Mes: julio 2017

The expectations of an Ibiza virgin based on their Instagram scrolling.

JOSEPHINE RYAN MURPHY

Ibiza is famous for a lot of things, mostly the sex and partying. As a keen-to-be-Ibiza-partier I’ve spent a lot of time on Instagram scrolling through anything Ibiza related. In that time I feel like I’ve developed a pretty good idea of what Ibiza is, or at least what I hope it will be based on this Instabiza knowledge.

The Second You Step Onto Ibiza’s Sand You Become Unbelievable At Yoga

In pools, on rocks, on SUP boards, they even do that one with two people. Everyone can do yoga, it’s fucking weird. I doubt it’s just a coincidence that everyone who goes to Ibiza is really into yoga and so the only reasonable explanation is that there’s something in the water, or the sand, or the ecstasy. Whatever it is, I’ve always wanted to be able to do a handstand, so I’m into it.

Just Being In Ibiza Makes You More Attractive

Scroll through Instagram and try to find even one unattractive person. You won’t. Ugly people must go there right? Just because you’re not Insta beautiful doesn’t mean you don’t like getting really terribly drunk on boats or being in the sun or being surrounded by beautiful people, trust me. It must just happen when you get there, right? Not only have I always wanted to be able to do a handstand but I’ve also always wanted to be ridiculously attractive, like the kind of attractive where you can accidentally spit on someone when you’re talking and it’s totally ok and not gross and embarrassing. Take me to Ibiza now.

Best Parties Ever

The majority of Ibiza Instagram photos are of its famous parties. That’s probably the main reason most people go. There’s somehow always these uber famous DJs and everyone’s pretty much naked on boats dancing around them and you can have sex with attractive people whenever you want to and to top it off, their foam parties actually look fun. I normally hate foam parties, I get squashed in a sea of sweaty boys who are all taller than me and every opening on my face gets filled with foam and I panic and think i’m going to drown, but the ones in Ibiza actually look fun, no one in the photos is panicking.

No One Ever Ages Past Their Prime Partying Years

If Instagram is an accurate representation of Ibiza then there is not a single child, middle aged or old person on that entire island. It’s like the land of Tír na nÓg except when you leave, not only do you catch up on all the years you didn’t age, but also on all the hangovers and come downs you didn’t have. So ideally, you should probably never leave, which I think I’m ok with.

 

Your Makeup Always Looks Immaculate

Potentially the most mind blowing of them all. I can’t walk under the sun for more than 10 minutes without every bit of makeup melting off my face, turning me into some terrifying smudgy face monster. How on earth do all these people look good ALL THE TIME even after swimming. It just doesn’t make sense.

 

You Can Somehow Get Super Fucked Up While also Simultaneously Getting All Fit And Zenned

Everyone’s enjoying the best parties in the world getting drunk and high and having sex all the time but they’re also all doing yoga and meditating and all that. How both of these things are happening, I will not understand until I experience it for myself, but I think endless partying while also improving your physical and mental health is probably the greatest example of having your cake and eating it too that i’ve ever seen and I very much look forward to it.

You Spend The Majority Of Your Day Jumping, Carefree, Into Bodies Of Water

So not only is everyone getting super fucked up while simultaneously doing yoga and meditating but jumping off various different structures into bodies of water seems to be the most popular thing to do in Ibiza. And despite being very drunk, they can still all do backflips and nobody ever seems to drown or hurt themselves at all. I’m not a massive fan of heights, but with the guarantee that the aura of Ibiza will give me the skill to backflip of cliffs and remain unharmed, I think I could get behind it.

 

All The Problems Of The Outside World Dissolve

Basically Ibiza is a utopia of all the best things in life – except maybe drinking hot chocolate by the fire while it rains outside. All of the problems and repercussions of the normal world just slip away. Instagram has taught me that there is in fact a heaven on earth and it is Ibiza.

I’d imagine you all probably want to go as badly as I do now right? Then do. Go. Book your spot. Let’s all get fucked up and do yoga together.

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JOSEPHINE RYAN MURPHY

When you’re travelling you end up in a lot of sticky situations, literally sticky situations. Nothing you own is clean and you don’t have any of the proper utensils to do anything adequately. You also don’t want to waste your money on anything that isn’t directly assisting you in either travelling for longer or staying intoxicated for longer. With that in mind, we’ve used our knowledge of being stingy to weed out some of the life hacks out there that actually aren’t bullshit and are, in fact, fairly useful.

Opening Wine Bottles With A Shoe And A Tree

Sounds dumb, like it will probably just break the glass and your hand and you know what? It can, so be careful. Place your wine bottle inside a shoe and basically just give it a good whack off a nearby tree. You can do it on a wall too, but a wall is a little more solid and a little more likely to end in tears. Takes a few go’s and your wine gets a little bubbly but drinking unintentionally bubbly wine is better than staring, sober at an unopened bottle of wine.

Editor’s note: be careful with this lifehack, one time, filled with the confidence that comes with opening, and consuming, multiple bottles using this method, a hand was sliced open by  an exploding bottle and a the morning before a friend’s wedding was spent in a Portuguese hospital having a tendon reattached.

Beer Cans Into Cups

If you want to share out that bottle of wine but don’t have any glasses and want an option that is at least arguably classier than knocking it back straight from the bottle, get everyone to down a can of beer first and use a can opener to get rid of that top bit, turning it into a cup. You can even rinse it out and use it for your cereal in the morning in lieu of a bowl.

Phone And Water Bottle Into Lamp

This one always makes people Ooo and Ahh — particularly when you’re using it to illuminate the next joint rolling. Turn on your phone torch and place it on the ground shining up. Fill up a bottle of water and pop it on top. The whole thing illuminates into a pretty decent lamp.  If you’re lucky, you’ll see super fucked up people lifting just the bottle and trying to use it to search for their lighter. Hilarious. Swap it for a bottle of vino tinto for some romantic red lighting and turn your tent into a bordello.

Plastic Bottle Into Spoon

Particularly good when you’re camping, but you’re stingy so you didn’t actually prepare yourself very well for camping. Cut out a strip of a large soda bottle — the one you used for mixer last night. Cut right down to the bottom where it’s got those four scoopy, spoony shapes. You can use a lighter to soften the edges a bit and mould them into a better shape if you want to.

Vodka Makes Clothes Smell Less Terrible

You know all that vodka you keep drunkenly dribbling onto yourself? It actually makes your clothes smell less shit. When you’ve been traveling for a bit and neglecting your personal hygiene including washing any of your clothes ever, spray a little vodka over them to mask the smell. Don’t go too heavy though or you’ll be swapping the smell of sweat and piss for vodka, you want just enough to sort of neutralise it.

Ziplock Bag As Phone Mount

When you’re stuck on ridiculously long journeys and you have no friends and reading on buses makes you feel sick, watching movies on your phone is generally the next best option. Except holding out your phone for hours on end is really annoying. Instead of cramping up your hand, pop you phone into a sandwich bag and find a way of attaching to the back of the seat in front of you.

Nail Varnish Stops Tears Spreading

Some would consider clothes covered in holes overworn and ready to be thrown out. Those people probably haven’t been travelling for weeks on end though and look well put together all the time and I bet they even smell nice. When you’re travelling you don’t want to waste your money on new clothes that will inevitably be destroyed before your journey is done anyway. Get some clear nail varnish and paint it over and frayed edges to stop the tear spreading.

Bobby Pin To Fix Flip Flops

When the hole where that little plugger bit gets too big and the strap keeps popping out you can use a bread clip to hold it in place. But when it gets beyond that, which it probably will, and the circular part of your flipflop plug that keeps the bread pin on falls off, stab a bobby pin through the rubber. It takes a bit of force but it’s been tried and tested and we can guarantee that your flip flop will hold up for a good while longer.

Buy Markers In The Same Colour As Your Clothes

Ripped a hole in the butt of your pants? Colour the skin of your butt in with that colour. Make sure you add a few mm around it so you have some room for movement, but also don’t move too much. You can also use them to colour over any stains you can’t get out.

Now that you’re somewhat more prepared for the problems you’ll come across on your travels, why not spend some of those travels with us? Check out all the festivals we still have coming up this season!

The post Travel Life Hacks That Are Actually Legitimate appeared first on Stoke Travel.

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Editor’s note: over the winter we ran a competition to find the “Chosen One”, a one-of-a-kind, absolutely average, everyday hero who would win our Most Ordinary Extraordinary Job In The World — a summer of back-to-back Stoke Travel trips, where not only would they be expected to have the time of their life, but to also much in and set up tents/serve you heathens your beer. Well, our old mate Ryan is the winner, the Chosen One, and this is his blog about his time with Stoke Travel. Three trips down, who knows how many to go, get ready for the most fun of your life, Ryno. 

RYAN WHITAKER

Outside the city of Pamplona sits a small village named Mendigorría, notorious for noise complaints on the campground below. Legend dictates that in the valley below, thousands of strangers congregate to drink excessively, have promiscuous (and oftentimes unprotected) sex, and to risk their lives running with half-ton animals for their live Facebook stories, Instagram photos, and Snapchats.

Our hero arrives eventually, having lost all track of days at this point in his trip, to the campground, and is greeted with coldish beer and a chorus of greetings from the Stoke staff he previously met at San Vino. Registration is hot, but filled with laughter and new friends, as eventually the crowd dissipates and I am escorted to my lavish dwelling, a two person tent for one. As we walk, my friend Sparkles explains in some detail the commodities of the grounds: the river behind the on-campus bar, the on-campus bar, the guru tent and wheel of misfortune. “This is where the party exists until 12 AM,” he tells me, “after which, we all congregate under a cabana, in front of a DJ booth, and near a second on-campus bar. That party ends around 4 AM, but the second bar is in close proximity to the pool, so the fun need not ever end.” Energetic, curious, and slightly aroused, I consider all the possible options as I drift to the pool, preparing tentative plans for the opening ceremony on the next day.

I dress in what may be considered fresh whites (read: the only entirely white outfit I own at this stage of my life), eat breakfast, and hope onto the bus, traveling with the other festival-goers into Pamplona where we are poised to hear an almost musical speech by the mayor. We are giddy with excitement, sangria in our hands, in our stomachs, and our hearts, and wind through the city’s streets in route to the city center. A giant, stone gazebo looms over the crowd, peering into it from all sides except where a stage is set. A loudspeaker erupts as the speaker tells us something in Spanish. Me, nor any of my friends, pay the slightest attention to the words being said, awaiting only a cannon’s blast; and, without warning, the air shook, the sky turned purple from sangria raining from above, and we danced with the locals in the streets well into the night.

Some of the more sensible of our group thought it would be prudent to catch some shut eye for the night, others to stay in the city; and those who either chose to return or stay arrived around city hall, dressed in some variant shade of white now, for the first day of running with the bulls. The nervous excitement droned out the construction of barricades and the murmuring of spectators as we waited until just about 8 AM. We drowned out the repetitive safety video, slowly losing interest in the animation warning us all of the dangers of the event, and at just about 8 AM, the police began ushering us forward, patting us down and letting us move up ahead so that we had our fair chance at a race. We all knew this fruitless venture would only be worthy of a story, but we would try.

I lined up well past “Dead Man’s Corner” (because momma raised an ugly kid, not a stupid one) and a cannon exploded in the distance. I fought my reflex to run from cannons and stood in position. A second cannon exploded in the distance. I held out a little while longer. Masses of people began turning the corner, until the bodies flooded to one or the other side. The only thing I could do was to run. I held my arm out in front of me, knowing I should be wary of staying out of the way of the bulls as much as I should stay out of the way of the flailing bodies. I never heard them coming. On my side were six large, horned beasts, moving with the force of a freight train. I opened up my stride, but immediately came to a stop as two people tripped in front of me and one of the animals tripped over them. I held a distracted eye contact with the bull (he faced upwards and left, and I was keenly aware of the wooden barricade now next to me) for what felt like an eternity until he raced forward. I followed cautiously after him, trying to always be aware of the second wave of bulls behind me, and towards the arena.

Like a scene out of Gladiator, I sprinted into the coliseum when, upon entering, two tiers of red and white dressed Spaniards cheered wildly at the contestants celebrating in the sand. We met each other with wide smiles, laughing and winded, but before we could take a breath, the group fled from the remaining bulls, still making their way into the arena, until all the gates were closed. A loudspeaker erupted through the stadium, and we listened to the announcer seal our fate as four large screens, facing each other across the stadium, counted down from 5…4…3…2…1! A bull charged into the arena and we scattered! Some of us taunted the beast, others actually managed to reach out and touch the animal (met with jeering from the audience), and most of us found a way to stay well away from the bull as it made its rounds through the stadium. Two wranglers came in with the big bull to round him in, and after he went through his own gate, we ran toward it, forcing the second bull to hurdle us as it entered the coliseum! After its stint, another bull ran into the coliseum like the second, and one person, separated by none, as we all crowded the inner ring of the coliseum, when the animal bellowed forward at him. We watched, the man jumped with his legs spread, and the charging bull ran under him! Three more times bulls came into the arena, each different than the next, until all six of the animals were penned, we were exhausted, and the gates in which we entered opened once again for us to move to libations.

The nine day festival ended with locals flooding the streets well after the fireworks went off every night, and the closing ceremony showed the most incredible display I ever witnessed. In all the time we spent, once as strangers and now as friends, sitting by the pool, drinking at the bar, spinning the wheel, or headed in-and-out of town, we marveled at our company as the sky flashed brilliant combinations of lights. As our eyes glittered with the sky, as our ears rung from the many-days’ activities, as our bodies leaned against each other in mostly empty bus terminals or watching the wheel of misfortune spin, we experienced something incredible. We cheered with each other in the streets, where wine came from the sky. We ran with the bulls. We would drink into the mornings of every night, giddy and unapologetic, with Stoke by San Fermin.

 

 

The post The Chosen One: Stoke’s San Fermin appeared first on Stoke Travel.

Source: https://stoketravel.com/feed/

Editor’s note: over the winter we ran a competition to find the “Chosen One”, a one-of-a-kind, absolutely average, everyday hero who would win our Most Ordinary Extraordinary Job In The World — a summer of back-to-back Stoke Travel trips, where not only would they be expected to have the time of their life, but to also much in and set up tents/serve you heathens your beer. Well, our old mate Ryan is the winner, the Chosen One, and this is his blog about his time with Stoke Travel. Two trips down, who knows how many to go, get ready for the most fun of your life, Ryno. 

RYAN WHITAKER

Wade, the media director and my contact for this trip, drove me and the media team through the lush, rainy countryside of a province of Spain known as the Basque Country. We were headed to Aia, the town where Stoke’s house on the hill overlooks San Sebastián. On our way, I was given what pertinent information I needed: There would be unlimited drink, and I would learn to surf.

The house we pulled up the driveway to was a renovated, old-style Basque farmhouse. I walked past the skateboard ramp and hung around downstairs, looking over the mass of kegs, the palette-made and room-length dining room table, the ping pong table (which hosted, but was not limited to games of ping pong), one barrel of cider (pronounced: sid-ra, for whatever reason), two beer taps (vis-à-vis kegs), furniture to lounge (read: pass out on), a small slop-sink with drying area, and bright, stained throw rugs. The top side of the house had such amenities as three bathrooms, a range of bedrooms (from very private to dorm-style bunking), a kitchen, living room, and full view of San Sebastián and its legendary wake. With everyone’s undies hanging out to dry, the lingering smell of beer, and occasional squeaky boxspring, I imagined how a younger version of myself would have gladly moved my entire fraternity into the place to take the countryside by storm.

turned out to be a pretty subpar surfer, and I’m sure with practice, I could remain that way for some time; but going with Stoke to San Sebastián meant more than just a day at the beach. It meant the smell of reefer floating through the air, group massages, and topless tanning (or otherwise awkward tan lines). It meant acrobatic yoga, frisbee, and cliff jumping. It meant being able to say you had the chance to learn how to surf at one of the best beaches in the entire world to do so, and possibly feel cool about that and yourself for about fifteen seconds (absolute maximum).

And the reckless hedonism doesn’t stop there. San Sebastián was known, at one time, to be the only place outside Paris to have three three-star Michelin restaurants; and so, the Stoke team, saints that they are, organize a trip into the city one night each week for a pintxos (pronounced: pinch-o’s) tour. These Basque-country tapas provided a sufficient lining to the stomach for a night of bar-hopping down cobblestone streets, and could also be blamed as the catalyst for the next day’s siesta. And after the trip into the city, the sunny days on the beach, or all those nights tarnishing diplomatic relations playing drinking games (everyone refused to sing “God Bless America” with me on Independence Day), it is in my expert opinion as The Chosen One to prescribe one siesta per day as necessary until you’re ready to party like a Spaniard once more

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