(Bloomberg Businessweek) -- Pacha, the nightlife juggernaut often credited with kick-starting Ibiza's world-famous party scene, turns 50 this year. But the hedonistic reputation of “Ibitha,” as most say, with a lisping Castilian flourish, dates back at least 2,500 years. That's when Carthaginian explorers landed on the barren isle off the Mediterranean coast of Spain and brought their dueling deities onshore: Tanit, the love and fertility goddess, and Bes, patron saint of frat parties. Much has changed on the island since their rule, but Ibizan culture still revolves around their modern-day incarnates: boho-chic wellness gurus and nouveau-riche club rats.
Each summer, about two million vacationers arrive on the island, looking to trance the night away to thumping techno. Close behind is a legion of hospitality capitalists who profit from the sybaritic whims of the world's elite. As one local told me: “Los Angeles has actors. Ibiza has concierges.”
Eager to witness how a year's salary gets crammed into a summer stint, I joined Ibiza's ultracompetitive concierge circuit and got a job at Le Collectionist. The esteemed company has keys to more than 200 luxury villas—the price for weeklong rentals can reach €300,000 ($329,370)—and VIP access to all the best clubs.
It wasn't long before I was brokering impossible-to-get sunbeds at top beach clubs, chartering yachts to Formentera and scoring invitations to billionaire-hosted parties. Here's everything I learned during my very exhausting week.
Every Day's an All-Nighter
One of my first jobs at Le Collectionist was to go around to all the major clubs on the island to learn the dynamics of each party space. If you want a name-brand DJ, head to Hï for David Guetta or Ushuaïa for Calvin Harris; the people making money moves make their money move at Lío, a dinner-cabaret-club concept started by Pacha; Ibiza insiders covet the loungers at Jondal; and locals will only deign to go clubbing at DC10 … on Mondays.
But Le Collectionist's white-glove service extends well beyond booking hard-to-get tables. The team members are full-on nightlife fixers, as head concierge Celine Stephanou and vice president of operations Parham Zaim Zadeh explained to me, working round-the-clock for their VIP clients.
Headlining DJs usually take the stage around 3 a.m., which means table service ramps up an hour before. I would hit the club at 1 a.m., ensure things were in order, then escort my guests inside at 2. I'd stay until drinks were served, then idle nearby until 4 to make sure no problems arose. My guests usually partied until 5, sometimes 6—right before sunrise, when the clubs close and after-parties start.
As Yann Pissenem, owner of Hï and Ushuaïa puts it, “You can party at any hour of the day on Ibiza.”
He's right. One night, I thought I was coordinating a chill sunset dinner at El Silencio, a beach club, until it evolved (devolved?) into a raunchy cabaret complete with naked dancers. I even found myself accidentally partying on my day off, when I discovered the brownie in my innocent-seeming ice cream sundae was stuffed with psychedelics.
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WhatsApp Is Wild
There are many more permutations of club access than you might think. Venue capacities can exceed 5,000, and getting in can be as simple as a credit card swipe. But that's so basic.
At Hï—which is so large, there's a DJ booth in the bathroom—general admission costs €60 to €100 at the door. Some can play the “worker card,” an actual season pass for full-time Ibizans employed in hospitality. You can get into the cordoned-off “industry garden” if you're a friend of whoever is playing that night. Or you can buy your way into the VIP section by ponying up for table service. At Hï, that will set you back at least €500; table minimums go up to €25,000.
“Ibiza society” does none of those things. They get on the guest list—a line-skipping maneuver used by all sorts of island personalities from wily concierges (myself included!) to nightlife influencers—coordinated through manic texts on WhatsApp. “I have no friends in the winter, but come April I'm the most requested friend in the world,” Pissenem jokes. When asked about how many guest-list favors he fields, he smiles: “It's more than a phone can handle.”
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The DJ Is God
On Ibiza, there is one personality who is a true deity. “No matter what, the star is the DJ,” says Pissenem, who's booked 1,900 artists at his clubs in the past year. “That's 1,900 riders of crazy things, such as bringing beef jerky from some random place, or getting a special candle.”
Everyone wants excessive quantities of Don Julio 1942, several club managers agreed, but requests can quickly escalate into more extravagant things, such as having rooms painted different colors, keeping a manicurist on call in the green room and placing a potted lemon tree next to the bar so all cocktail garnishes can be freshly picked. One artist needed posters of particular '80s movie stars and mini G.I. Joe toys scattered in specific spots for good feng shui.
“Talent is key,” Pissenem says. “I will never say no to anything.”
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Pop stars have the toughest riders. Resident DJs, by contrast, are fairly down-to-earth. “They're all fathers who just like to play with their kids and watch TV,” says Alex Sanchez, who manages Le Collectionist's coterie of 85 private chefs. Pissenem agrees: “They're not the party people everyone thinks.”
From afar, it seemed as if the DJs were having a pretty good time to me, but my best efforts to approach the booths for a firsthand look were thwarted by throngs of glassy-eyed twentysomething strangers telling me how much they loved me. I was flattered until I saw them telling doors and chairs how much they loved them, too.
No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem
The easiest way to get kicked out of a nightclub? Taking off your clothes. (Given the 95F heat during my time on staff, I can see why this might happen.)
Out of the club, it's almost impossible for some people to keep their clothes on. Seeing clientele in the buff is a rite of passage for staff at Sir Joan, the nicest hotel near Pacha. They're often surprised by immodest guests when catering to creative requests—olive oil has been delivered on more than one occasion, presumably not for a salad.
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Once, a few years ago, a guest returned to the property with five women in tow and introduced them to the front desk staff as his “nieces.” The moniker stuck. “Nieces” (and “nephews”) come in different forms, from hourlong visitors to solo guests whose stays are paid for by deep-pocketed vacationers in private villas.
“One time we had to manage the different nieces for someone,” says rooms manager Ariadna Bonet Casals. “We had to keep them separated and distracted so they didn't see each other coming down from the room or going upstairs.”
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Seating Requires Serious Strategy
Every one of my soon-to-be-arriving villa guests had one nonnegotiable item on their to-do list: chartering a private boat for a day trip to the nearby islet of Formentera and spending the afternoon partying at dayclub Beso Beach.
“On Feb. 14 we opened our books, and in 48 hours half of our 60,000 reservations were taken,” says owner Rafael Viar Corrales, who's hosted every VIP imaginable, including supermodels and Apple Inc. execs. He credits Beso Beach's soaring success with the improbable physics of putting his guests in exactly the right chairs—that's 250 people per twice-daily lunch seating.
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His secret is to create “party blocks”: larger tables that are placed next to each other like Tetris bricks so people will mingle and eventually coalesce. But he has an edge—80% of his clients come year after year. If you're part of the other 20%? The boat captains who ferry you over determine your fate. They send the team WhatsApp messages about your vibe and whether you seem keen to party.
Miguel Sancho, owner of the new Playa Soleil beach club, uses a different strategy: “Put the most handsome men at the table closest to the host stand, because then the beautiful women will notice and come in, then more men will follow, then more women. It's a perfect circle.” Clearly his approach is working. When I went to scope out Playa Soleil ten days after it first opened, tickets were already sold out for a thousand-person dance party that evening. No wonder there are so many concierges.
Bubbles Are Everywhere
Overpriced Champagne is ordered so widely across the island that it's become the de facto way for billionaires to peacock their wealth. But, I discovered, it's also one of the easiest ways to meet your minimum once you actually do secure a table at a club. (The cost of your table is what you commit to spending on drinks.) At Lío, bubbles are the most popular item on the menu—a bottle of Cristal goes for €1,500, a 500% markup from retail.
“At Nassau Beach Club we sell real bathtubs filled with Champagne, and it takes four big guys to carry them,” says owner Christian Braun. A tub starts at €4,000. He also sells the biggest bottle on the island: 60 liters (16 gallons), the size of four Nebuchadnezzars, for €69,000. (That's 80 bottles' worth.)
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Champagne is practically a fetish at Nikki Beach Club. General manager Rafael Turcitu says one guest purchased half the cellar in one day—some to drink, more to spray.
Le Collectionist's biggest single-order Champagne delivery to a private villa was €70,000 for 12 boxes of Krug. It was used to celebrate the birthday of someone in an A-list pop star's entourage. An SOS was surely sent out the next morning to rescue everyone from their hangover.
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Climbing into the upper echelons of Ibiza society is like pledging a sorority: The more you want in, the less they want you. Success means cracking the private party circuit.
“The DJ residencies are scheduled weekly,” says Stephane Vacher, executive vice president for entertainment at Standard Hotels, which opened an Ibiza location last year. “Villa parties happen once, and you're either there or you miss it.”
These days private parties run the gamut from Count Michel Jean de Liedekerke's 1,000-person Enchanted Forest fete (an Ibizan Burning Man of sorts) to more intimate affairs for birthdays. All inspire a desperate thirst for invites, and dozens of people get their offers rescinded for committing the cardinal sin of asking to bring a plus-one. (“Bring your happiness, not your friends” is the count's reply.)
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Other desperados pull a my-dog-ate-my-invite trick at the door, pretending to be locked out of their email or Instagram accounts, swearing they had an invite. Some even stoop so low as to offer a monetary bribe. The worst offender on record asked if she could set up a small booth at a villa party to hawk her new line of Ibiza-inspired lifestyle wear.
So how do you spot a bona fide local? Here's one theory, from a villa soirée stalwart: “The tell is that real islanders swim in the sea, the blow-ins only hang by pools on sun beds.”
Have It Your Way
Of Le Collectionist's 200 villas, 20 cost as much to rent as a superyacht: six figures for a weeklong stay. (That includes Villa Fusion, where the Enchanted Forest party is held each year.) The people who book these homes range from relaxed multigeneration families on a subdued holiday to “crazy party people who are out until 6 a.m. and want mixologists—not bartenders—to cater their after-after-party,” says property manager Ulf Karow.
It was up to me and my 14 colleagues on the concierge team to tee up jet and helicopter arrivals (about 20% of clients fly private), wrangle yacht charters, corral chauffeurs and private chefs, hire babysitters and security (some with dogs, some without), and set up mini-spas inside the homes.
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For a man who wanted a birthday gift for his wife, we organized the almost unheard-of international delivery of a Birkin bag, only for him to balk at the price tag; he bought a Dior bag available on the island instead. I also overheard some of my colleagues arranging to open the Louis Vuitton boutique an hour early for a private shopping trip. (The client ended up bailing.)
When I had a guest who said he wanted to drive a specific Mercedes-Benz around the island, I got ready to pin down a Maybach; in fact, he wanted a nine-person Sprinter van, which I ferried over from Mallorca. And when one client couldn't get a table at Lío for a 50th birthday celebration—the club was closed—I sent a mariachi band to his villa as consolation.
Food Is Merely Fuel
Despite all the money being thrown around, “we're not really a caviar island,” says William von Meister, of Le Collectionist's stay and supply team. Comfort food reigns supreme: The most popular request is frozen pizza. “Clearly these aren't boho-chic people, but they are trying to live the experience,” says team leader Saverio Smorto, who is proudly from Italy and wants you to know that under no circumstances is it acceptable to eat defrosted 'za.
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According to private-chef manager Sanchez, British guests are adamant about their beans and toast. Russians like their proteins separate from their sauces so they can mix and match, and Middle Eastern guests are prone to changing their plans at the last minute.
“You make a super-high-end buffet with lamb for 20 people, but then they ask one of the butlers to go and buy a ton of McDonald's instead,” Sanchez says. On one occasion, a staffer raced out to procure 150 orders of burgers and fries, only to return to an empty house; the guests had left for the clubs.
Gucci, Prada, Ibiza
Ibiza isn't only a vacation destination, it's a brand—and by affiliating yourself with it, you're showing off your social status like an influencer on a Tarte trip. (Don't forget to put Pacha's cherries logo in your post's caption!)
Here, Instagram followers can be peddled like currency, scoring you the best room in the villa. At one party, no fewer than six people feverishly grabbed my iPhone out of my hand and followed themselves on the app—unsurprisingly they did not return the courtesy. And if I had a nickel for every person who name-dropped social media “millionaire” Athena Calderone, I could afford one of those super-magnums at Lío.
The most common way Ibizan wannabes flash their status is to offer a three-pronged response when asked where they live: “I split my time between City 1, City 2 and Ibiza.” My fairly succinct response—“in the US, but I'm Canadian” (because God forbid a Canadian gets mistaken for an American)—was met with little interest, tempting me to exaggerate for kicks.
But you have to be careful: Each destination you list provides crucial subtext.
According to Pissenem, if you're on the clubbing and fashion circuit, your ports of call are Dubai and Miami with a sprinkling of Amsterdam. David Leppan, a member of Ibiza's social elite, says the crypto crew name-check Tulum. Restaurateur Joey Ghazal tells me Ibiza-London-Dubai is the jet-set hat trick. (His restaurant, Maine, has locations in all three.) “It's not a circuit,” Leppan clarifies, “it's a circus. They come to town for a bit and put on their costumes.”
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It's Raining Money
In addition to the phalanx of concierges who descend on the island during summer to skim commissions off club access, a legion of hotel employees swoops in for big tips. At the Sir Joan, one Saudi guest gave female staffers €500 every time he saw them smiling; their cheeks were sore (and pockets full) by the end of his five-night stay.
But if you really want to hit the jackpot, drive a cab. A 15-minute airport transfer to town and back runs almost €300. In eight days, an on-call chauffeur can make more than €20,000.
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Private chefs don't make out badly, either. Sanchez estimates 10% of his gigs are for “naked houses” whose inhabitants include European aristo-trustafarians and a certain Brazilian Lothario. Generous tipping means all is forgiven.
The best tipper of all time? Sol Kerzner, who gave each staffer €4,000 for two weeks of sterling service. And the worst? Some Formula One racers who tried to leverage their celebrity for a deep-discount ambush at checkout.
Hangover Cures Are All a Call Away
It's only a matter of time before all that hedonism catches up with people. That's when Le Collectionist calls for reinforcements: vitamin-packed IV infusions.
“We do around 10 groups a day during the high season—that's 30 to 40 people,” says physician Abe Malkin, founder of Drip Hydration, a mobile IV therapy service that hooks people up on their private jets or yachts, or even backstage in the middle of a DJ set. “We see most of our patients in the morning after they've partied. Some haven't gone to bed yet.”
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Beyond summoning the hangover A Team, I organized a parade of other wellness pros: personal trainers, yoga instructors, tarot card readers. For one group, I dispatched a barber to get a dozen guys gussied up before their big night out. (It cost €120 a cut.)
There was one service I was surprised not to find on my co-concierges' speed dial: injectables. That's how I learned why everyone pronounces it “Ibitha”—not because they're affecting a Spaniard's accent, but because they've arrived with filler so fresh, the Restylane hasn't settled yet.
(Corrects spelling of club in 9th paragraph. Adds information about Playa Soleil and Villa Fusion in the 25th and 35th paragraphs.)
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