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My name is Joan Ramón Prats. I am 59 years old, born in 1966 in San Antonio de Portmany. Ibiza.
San Antonio was a village. A proper village. A bay that faced west, where the sun dropped into the sea every evening. We children played on the beach, rode bicycles, did sailing at school. Basketball too, but sailing was better.
Everyone knew everyone. That was San Antonio.
Before It All Kicked Off
There was fishing. Small shops. Families who had lived here for generations. Tourism existed too, but it didn't overwhelm us. It was part of life, not the whole of it.
In the eighties, that changed. The tour operators came. The English came. San Antonio became famous. Too famous.
But before – before it was good.
The Nightclubs
As I grew older, the things that interest teenagers began to interest me. Girls. Motorbikes. Rock'n'roll.
San Antonio had clubs that played live music. La Reja. El Sum Sum. Joe Spoons. El Refugio. Good restaurants. A nightlife scene that was beautiful, not ugly like it became later.
During the day, the beaches. You could cycle for kilometres and always find new coves. Towards the north it became mountainous. That's where my parents had a Casa Payesa, an old farmhouse that had belonged to the family.
In winter we held Turradas there – barbecues over open fires. The whole family. My parents, my three siblings, uncles, aunts, cousins. Large families gathering at weekends. People still do it now, but it was different then. More people. More connection.
In summer we went to an old watchtower between Cala Bassa and Cala Conta. From there I fished amongst the rocks. We swam. The sea was always there.
The Motorbikes
On Ibiza there is a motorbike tradition. Deeply rooted. As children we all liked motorbikes – that's normal. But here it stuck.
I rode Spanish machines first. A Puch Vinicross. A Puch Cobra. Later, much later, came the Harley Davidson. It has the essence of the old motorbikes. The V-twin engine at 45 degrees. Character. Authenticity.
In the eighties there was a motorbike and rock scene in San Antonio that was fantastic. We rode without helmets to concerts at Las Dalias. Without insurance. It wasn't against the law. It was a time when everything was simpler. And there were fewer of us.
The Fake Hard Rock Café
There was a Hard Rock Café in San Antonio. Of course it was a copy – a South African and a Norwegian called Steiner had opened it. But back then copies went unnoticed. The world wasn't so connected yet.
In that bar something happened that I shall never forget.
Robert Plant was on Ibiza. Jimmy Page too. Both of them. For a concert at the Heartbreak Hotel in Puerto de San Miguel.
Robert Plant I saw once. But with Jimmy Page – with Jimmy Page I sat at the table.
He asked me if I could get him something. I went off, came back, and then we sat together. Drank beer. Smoked a bit of marijuana.
He was completely normal. No star behaviour. Just a bloke having a beer.
I can say this: I drank beer and shared stories with one of the greatest guitarists in history. Jimmy Page. In the fake Hard Rock Café of San Antonio.
Robert Plant later had a house in Cala San Vicente. A friend of mine knew him. Jimmy Page too – his house has probably been taken over by his children or sold. I don't know exactly.
But that night I shall never forget.
What Remains
I work in a ferretería with my brothers. My wife runs a small shop here in Atzaró. This restaurant has existed since 1972. More than fifty years.
It's a family business. Not a beach club built to make money. Here you can connect with people. Personally. That's how Ibiza always was.
We're not special. We've simply survived. That's all we can do: survive and carry on.
I collect American number plates. Around 700 of them. Most I buy on eBay, bidding one by one. Sometimes I find them in the States, where I go once a year.
My favourite piece? A number plate from California. 1934. Pure rust when I found it. At a flea market in Pennsylvania. The seller said: "Give me a buck." One dollar.
A number plate that is 92 years old. For one dollar.
In Spain you can't buy a number plate for one euro.
I also have a Cadillac. 1963. Convertible. It sits in the garage under a cover.
Some things you keep. Some things you let go. And some things – like the night with Jimmy Page – you simply carry with you.
Joan Ramón Prats, 59, was born in San Antonio de Portmany and has stayed there. He works in the family ferretería, collects American number plates and rides a Harley Davidson. This conversation took place in Atzaró, where his wife runs a small shop – in a restaurant that is older than mass tourism.
