Holidaying with the Rich

Oh babes, I did something bad. I knew it was probably a terrible idea when I did it, but don’t worry, that insistent truffle pig called karma will always sniff out your transgressions out in the end. I am the truffle in this scenario.

Dan and I have been together for 25 years and if you’ve been following my journey here on Subbers you’ll know that we’ve had the very roughest of rough times. Getting through it all together, still in love, still the very best of best mates, feels like a big achievement- huge- and I wanted to celebrate this epic feat of survival by arranging something very special and, let’s face it, ruinously expensive for us both. Pausing at this moment to ask…

WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP ME, YOU ABSOLUTE SODDING CRETINS?

We hadn’t been abroad for a very long time- a combination of travel invariably making my disease symptoms way worse and not wanting to further damage our beleagured planet- but I have always wanted to go to Menorca and I needed it all to be PERFECT (can you hear the warning klaxon sound?) and RESTFUL, so I booked us an extremely luxurious hotel. Stopping at this point once more to ask….

WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP ME, YOU MERCILESS FILTH MONKEYS?

The one week mega mega love-fest began inauspiciously. We were sitting on the runway ready for take-off when the pilot told us not to panic but erm…we would shortly be surrounded by many emergency vehicles. He explained that there had been a collision. This is not a word you ever want a pilot to utter. Our luggage truck had slammed into the rear plane door, he explained, and they just needed to check that we a) weren’t about to explode or b) be sucked out of the plane at 35,000 feet once we were airborne. He said it in slightly more piloty terms than that, but I got the gist- a) explosion b) sucking. As an EXTREMELY nervous flyer this was not ideal. Dan says I actually whimpered. Later the air stewardess will tell me that she hasn’t seen terror like that on anyone’s face in years. Yay! Holiday!

After a long day of travel we emerge into a sodding heatwave. My disease means I can’t regulate my temperature - a ten week old kitten fares better than me on a hot day- and it brings back painful memories of the last time we went abroad, to Majorca, where the heatwave was so severe that my eyes exploded and we had to fly home early. So let’s just say I am wary. I feel knackered and in pain, but have hope in my heart. Because, isn’t this photo the dream? Doesn’t it look ridiculously, impossibly idyllic?

SPOILER: THIS IS ACTUALLY A PORTAL TO HELL

On arrival at the hotel we walk from the car park up to reception. “How did you get in?” the receptionist immediately demands. Now, we are two old, scruffy socialists. I have a shaved head. Dan is wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Make Art Not War.’ Our first reaction when we are asked questions like these is that we very much should not be there. We nervously explain that we are checking in. I have to refrain from opening up my purse to show him we can afford to pay. It turns out that a golf buggy should have come down to the car park to drive us up to reception, but we came in behind a beer delivery truck so they didn’t see us. Dan and I think that this is sweet and hilarious, but it is made clear that we have transgressed. Rich people do not do things for themselves, my love- they are ferried.

His opener is that there are two large groups and us staying in the small hotel, but not to worry, they’ll be gone in a couple of days. This feels ominous. He then rallies, and suddenly begins to treat us like we are the best people he has ever met. He laughs incredibly heartily at everything I say. He makes a grab for anything we try to pick up for ourselves. He tells us that we must be very discerning because we have picked the most premium room in the entire hotel. We wilt under this undeserved adulation. We are not that great you know! I want to say. I can be impatient and I suffer from depression. Oh, and the family guinea pigs ate their babies when I was nine and my BMI is 26.1. I’m honestly a bit crap- well, not Pol Pot you know, there are definitely worse people than me, but…. I look over at Dan and I instantly realise that I have placed him in his worst case scenario. He hates attention! He believes that we are all created equal! Mega mega love-fest is already tanking!!

I’m feeling verrrry flustered by this point, but have a little word with myself. I become my own coach in the boxing ring. You wanted this, Curry I assert, as I metaphorically punch myself in the face. You wanted to relax and for people to look after you and to bring you nice things. SO MAN-UP, DIG DEEP AND BLOODY WELL LOCK IN!

We huddle and in frantic whispers agree to sink into the luxury levels of attention that we’ve been promised. We need this, right? We’re so tired, sí? So much awful, grinding loss, oui? So many hospitals, ja? The hotel’s name in Spanish is ‘retreat.’ Online it has promised us calm relaxation. Why then, I wonder to myself, is earsplitting Europop booming out of multiple speakers? We stroll down to the pool and sit on a capacious couples sun bed. Okay, we can do this. We have been given a buzzer and have been told that whenever we press it someone will magically appear and every whim will be catered to without delay. This is uncomfortable for aforesaid old socialists, but we have MANNED UP, DUG DEEP AND LOCKED IN! and so we press it together, reminding me of long ago times, when we cut our wedding cake, young and hopeful, hand placed over hand.

We wait! We are actually excited! We have locked in!

Then no one comes.

This is the British person’s nightmare. Is the buzzer broken? Did we break the buzzer? What is the polite amount of time to leave before you press the buzzer again? Should we walk up and ask the waitress? But, we mutter, they don’t like it when we walk anywhere- we are not supposed to walk! The buzzer rapidly becomes the third person in our marriage. She is our Camilla.

We are so hungry- we’ve been travelling since 3 a.m. and haven’t eaten anything. I have low blood pressure and Dan has low blood sugar and we are fading. So what do we do? We continue to fret. I AM DOING THE HOLIDAY WRONG AND I’VE ONLY JUST ARRIVED. I always have this feeling- that everyone else knows the rules -and the unspoken promise of a holiday is that you will leave the sad loser that is you back at home and immediately transmogrify into a cooler, more confident person the moment you step onto the tarmac. But it turns out I HAVE ONLY GONE AND TAKEN MYSELF WITH ME! Bummer. We press the buzzer again. Still no one comes. The waitress keeps passing us and we do that terribly British thing of trying to attract her attention in the least imposing way possible. We may as well have been holding a sign up saying ‘don’t mind us, we are more than happy to die of hunger here.’

What is all that racket? I say to Dan. We look down to the pool and it is packed full of very beautiful, extremely loud young people. When I booked the hotel I asked what the demographic is, and they said quiet middle aged couples. This group is not that. They are all being really nasty to each other, cruel jokes, shoving, they have their phones on speaker, they are posh and braying- the vibe is BAD. In the middle of them is a guy that looks like Jacob Elordi. He is entitled, bullying, arrogant, conceited and loud - basically every single trait that Dan hates in men. I suddenly feel extraordinarily tired. Their food starts appearing, more food than I have ever seen. It looks beautiful and we stare on longingly. Every time more food is brought more food is ordered. But nothing gets touched, it just sits in that hot sun and rots. More comes, and more, and more, and every time it just sits there in the white intensity of the heatdome. Each time the waitress passes us we ask to order and she ignores us. Another hour passes and I finally take the plunge and WALK. Bold I know.

I sidle up to the bar, trying not to look desperate. A young woman who arrived over an hour after us is ordering with aforesaid waitress. Now, us British can tolerate almost anything, but the moment we encounter any sense of unfairness we are completely undone. Do I say anything? Don’t be silly, of course I don’t. Instead I wait while the beautiful boho sighs and pauses, and sighs and pauses again. I want this one made gluten-free she drawls. Can I have a fruit plate she lazily demands. That’s not on the menu, madam. A pause. Well, I’m sure the chef can make an exception for me. Sociopathic smile. You know that welcome cocktail, we’ll have 10 of those. They are also not on the menu, madam. I’m so sorry. She lays her hand on the arm of the waitress, like a Jedi mind control trick. I’m sure it won’t be a problem, I just know you can make it happen. This goes on. And on. The young waitress is flattered and dazzled. Don’t fall for this, I want to shout, she is not good people.

Instead I suddenly blurt out ‘please help me. We are so hungry! The waitress stares at me and they roll their eyes at one another. I am not cool, I am old and I feel really sad. Not because I’m uncool and old, that’s fine. But to feel so unseen is painful. I spend most of my life in various hospitals, trying not to be a nuisance, not to jump any queue, to be patient and calm while my life slides away from me in increments. Dan has been looking really knackered recently, and I’ve started to worry about him more than me. I want this for him- being a carer is hard and he needs a break. She finally takes my order, sullen and resentful, and an hour later our food arrives, slopped onto the plate and without any salad or garnish. They’ve either run out of ingredients or word has gone back to the kitchen that no one is eating anything, so why bother. I look over at the mounds of beautiful food by the pool- nothing has been touched, flies buzz round. I work out that there must be over one thousand euros worth of food there. I feel sick. I will later find out that the chef cried at all the pointless waste.

I go down to the pool. They are all relentlessly photographing themselves and each other. Their studied, endless vanity makes me feel queasy. This is niche, but their faces remind me of the wonderful comments that Caroline O’Donoghue and Dolly Alderton made in podcast Sentimental and The City, when they’re talking about Aleksander Petrovsky’s Parisian daughter, Chloe. I have to quote their words directly because they are deliciously perfect and the remembrance of their chat really saved me on the day:

There’s a very specific look that famous children have, these sort of bambi-ish limbs, but these foie gras faces where there features are almost swollen. I think it’s because they have fashion model mothers. And it’s just huge lips, drowsy eyes, a little bit sedated looking. They look like they have only ever had the best products on their bodies from the moment they were born. And they almost look like bobble-headed dolls because their heads are very, very big on their bodies. They look like girls who are entirely unfamiliar with what Nivea cream or a disposable razor might be.

Word.

The Elordi-a-like is braying particularly loudly into his phone, which is held in front of his entitled face. An equally charmless dude brays right back at him on speakerphone. Excuse me, would you mind talking just a little less loudly, we’ve just arrived and I’d so love a quiet swim, I ask. One of the bobbleheads walks over and she calmly tells me to fuck off. They all cheer and I feel incredibly flustered.

I undress and walk over to the pool. I have a huge scar running the length of my torso from the abdominal surgery and it’s the first time I’ve worn a bikini since the operation. The woman who has told me to fuck off takes out her phone and takes a photo of me. She immediately shows it to her two friends and they laugh hysterically. I feel such mortification. My body is disgusting, I say to Dan. I’m so sorry. How can you stand it? Dan is furious and looks worried for me. We slope off back to the room. I don’t talk for the rest of the day. That night we are woken at 1 a.m when the two groups drunkenly come back to the hotel, banging and screaming in the room above us. I am the mum of a bouncy young person with bouncy friends and I love noise and energy but this is something else - they are all so mean. Beautiful on the outside but ugly on the inside, I think to myself and then I laugh because it is such a priggish thing to say. I feel 100 years old and my body hurts.

The next morning we are woken yet again by their shrieking and honking. We head to breakfast and they have spread across the whole space. They are lounging in that way that makes it very clear that this is their turf and no one else is welcome. The posh can do this like no other demographic. It turns out that they are a group of models on a three day shoot on the island. It’s not fair! I hiss. They haven’t even bloody paid to be here and we’ve worked so hard to afford this holiday. Then I feel like a spoiled wanker, because I am in a luxury hotel that many people would kill to be staying in. But let’s face facts- mega mega love-fest has taken another dispiriting dive. Music is blaring out again and I realise that the hotel has put it on to try and dull the constant sound of the idiots.

A lovely young woman with a kind face is behind the bar and she tells us that all of the staff at the hotel are desperately upset by group’s behaviour. They have been consistently rude and bullying to the workers and have caused absolute chaos. Mess left everywhere around the grounds, rooms in chaos, constant, ever growing, ever more ridiculous demands, and to top it off the Elordi-a-like has been sexually hassling female members of staff. But why doesn’t anyone do anything, I ask?

Oh Jessica, you are a naive girl.

It dawns on me that no one is doing anything because these kind of hotels exist precisely so that you can behave any way you damn well please. Essentially your money has purchased the rights to your ill manners and any boarish, unlovely behaviours that you feel like displaying.

We are ignored by the young waitress again as we watch her wait hand and foot on the spoiled, demanding models. She yearns to be one of them. She will never be one of them. One of the group charmlessly orders an item that mainly comprises bananas. This is clearly stated on the menu. When the waitress brings it over, she stares into her bowl. Why have you brought me this, I am allergic to bananas. Take it away. I hate her. It all taps deeply into a fear and Dan and I share- that the bullies, the dictators, the narcissistic and the pussy grabbers are winning, while the patient, the kind and the disabled sink.

It is always incredibly painful for me to sit and a woman behind the bar comes over. She touches my cheek with incredible tenderness. It is the mother’s touch that I have longed for. I start to cry. She then gives me a hug that is long, kind and profound. It is not an interaction between staff and guest- it is a connection between two women. She gently instructs us to go back to our room.

As we walk, I clock that grounds staff have been specifically ordered not to make eye contact with guests. Instead they keep their eyes firmly down at all times, always moving to one side as guests approach. I feel a little bit of sick rise in my mouth. Ten minutes later our guardian angel knocks on the door and she has brought us our breakfast. Her English is limited and my Spanish is poor so we chat via Google translate. I type that she is such a kind person and that I will never be able to express my gratitude for her kindness, for that beautiful hug and for seeing that I was struggling. She explains that when she’s not at the hotel she is a nurse. She types that she can see that I am in enormous pain and I have been through too much, but that I have a strong and beautiful spirit and she believes that I can do this.

She has a tattoo on her hand and I ask her what it says. She tell me that it says ‘I belong deeply to myself.’ She explains that she got the tattoo when she started working at the hotel. That the people who come here are often entitled and greedy. I serve them with these hands she tells me and what I give I give freely, but this is a reminder to myself that they will never own me.

We hug, we laugh, we look into each others eyes, we hug again. I will never see her again and I will never forget her.

The next day the models leave and the music is turned off. The promised couples begin to arrive but when the hotel said that the usual demographic is middle aged people, what they failed to mention is that the men are middle aged but the women are the age of their daughters. These guys have proud pot bellies, and they stand aggressively with their hands on their hips- owners of all they survey. The women are tiny, but have improbably cantilevered arses and large, pouting lips. Their bikinis are mere whispers of fabric. One young woman calls her greying partner Daddy. She paws at him constantly, whilst simultaneously moueing in childish displeasure. No daddy, not like that. Daddy, bring me water. I feel sick. Surely holidays surely shouldn’t induce this much nausea! She brings out a pair of tweezers from her Birkin and lies between his legs, which are messily spread akimbo. He is a large man in small speedos. He then wordlessly begins to pluck out her chin hairs.

None of the guests smile or say hello, to us or anyone else. I lie there and it dawns that no one seems to be actually enjoying themselves. The men constantly pace on their mobile phones, talking loudly about oil and bonds and the women scrolling listlessly through Instagram, looking bored and vain. It is a form of death. I slip into the pool. The water is cool and languid. When your body hurts every single day and you are often too tired to function these moments are rare and precious. The Russian oligarch suddenly dive-bombs on me and shouts to his girlfriend/daughter to throw his phone to him. He walks up and down next to me in the water- booming booming booming- doing deals that will kill us all in the end.

Right, we agree, enough and we drive into a scruffy part of town. We plonk down in a little pizza place in a big square and it is passeggiata time. It thrums with energy. Toddlers scream excitedly on swings in the playground, giddy teenagers run about, flirting and frantically whispering to one another and laughing. Pensioners chat, proud parents push their newborns. It all sounds like life- real life. The young waiter comes over and he is really happy. I tell him that he looks like he’s having fun. He points back into the tiny, baking hot pizzeria and says- these guys, they are all my friends. They cheer and wave to us. A couple of them come out to shake our hands and chat.

I look at Dan- lover and best friend for a quarter of a century. Without voicing it we know that we will survive this terrible decision of a holiday because we have survived so much worse. I order an Aperol Spritz, Dan a beer and we eat great pizza and laugh and chat and reminisce. It is a golden night, one to store tenderly in the heart for the next time the bad times roll up. Happy Anniversary, Dan.

Thank you once again for being my emotional support peacocks. I hope that you enjoyed reading about holidaying among the lizard people. If you enjoyed this one, then I think you will like Honey I’m Honed- it’s about Botox, pain and blowing Donald Trump.

Please stir up the algo juices by liking and re-stacking- it really helps. Also very up for tales of bad holidays!