The photograph.

After the nightclub, we returned back to the AirBnB to recount the night’s events. This portion of our trip, as we later would learn, would become the social glue that kept us forever bound.

Tim pulls out his camera, “Take a look of the shots from tonight.”

We look.

“Oh snap, she looks good–”

“Good? Fuckin’ understatement. Hawwt!”

Scrolling through the pictures.

“This is one has all of us.”

I squint. There’s a contemplative pause.

“Dude, I look so weird in this photo.”

“Let me see. Yeah, holy shit, me too.”

“Where are you?”

“Right there!”

My eyes scan the picture. Tim’s not in the photo. But there’s me, looking tanner than a hot dog. I also seem thinner and younger. And then there’s someone I don’t recognize, an odd Asian guy at the end of the couch. His hair is whipped back. Mouth half open like he’s seducing the photographer.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s me!”

“What?!”

We went back and forth that night trying to understand how we looked so different. So funny. So unlike every other image we’ve seen of ourselves.

It was like Ibiza changed us. We had become unduly aggressive in all situations. Like there was a god in each of us–manipulating the world from within our human frames. What we wanted, happened. From taxi cabbies to waitresses to girls to, well, life. We were molding our surroundings. As a result, our surroundings molded us.

After that night, our photos started to look more like ourselves. But over the course of several hours of one night, documented on a Canon Powershot camera, we were the Gods of Ibiza.