Since living in Brittany, we have had
several visitors. We always appreciate people coming out to see us and have
enjoyed sharing our home and this stunning area of France with them all. At the
moment, we have Steve's 19 year old daughter and her boyfriend staying with us.
It took me back to a time in 2010, when Steve and I went on holiday in Gozo - a
small island off the coast of Malta. We took self-same daughter with us, but at
that time, she was only 14, and we all know what THAT'S like eh?
Here
is an extract from my 2nd book, Gozo Is the Grass Greener? Which featured an
entire chapter about the experience of taking a teen on holiday - it may
resonate with a few of you .
Extract from Gozo, Is the Grass Greener?
So why
Gozo? Of all the places in the world, Gozo? We had been told that we would love
it and were assured that our first experience of the magical island of Calypso
as it is sometimes known, would be unforgettable. After all there was beautiful
weather, friendly and welcoming people, it was not expensive to eat out and had
a charm of its own. Having visited the main island of Malta in the archipelago
on three occasions without a hop-over visit to Gozo, we were encouraged to try
out this tiny jewel in the Mediterranean as a standalone holiday destination.
We were assured it was quieter and less crowded than its big sister, Malta.
Yes, it would be a truly unforgettable experience.
And so it
was, that in August 2010, we agreed that we would rent an apartment in Gozo for
a week and after some internet searching, we settled on the sleepy looking
Xlendi Bay. We also agreed that we would take Steve’s 14-yearold daughter,
Sabrina, with us. Unforgettable? We had absolutely no idea what we were in for.
I pause
here to shake my head and sigh at the foolishness of that particular decision.
Anyone out there with a teenager will no doubt be shaking their head and
possibly even wincing as they marvel at our naiveté. Did we really think that
we could take an almost stereotypically perfect example of a dissatisfied
generation to a small, quiet island where free wi-fi was as remote a
possibility as my ever becoming a size 8 again? – bar the starvation diet, of
course, where I could actually make it down to an 8. Like most teenagers, Sabrina had a serious
dependence bordering on addiction to internet social websites – not to mention
her iPhone, laptop, iPod and junk food. What were we thinking?!
In
hindsight, it was not the best decision we ever made. Mainland Spain or even
Florida in the States would have been better options here, but Gozo it was. And
I omitted to mention that in addition to the addiction to all things internet,
we had four years of stored up, brooding resentment directed at myself as her
dad’s evil, new partner who had ruined her life, to add to the mix.
Anyway,
as a glass-half-full kind of person, I was determined to make the best of it,
so I set about planning and organising the flights, transfers and so on that
accompany any holiday. Steve was texting Sabrina regularly to advise her of
what she needed to bring along – lots of swimwear, shorts, tee shirts,
something to go out in at night; that sort of thing. He would send her long
lists of things needed, painstakingly spelling out every word in longhand as
all adults of a certain age tend to do. The texts that came back without fail,
however, would just say:
K.
“K?”
Steve would ask me with a frown. “What the hell is K?”
“I think
she means okay, darling. She’s agreeing with you,” I would explain.
“Well,
why doesn’t she say so then?” would come the scowling, Neanderthal reply.
“It’s
just the way they communicate, darling. It’s shorthand,” I would add.
“Well,
it’s stupid,” he would growl in return.
I was
already captivated by the photographs of Gozo, with its hidden coves and bays,
and the crystal clear waters surrounding it.
I could almost taste that local cuisine: the pizzas handmade in front of
you, the locally produced wines and cheeses . . . . . mmm, it was going to be a
treat! I wondered vaguely if Sabrina would eat goat’s cheese.
The
earliest hint of real things to come was when we got to the airport. It
transpired that despite her father’s longwinded, repeated, clear texts of instructions
as to what to bring, Sabrina did not, in fact, possess a bikini or swimming
costume of any kind – not that pencil thin, teenage girls wear swimming
costumes, but you know . . . . . Sabrina announced the issue with that
marvellously sullen, stone face which humans only possess between the ages of
13 and 17 years – dead eyed, expressionless and said in a manner which somehow
managed to apportion blame to both her dad and myself.
Steve’s
response was to ask me, “Can we sort something out for her?”
My
response, however, was to look as if I had just begun to suck a lemon.
Actually, it was more like two lemons, a grapefruit and a generous slice of
lime.
I took a
deep breath to prevent words coming out such as, “Why, WHY don’t you have a
bikini with you?! I mean your dad told you enough times to bring one.”
I avoided
saying such things for two reasons: 1. The words would fall on deaf ears; and
2. It would not have made the slightest difference.
Instead,
I swallowed the cocktail of citrus fruit and propelled said teenager towards
one of the airport boutiques. Now, for those of you who have never had the
dubious pleasure of shopping in an airport boutique, a word of warning: any
sign which reads DUTY FREE is to be ignored. It is a lie; a complete lie. It
should be translated as follows:
“This is
probably the most expensive shop you’ve ever been into. You cannot possibly
afford anything in here and the experience will leave you penniless for the
rest of your holiday.”
In my life,
I have had to stop going into those brightly lit, wonderfully smelling and
alluring shops, which drew me like the proverbial moth to a flame, as I was
heard to say loudly:
“Duty
Free? Duty Free?? I can get this cheaper at Boots the Chemist. Look at the
price of this Toblerone! And Tesco’s are doing a 2-for-1 on this. £10! £10 for
a box of Roses! I don’t think so.”
You get
the picture, right?
Anyway, I
digress – and we had not even left the UK yet. There we were in exactly such an
establishment, waited on by women who looked as if they had applied an entire
box of Elizabeth Arden product to their faces in one go. The chosen bikini
resembled a plaited bootlace crossed with a spider’s web – and it cost £35. I
tried hard not to imagine what a similar item might have cost at Primark or TK
Maxx, but I could not help it.
As we
left the shop, Sabrina’s internal fashion radar picked up on a trilby type hat
and I saw the slightest glimmer of light in her eyes. Pouncing on an
opportunity to be popular (damn you, repressed Grammar School behaviour
patterns), I asked her brightly if she would also like that hat – and just like
that, I found myself £55 lighter in total. I strongly suspected that I was no
more popular than I had been 10 minutes earlier. But hey, I tried!
THE hat
Eventually,
after the customary three-hour wait at the airport, a flight lasting three
hours 20 minutes, a 45-minute taxi transfer to the ferry, a 25-minute ferry
ride to Gozo and a final 15-minute ride to the apartment, we arrived. There we
also became about another 50 euros poorer as Sabrina possessed a fascinating
need to be fed and watered at every available opportunity. I began wondering if
she had an inbuilt sense of an impending, worldwide food shortage or something
as I had never witnessed a child, a teenager, with quite such a capacity for
junk food.
There had
been an almost non-stop mantra of, “I’m hungry, I need a drink.”
It
started at the airport, continued on the plane, picked up again at the airport
in Malta, progressed in the taxi and reached a finale on the ferry to Gozo. Add
to that the inevitable, “Are we nearly there?” and you will get some idea of
how frazzled our nerves were by the time we reached our destination.
As ever,
words that sprang to mind – which on this occasion were, “How the hell can you
still be hungry, you’ve eaten your own body weight in chicken nuggets?” – were
suppressed.
Instead,
anxious not to spoil the holiday, I smiled and asked, “What would you like?”
You know
that could not last, right? All that repressed rage. It had to come out . . . .
. eventually.
I am not
going to dwell too much on events which unfolded during that week. It was a bit
like Groundhog Day, a never-ending loop of:
a) I
don’t like this/that (fish in the sea, seaweed, the menu, the heat, Valletta,
whatever)
b) I want
egg and chips (in every single restaurant)
c) I’m
bored
d) I
don’t like swimming in the sea (Of course, you don’t!)
e) This
bikini doesn’t fit (I’m sorry, my response to this is censored)
f) I don’t
want to do that/go there
g) I’m
bored
h) Can we
go back to the apartment now? (No!)
i) I’m
sitting next to Dad
j) My
phone’s gone flat (What? You didn’t bring a charger? Really? After all those
texts your dad sent reminding you to bring one!)
k) I’m
bored; l) I can’t sleep (Try being quiet)
m) It’s
too hot (It’s August in the Med. What did you think?)
n) I need
a drink
o) I’m
hungry
p) I’m
bored
q) Can I
have some money?
You get
the picture. The effort of suppressing my murderous emotions became a daily
battle. On one occasion, I had to go for a long walk, during which time I
marched around like a demented marionette and actually had a panic attack with
the enormity of the task of holding it all in. By day four, Steve was
apologising.
Through
clenched teeth, I was saying things such as, “Do NOT, under any circumstances,
ask me to do this EVER AGAIN!”
Lovely Gozo
One day,
it was agreed that Sabrina could have 10 euros to spend. However, she asked if
we could keep it for her until she returned home and get £10 sterling instead.
Okay, I could go for that (watch this space). I remember so clearly the day I
finally cracked. We had been sitting outside a hotel on the waterfront having a
drink.
Sabrina
said, “I’m still thirsty, can I have another?”
I had
gone inside to check out the rooms and to take an opportunity for some solitary
hyperventilation. I was determined that Steve and I would return alone to relax
and have a holiday which did not involve being pecked to death 24/7. When I
emerged, Steve informed me that Sabrina had asked where I went, so he had
explained to her that we might return for another holiday.
Her
response had been, “Yeah, bring me.”
That was
it! I could feel all the pent up, bikini-buying, week-of complaining rage
coming up like a volcano. And it all come out.
“WHAAAT?!
Bring you with us? Bring you with us?? Are you serious?? I am never, NEVER
bringing you on holiday again as long as I live and breathe! You’ve done
nothing but complain the whole time; nothing suits you.”
I suspect
my eyes were bulging at that point and I think I spat out at least once.
Anyway, I was certainly not done yet. I continued ranting and raving about
teenagers in general, my lack of finances following the trip and on and on and
on. When I was done, there was a small silence, after which Sabrina responded
with a nonchalant shrug.
“Yeah,
well, I only asked,” Sabrina continued, “I’m bored on my own. Next time, let me
bring a mate with me and it’ll be better.”
Oh. My.
God. Had she really just asked me to let her bring along another teenager? That
provoked a fresh outburst.
I
spluttered, “Bring a mate? Bring a mate??” (I seemed to need to say a lot of
things twice). “Why on EARTH would I do that? It’s bad enough with one
teenager, never mind two of you! Oh yeah, let me bring TWO teenagers on
holiday, then I can really have a nervous breakdown!”
Steve sat
quietly through it all with that bemused, “I wonder why this is happening” look
men get.
Me on a far away bit of rock hyperventilating!
The
reality of it all was that it had, in the main, passed him totally by. However,
by the last evening of our holiday, Steve too snapped after a particularly
tricky evening during which he had, against his better judgement, allowed
Sabrina to have a cocktail (bad idea). Steve had bundled his daughter back to
the flat with the accompanying warning:
“And I
don’t want to hear another peep out of you all night, do you understand?”
I patted
his arm in silent sympathy as Steve lay rigidly in bed staring at the ceiling,
quietly hyperventilating (it really did help).
Despite me looking like a cross between Bet Lynch and the Michelin man, I had to include this absolute classic of a photo - see how happy the teenager was? Ha ha, sorry Sabrina, I couldn't resist
Somehow,
we got through the journey home, albeit with lots more feeding and watering
along the way. We eventually got to the moment of dropping Sabrina off. As she
got out of the car, she turned to me and cleared her throat. Ah, I thought,
she’s going to apologise for her behaviour or, at least, say thank you for the
holiday.
But
Sabrina looked at me. Just as cool as you like, she said:
“You owe me a tenner.”
My
nervous breakdown was complete.
Ahh but we all played nice in the end
Gozo Is the Grass Greener is available
from Amazon;
I have also written two other books to
date
Known to Social Services and its
sequel, Caught in Traffick. Both available via Amazon
Visit my website; www.freyabarrington.com
Freya
