Ibiza, Day #: I can't dance like Kernan Coleman

Sometimes, I can be a party-pooper.  Or, as one of my dear friends says, a poopie-potter.  After 10 blissful days in Formentera, we packed up and boarded the ferry to Ibiza.  The Professor was looking forward to a change in scenery, but me, I went kicking and screaming.  The Euro-trash disco raves Ibiza is so famous for is not in my repitoire for the following reasons:

• I don't wear neon anything
• I wouldn't know what to do at a foam party other than make a fake beard and mustache
• I get cranky if I have to stay out past midnight
• I loathe wristbands
• I don't enjoy RedBull
• I can't dance like Kernan Coleman
• I'd rather listen to this version of Kenny G and Michael Bolton for 24 hours straight, than subject myself to one hour of thumping techno
• I'll never be okay with being the creepy old lady in the corner--unless it's at my funeral
• I don't think my life insurance policy would cover an Ecstasy overdose

But, The Professor being The Professor, had a few tricks up his sleeves.  The first one was to find the best bakery on the island, Pasteleria Los Andenes, and stick one giant pastry in my mouth to stop the complaining:

The Bakery

Maybe the best pastry ever.

Even better the second time.

Okay, three times.  But sometimes with trickery, one can fall prey to his own traps, like this one:

Neither I, nor The Professor went to the disco that night.  Turns out they have a strict "no fat-pant" policy.  Ginger wins again.

Ibiza        0

Ginger     1