’t heard anything from the English couple who own the flat we’re living in now. The home phone number we have for them doesn’t work and neither do the mobile numbers. Will we be homeless in five weeks?
Today, Thursday, and tomorrow are fiesta days for Easter so we won’t hear any more from estate agents. But, this is Ibiza. We’ve been invited to a party tonight for the re-opening of one of the island’s trendiest bar- restaurant-nightclubs. House hunting can wait.
I was railing about our local estate agents who seem to come up with ever more inventive ways of cocking things up. The day before, Barbara and I had been to see Annette, a somewhat dizzy Swede. As you may remember from my last posting, she’d phoned to say she’d got an apartment to show us which was good quality and at the right price. Unfortunately, she wasn’t in her office so couldn’t tell us any more than that.
We set off with a feeling of optimism. The sun was shining and although the flat wasn’t exactly what we were looking for, it sounded a possibility. Annette was in a colleague’s car in front, a relief to us as it meant we didn’t have to do the usual forced conversation. Mind you, it would have been even worse if we’d had to share a car with her dour colleague. There had never been any danger of a smile crossing her face.
We followed the red Volkswagen through the security gates and turned left, away from the sea. The view’s still beautiful, forested hills with a golf course at the bottom. But as we drove along the narrow road an awful realisation began to dawn on us. The reason Annette couldn’t accurately describe the apartment was because the block hadn’t actually been built yet. I’m sure the apartments will look lovely in June 2006, which is when they’re due for completion, but we’ve got to find somewhere by the end of next month. Annette knows that and even told her colleague who, for the first time, smiled when she was told. (They don’t realise how much Spanish we can understand.)
It should be said that they also offer some text book examples of how not to behave when you’re trying to sell a property. When we arrived at the show flat there were two parking spaces, using one of which meant negotiating piles of rubble, the other was simple and straight in. Guess which one our dynamic duo from the agency used? Then, when showing a property, is it really the best idea to always make sure that you enter a room first so the potential customers have to peer over your shoulder? And finally, they were really good at preventing the customers feeling self-important. They simply ignored us and talked amongst themselves. But, being British, we responded in the only way we could. We apologised.
Then we went back to what we currently call home. I was hardly cheered up by an email from my accountants telling me I’d be pleased to know that the Inland Revenue wouldn’t be asking for any more money from last year’s return. I’d asked them to apply for a rebate.
Yesterday didn’t get any better. We headed off to meet another estate agent, German this time. This time we knew the apartment was old and therefore, at least, was not a figment of the imagination. But my mobile rang and it seems the people currently renting the apartment had changed the locks or something. Anyway, we couldn’t get in. An email from the estate agent later said she didn’t like the building very much anyway.
By the way, we still haven’t heard anything from the English couple who own the flat we’re living in now. The home phone number we have for them doesn’t work and neither do the mobile numbers. Will we be homeless in five weeks?
Today, Thursday, and tomorrow are fiesta days for Easter so we won’t hear any more from estate agents. But, this is Ibiza. We’ve been invited to a party tonight for the re-opening of one of the island’s trendiest bar- restaurant-nightclubs. House hunting can wait.
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