My Guardian column for June.
Scientists often use fruit flies in experiments because of their simple structure and rapid life cycle. Small businesses in Ibiza could probably perform the same function for economists. Hundreds of new bars, shops and restaurants appear at the start of each summer, most hoping to make enough to survive from a tourist season that lasts perhaps three months. Few will survive their first winter.
Sometimes the reasons for failure are so obvious that it makes you want to scream: "Stop throwing your money away. Lie on the beach, get drunk, squander your cash, but please stop putting so much energy into wasting it."
Even people you'd think would know better make elementary mistakes. I watched one couple blow a substantial nest egg they'd accumulated from previous business ventures trying to run an up-market Indian restaurant. Unfortunately they'd located it in a strip of cheap bars, neon-lit fast-food joints and tacky souvenir shops.
Their problem was a common one. Almost every business here has to either stand out from a host of similar competitors within walking distance, or entice punters out to the sticks.
Earlier this summer I went to a bar that, despite being out of the way, seemed to have a winning proposition. Oxy, I read in a local magazine, had an oxygen bar, alcohol-free natural energy cocktails and music through until 4am.
The combination might sound a little healthy for Ibiza, but despite the island's hedonistic reputation, you can't move for yoga centres, spas and holistic health practitioners. The absence of alcohol also means there's no need for a designated driver.
Three of us arrived a little after midnight one Friday. In the late-night life of Ibiza this is generally peak-time for bars, between eating and going to a club. Of course, not every bar can be full at the same time and there's often a strange unwritten timetable that seems to ensure that crowds will appear at a particular spot at 3am for no obvious reason.
That might have been the case with Oxy, but it seemed unlikely. The only people there were us, the barman and the DJ behind the expensive-looking decks. There was no sign of recently departed customers, nor of the famous oxygen bar. Only a British sense of politeness stopped me dragging the others back to the car in search of somewhere with signs of life.
But I've seen worse places. The bar was decorated with a variety of pieces that were probably found on skips or bought second-hand - the sort of shabby chic that can work if done well or if the bar's busy. This failed on both counts.
I actually felt too embarrassed to start talking to the barman. Something had obviously gone horribly wrong with the business plan and I really didn't want to rub his nose in it. Instead, my wife, Barbara, started talking to him.
It turned out the barman was the owner. He was a French guy with definite hippy inclinations. In typical Ibiza style he'd had the idea for the oxygen bar before he'd checked the cost. Specialist units that deliver metered doses of flavoured gas cost around €7,000, he said. So he decided to test the market for the concept by using a medical oxygen cylinder. He pointed to the corner at what resembled a large bomb covered in Christmas decorations.
There were other problems. A burst of pure oxygen is very relaxing - which tends to make you a little sleepy. That doesn't go down too well in Ibiza where what people want is an energy boost.
Next, he had to contend with new legislation forcing small bars to designate themselves smoking or non-smoking. Oxy followed the vast majority in allowing people to light up. Safety laws, however, prevent smoking when pure oxygen is being used.
The bar's other advertised speciality, energy cocktails, use fresh ingredients. For these you need a rapid turnover and, therefore, plenty of customers. I don't need to explain what's missing from that equation. Finally, our owner decided you couldn't have a bar without alcohol.
So now he's left with a smoky bar in the middle of nowhere, not unlike dozens of others. I'll be interested to see if he's still there next summer.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Monday, June 05, 2006
Battling Telefonica
The post below which reproduces my Guardian column should have appeared on the day of its publication. Well it would have done had Telefonica not cut off my phone and internet.
Anybody planning a move to Spain should take this series of events as a warning. It started on Friday May 26 when my internet connection died at about 10.15am. Picking up the phone I found the dial tone had been replaced by a series of rapid beeps. So I called Telefonica using my mobile. (The number's 1004 and if you say "Ingles" at the appropriate moment when the recorded message goes quiet you'll get through to an English-speaking operator.)
I was told there was an outstanding bill. That was the first problem. I've made several attempts to change name and address on the bill from the previous owner. Telefonica would only tell me how much was owed if I could provide his full name and DNI number. I dug that out and was then able to find the exact figure outstanding.
In much of the world you'd be able to use one of the various bits of plastic in my wallet or the internet to pay. Not here. Instead you have to go to a specific bank and pay cash. You can't even do it from your own bank which has the standing order. The Telefonica operator told me I'd have to go to the BBVA bank.
So, off I went. Struggling with my abysmal Spanish, I worked out that the BBVA teller was explaining to me that I could only pay the bill between the 10th and 20th of the month. Remember I was doing this on the 26th.
There was a branch of my own bank nearby and so I thought I could at least deposit sufficient cash for me to make another attempt at paying online. By then it was nearly 2pm when the Spanish banks close.
On the Sunday I went to an internet café. I checked my bank account and Telefonica appeared to have been paid.
On Monday morning I called Telefonica to see how long it would be before I was reconnected. I was told it would be within 48 hours, but the money had not showed up yet. But that could just be the speed my bank operates.
Wednesday I was still without phone or internet. This time the operator told me that the money had not been paid. “Go and ask your bank.” I went back to the internet café and checked my account. At that point I realised my mistake. The money that had left my account was for the following month’s Telefonica bill. So, one payment was still outstanding.
A couple of the Telefonica operators had told me I could pay the bill as the Banesto bank on Tuesday or Thursday. I phoned to confirm the days and time, but the operator told me she could not give me the information without the DNI and full name of the person on the account. I called again with the previous owner’s details and now I knew that if I turned up at the Banesto bank with the correct cash and all the details between 8.30 and 10am it would be sorted.
At 8.35am I was in the bank. At noon the phone rang and a recorded message welcomed me to Telefonica.
There must be an easier way…
Anybody planning a move to Spain should take this series of events as a warning. It started on Friday May 26 when my internet connection died at about 10.15am. Picking up the phone I found the dial tone had been replaced by a series of rapid beeps. So I called Telefonica using my mobile. (The number's 1004 and if you say "Ingles" at the appropriate moment when the recorded message goes quiet you'll get through to an English-speaking operator.)
I was told there was an outstanding bill. That was the first problem. I've made several attempts to change name and address on the bill from the previous owner. Telefonica would only tell me how much was owed if I could provide his full name and DNI number. I dug that out and was then able to find the exact figure outstanding.
In much of the world you'd be able to use one of the various bits of plastic in my wallet or the internet to pay. Not here. Instead you have to go to a specific bank and pay cash. You can't even do it from your own bank which has the standing order. The Telefonica operator told me I'd have to go to the BBVA bank.
So, off I went. Struggling with my abysmal Spanish, I worked out that the BBVA teller was explaining to me that I could only pay the bill between the 10th and 20th of the month. Remember I was doing this on the 26th.
There was a branch of my own bank nearby and so I thought I could at least deposit sufficient cash for me to make another attempt at paying online. By then it was nearly 2pm when the Spanish banks close.
On the Sunday I went to an internet café. I checked my bank account and Telefonica appeared to have been paid.
On Monday morning I called Telefonica to see how long it would be before I was reconnected. I was told it would be within 48 hours, but the money had not showed up yet. But that could just be the speed my bank operates.
Wednesday I was still without phone or internet. This time the operator told me that the money had not been paid. “Go and ask your bank.” I went back to the internet café and checked my account. At that point I realised my mistake. The money that had left my account was for the following month’s Telefonica bill. So, one payment was still outstanding.
A couple of the Telefonica operators had told me I could pay the bill as the Banesto bank on Tuesday or Thursday. I phoned to confirm the days and time, but the operator told me she could not give me the information without the DNI and full name of the person on the account. I called again with the previous owner’s details and now I knew that if I turned up at the Banesto bank with the correct cash and all the details between 8.30 and 10am it would be sorted.
At 8.35am I was in the bank. At noon the phone rang and a recorded message welcomed me to Telefonica.
There must be an easier way…
Help! My friends want to use my office as a guest house
This is my monthly column as it appeared in The Guardian on Friday May 26, 2006. (You can read it in its original form here.)
To avoid legal action many films and novels carry a disclaimer saying that any resemblance between the fictional characters and real people is purely coincidental. This column needs a similar cop-out. Everything in it is apocryphal and is not intended to upset my friends and relatives. Honest.
You see this is the time when phone calls and emails to your little piece of paradise signal the start of summer. Suddenly, forgotten aunties and vague acquaintances offer to visit. You may have noticed that I said "offer"; that's because their messages are phrased in such a way that it does sound as if it's them that's doing the favour.
They're concerned that you might feel lonely and isolated when you're all those miles away. Sometimes they're not wrong. But equally, phone calls are at least a partial substitute for their physical presence. But it's amazing how hard it is for people to break the psychological cost barrier on overseas calls. They're not expensive any more. Really. You can phone just about anywhere in the world for a few pence a minute, usually for less than the cost of a UK mobile call. In fact, thanks to internet telephony, it can cost nothing.
Equally, for better or worse, there are few products from home that you can't buy here in Ibiza. If I wanted Marmite, Heinz Salad Cream, tasteless sliced bread, Tetley's tea or just about any of the bizarre flavours that Brits seem to miss, I could buy most of them from the local supermarket. They don't need to be produced from visitors' suitcases as if they were some sort of illicit contraband.
There are, of course, certain things you can't get hold of so easily. Some of the veggies on the island, for instance, will almost forget their vows of non-violence in their desire to get hold of Quorn products. And one friend of mine tried and failed to bring a takeaway curry as hand luggage on her easyJet flight. As for me, one or preferably more packets of Stockan's thick oatcakes from Orkney is the way to my heart, but it's not a realistic alternative to paying for a hotel room.
You see in theory I've got enough space in my house to put several people up. In practice, it's not so easy. I work in the same way as probably most freelances with a spare bedroom turned into an office. Of course it is possible to return the room to its original purpose and it's probably a good discipline for me to empty, clean and tidy it once in a while. But I still have to find somewhere to rest my keyboard.
I did try working on my laptop for almost two weeks, moving round my then apartment in an attempt to find periods of tranquillity. It didn't stop me meeting my every deadline, but there were occasions when I'd have happily throttled my guests. That's partly, I'll admit, because I do work strange and erratic hours.
This may not be the most organised and rational way of getting things done, but habits die hard. Equally, I find it hard to be rude and I'm easily distracted. Actually, the latter's probably more true, but either way I find it hard to ignore guests - even ones, heaven forbid, that I don't like.
I love sharing my knowledge of Ibiza and showing people everything from my favourite unspoilt beaches to the best club nights and, sometimes, getting them in for free. Unfortunately, I can't take the whole summer off to do it.
Socially, it's great living in a place where the weekend starts at the end of June and carries on until September. But, because my work is mostly UK-based, my weekend's still Saturday and Sunday or, on rare occasions, Friday night to Monday morning. My visitors' weekend starts the moment they step off the plane.
In the end the only real solution is to offer the reply to friends and relatives perfected by my mate Paul. "Yes, we'd love to see you. There's a really nice hotel just down the road."
To avoid legal action many films and novels carry a disclaimer saying that any resemblance between the fictional characters and real people is purely coincidental. This column needs a similar cop-out. Everything in it is apocryphal and is not intended to upset my friends and relatives. Honest.
You see this is the time when phone calls and emails to your little piece of paradise signal the start of summer. Suddenly, forgotten aunties and vague acquaintances offer to visit. You may have noticed that I said "offer"; that's because their messages are phrased in such a way that it does sound as if it's them that's doing the favour.
They're concerned that you might feel lonely and isolated when you're all those miles away. Sometimes they're not wrong. But equally, phone calls are at least a partial substitute for their physical presence. But it's amazing how hard it is for people to break the psychological cost barrier on overseas calls. They're not expensive any more. Really. You can phone just about anywhere in the world for a few pence a minute, usually for less than the cost of a UK mobile call. In fact, thanks to internet telephony, it can cost nothing.
Equally, for better or worse, there are few products from home that you can't buy here in Ibiza. If I wanted Marmite, Heinz Salad Cream, tasteless sliced bread, Tetley's tea or just about any of the bizarre flavours that Brits seem to miss, I could buy most of them from the local supermarket. They don't need to be produced from visitors' suitcases as if they were some sort of illicit contraband.
There are, of course, certain things you can't get hold of so easily. Some of the veggies on the island, for instance, will almost forget their vows of non-violence in their desire to get hold of Quorn products. And one friend of mine tried and failed to bring a takeaway curry as hand luggage on her easyJet flight. As for me, one or preferably more packets of Stockan's thick oatcakes from Orkney is the way to my heart, but it's not a realistic alternative to paying for a hotel room.
You see in theory I've got enough space in my house to put several people up. In practice, it's not so easy. I work in the same way as probably most freelances with a spare bedroom turned into an office. Of course it is possible to return the room to its original purpose and it's probably a good discipline for me to empty, clean and tidy it once in a while. But I still have to find somewhere to rest my keyboard.
I did try working on my laptop for almost two weeks, moving round my then apartment in an attempt to find periods of tranquillity. It didn't stop me meeting my every deadline, but there were occasions when I'd have happily throttled my guests. That's partly, I'll admit, because I do work strange and erratic hours.
This may not be the most organised and rational way of getting things done, but habits die hard. Equally, I find it hard to be rude and I'm easily distracted. Actually, the latter's probably more true, but either way I find it hard to ignore guests - even ones, heaven forbid, that I don't like.
I love sharing my knowledge of Ibiza and showing people everything from my favourite unspoilt beaches to the best club nights and, sometimes, getting them in for free. Unfortunately, I can't take the whole summer off to do it.
Socially, it's great living in a place where the weekend starts at the end of June and carries on until September. But, because my work is mostly UK-based, my weekend's still Saturday and Sunday or, on rare occasions, Friday night to Monday morning. My visitors' weekend starts the moment they step off the plane.
In the end the only real solution is to offer the reply to friends and relatives perfected by my mate Paul. "Yes, we'd love to see you. There's a really nice hotel just down the road."
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