A few weeks ago my wife and I spent two wonderful weeks on holiday in Mallorca. This Spanish island has been a favourite with holiday makers from all over Europe for years. While it is purported to be a playground for the rich and famous – Michael Douglas and the stunningly beautiful Catherine Zeta-Jones have a house there and Elton John is regular visitor – the coastal resorts are strewn with affordable resorts and hotels. It’s a good bet for a reasonably inexpensive holiday in the sun.
The hotel where we were staying was perfectly acceptable and we couldn’t fault the staff or any part of the hotel’s operation. We were given a room exactly according to our wishes; the food was good, the rooms clean and the staff were helpful.
It was also an opportunity to see several nationalities in action. The first few days most of the hotel’s population seemed to consist of Britons, mainly heavily tattooed chunky Scots and Northerners. There was also a sizable German minority and this time I noticed it was not only they who tried to reserve their sunloungers by the pool by way of leaving their towels on them; the Brits have now joined in this unfortunate behaviour. I saw one giant beach towel with the Union Jack imprinted on it and through the horizontal red bar in giant letters the word ‘RESERVED’.
I saw the odd Italian couple quietly wandering around the gardens in the evening, equally slim and elegant Spanish people enjoying themselves. During the start of the second week into our holiday there were a lot more French people. They always seem to be at home, defiantly sporting their unorthodox attire.
At night, when the inevitably cheesy entertainment reared its questionable head, the Brits proved, of course, the most fun. For a nation that is supposed to be reserved and stand-offish they let their hair down at the drop of a hat. After having enjoyed a drink or two.
It’s a funny sort of camaraderie that emerges between incredibly vague acquaintances at a holiday resort. You start recognising people by the poolside, around the resort, in the bar, and with some you share a passing remark, a nod, a brief conversation.
People are people and it takes all sorts, obviously. Being somewhat of a hybrid cosmopolitan I always enjoy observing people of varying nationalities and then try to apply some general characteristics, knowing full well how hazardous such a venture invariably proves.
While out there I saw a huge amount of tattooed pale bulging flesh, heard a lot of loud German chat, was witness to some very unusual examples of French dress sense, and once again was impressed with how friendly Spanish people can be. On the way back to Blighty I felt tired and happy, content to put on my shades and headphones and drift off in an airborne daydream of utter relaxation. It’s a funny old world, to be sure..
