I remember my first ever trip abroad quite well, although it was some twenty years ago now. Majorca was the destination, 1987 the year and I’ll be damned if I don’t have a vague recollection of my mother in a swimsuit with shoulder pads. It was the 80s after all. My parents were in their early thirties at the time, and though they had both travelled abroad before, they were far from experienced travellers. As such, we didn’t go alone. Oh no. We were in a group that totalled at least fourteen, mostly my dad’s colleagues and their respective families and I was the youngest by a long, long way. A fact that didn’t stop my mother entrusting me with the Spanish phrase book though, well they do say it is best to start young. The holiday started at about 3am one morning when we filled our Ford Orion with suitcases and set off to meet the others at a petrol station on the outskirts of Bradford, from where we drove in convoy to Manchester Airport. Thinking about it now it seems utterly ridiculous to drive to the airport in convoy, it is about 50 miles at most, but back then it was a big thing I suppose, going to the airport probably seemed like a holiday in itself. Either that or we were counting on safety in numbers when we crossed the border into Lancashire.
Most of the holiday seemed to be spent round the pool during the daytime, playing cards in the evening (3 card brag was the only game we could play in such a big group, it meant my winnings were high though) or watching my mum embarrass herself and all who knew her the rest of the time. As I am writing this from the safety of my flat in Vienna, and I know she can’t hit me, let me tell you a couple of stories.
When we arrived, there was a bit of a cock up with our room, and with hindsight it seems fairly obvious that we were placed in a temporary room above the bar while our room was cleaned. However, this was 1987, the hotel staff weren’t used to English guests and didn’t have a great grasp of the language, and I was still on the numbers page of the phrase book, so we didn’t realise this at the time. We unpacked our bags, and went to the pool, stopping for a minute or two to let my dad complain in the way that dads do best, basically timidly explaining that we would like another room, nodding and agreeing with whatever was said to him, then getting angry with us when we asked what was going on. So, like I said, we went to the pool. And I think it is fair to suggest that my mum may have mentioned that as were on holiday it would be rude not to have a little drink, to celebrate or something. That was all the encouragement my old man needed so off he went to the bar. By the way, the shrewd among you will have already worked out that a 3am start would have us at the airport by 4.30, on the plane my 7, in the hotel by 10 and at the bar by five past. But, we were on holiday, it’s fine, really. Anyway, I was a bit worried about dehydration so I only had a shandy. I’m joking obviously, shandy wasn’t in the phrase book.
Another thing that my inexperienced mother hadn’t considered, other than the consequences of drinking at breakfast time I mean, was that in Spain they don’t really measure drinks in the same way we do at home. It is not so much volume in centilitres that is used as weight in pounds. So a Gin and Tonic in Spain is probably like three back home. She should have realised though as it was served in one of those large coca cola cups you get at McDonalds. Long story short, by the time she had finished her drink her English was about as good as the receptionist’s, and she announced, while pushing her white patio chair backwards and into the pool, that she was going to enquire politely as to whether there had been any progress regarding our accommodation. I’m doing her a favour there, her exact words, or rather word, was “I’llshhaveshawordswiththeseschStanishhpeoplesh”. Fortunately for her, and the poor “Stanish” receptionist who would have had a job understanding her had she managed to find her way back to the hotel, our new room was ready and waiting.
However, my dear mother is a great believer in not learning from your mistakes, and starting as you mean to go on. One of the nights when three-card brag was off the menu after we lost a card, we decided to watch the hotel entertainment, who happened to be a hypnotist. Thankfully my mum wasn’t required to pronounce the word hypnotist when she found herself on stage. Now, I should point out that she blames me and my dad for volunteering her, but anyone who has ever met her would know that we wouldn’t be that stupid. Anyway, he wouldn’t have heard us over her shouting. So, the long and short of it, and that comment will make more sense in a second, was that my mum was on stage under hypnosis along with a few other holidaymakers. Now, most of them managed to get away with just pretending to be a chicken, or a train or something, but somehow my mum was told that she had superpowers. To be more specific, she had x-ray vision that could see through clothes. Seriously, he couldn’t have picked a better person. There was no stopping her, in between the sound of everyone in the hotel falling off their chairs with laughter you could faintly here a Yorkshire accent saying “Ohhh, oh would you look at that…ooh, and you, oh dear, ah that’s, erm, interesting….oh I’ve never seen, oh oh”
I think my dad was unsure whether to laugh or cry really, and I was hurriedly looking up the Spanish for embarrassed in the phrase book.
Most of the holiday seemed to be spent round the pool during the daytime, playing cards in the evening (3 card brag was the only game we could play in such a big group, it meant my winnings were high though) or watching my mum embarrass herself and all who knew her the rest of the time. As I am writing this from the safety of my flat in Vienna, and I know she can’t hit me, let me tell you a couple of stories.
When we arrived, there was a bit of a cock up with our room, and with hindsight it seems fairly obvious that we were placed in a temporary room above the bar while our room was cleaned. However, this was 1987, the hotel staff weren’t used to English guests and didn’t have a great grasp of the language, and I was still on the numbers page of the phrase book, so we didn’t realise this at the time. We unpacked our bags, and went to the pool, stopping for a minute or two to let my dad complain in the way that dads do best, basically timidly explaining that we would like another room, nodding and agreeing with whatever was said to him, then getting angry with us when we asked what was going on. So, like I said, we went to the pool. And I think it is fair to suggest that my mum may have mentioned that as were on holiday it would be rude not to have a little drink, to celebrate or something. That was all the encouragement my old man needed so off he went to the bar. By the way, the shrewd among you will have already worked out that a 3am start would have us at the airport by 4.30, on the plane my 7, in the hotel by 10 and at the bar by five past. But, we were on holiday, it’s fine, really. Anyway, I was a bit worried about dehydration so I only had a shandy. I’m joking obviously, shandy wasn’t in the phrase book.
Another thing that my inexperienced mother hadn’t considered, other than the consequences of drinking at breakfast time I mean, was that in Spain they don’t really measure drinks in the same way we do at home. It is not so much volume in centilitres that is used as weight in pounds. So a Gin and Tonic in Spain is probably like three back home. She should have realised though as it was served in one of those large coca cola cups you get at McDonalds. Long story short, by the time she had finished her drink her English was about as good as the receptionist’s, and she announced, while pushing her white patio chair backwards and into the pool, that she was going to enquire politely as to whether there had been any progress regarding our accommodation. I’m doing her a favour there, her exact words, or rather word, was “I’llshhaveshawordswiththeseschStanishhpeoplesh”. Fortunately for her, and the poor “Stanish” receptionist who would have had a job understanding her had she managed to find her way back to the hotel, our new room was ready and waiting.
However, my dear mother is a great believer in not learning from your mistakes, and starting as you mean to go on. One of the nights when three-card brag was off the menu after we lost a card, we decided to watch the hotel entertainment, who happened to be a hypnotist. Thankfully my mum wasn’t required to pronounce the word hypnotist when she found herself on stage. Now, I should point out that she blames me and my dad for volunteering her, but anyone who has ever met her would know that we wouldn’t be that stupid. Anyway, he wouldn’t have heard us over her shouting. So, the long and short of it, and that comment will make more sense in a second, was that my mum was on stage under hypnosis along with a few other holidaymakers. Now, most of them managed to get away with just pretending to be a chicken, or a train or something, but somehow my mum was told that she had superpowers. To be more specific, she had x-ray vision that could see through clothes. Seriously, he couldn’t have picked a better person. There was no stopping her, in between the sound of everyone in the hotel falling off their chairs with laughter you could faintly here a Yorkshire accent saying “Ohhh, oh would you look at that…ooh, and you, oh dear, ah that’s, erm, interesting….oh I’ve never seen, oh oh”
I think my dad was unsure whether to laugh or cry really, and I was hurriedly looking up the Spanish for embarrassed in the phrase book.
It probably sounds as though my parents were being a touch irresponsible through all of this, what with the breakfast drinking, gambling and general lewd behaviour but remember who they gave the phrase book to, they knew they were in save hands with me around.
On that note, Hasta Luego….or “I’lllssheeeeyoulatershhh” in proper Stanish.
On that note, Hasta Luego….or “I’lllssheeeeyoulatershhh” in proper Stanish.
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