Pacha flower power with Pete Tong

In the summer of ’98, on the spur of a moment, I decided to escape corporate drudgery and head for the Balearic Islands. First to Mallorca to recover my sanity, then to Ibiza for party time. Back to Mallorca to sober up before re-joining the rat race in London.

It happened like this: I met a girl, sipping a cocktail, sitting on a stool at a bar in Docklands. We exchanged sideways glances and said “Hello”. Her name was Lena, and she was from Russia. Her diction was perfect and educated. We were two strangers, speaking in low voices to the other’s profile, seeking connections to embrace us. Suddenly, I don’t know what compelled me, an innate addiction to risk and adventure I suppose, but I found myself asking if she would like to go on holiday. She fell silent and stared into the distance.

Eventually, she nodded.

“OK,” I said, but would it be alright if I tagged along. She turned away to look at her friends who were being entranced by some shiny-suited banker reptiles. She pushed her glass towards the bar-tender and, for the first time, lifted her face to mine, “Of course, why not,” she said.

She was truly beautiful; lightly tanned skin, long auburn hair, and hazel eyes that glinted with mischief as she returned my smile.


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© Rod McRiven 2021

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