I finally have done that! I have made my debut as a charter tourist. It was awkward and embarrassing. But, unlike much else, Granca is just like in the movies.
The Nordic climate refugees sitting under the (almost) African sun and enjoying meatballs in brown sauce, and local supermarkets sell VG and Nora sauerkraut. Most of all I felt like an undercover spy. After all, I’m not like that. I’ve been out and about before. I don’t need Tui to help me find the right bus. I know how to behave in a restaurant.
The British have one better terminology for that: They clearly distinguish between “travel” and “holiday”. When you travel, you go on a round-the-world trip, or backpacking in Southeast Asia, or you climb Kilimanjaro. It is on travel that you challenge yourself, find yourself, and get the diarrhea of your life. Now we are definitely on vacation, with no self-realization in sight.
It is in mainly three categories of people who travel on package tours to the Canary Islands. Our only commonality is that we think everyone else is hopeless. One group is families with small children like us, who do their best to save golden moments between howls and screams. Everything about us is practical. Our lives are studies in logistics. We are the ones who arrive at an abundant buffet and ask for macaroni without sauce.
Then you have the pensioners. They have been to Las Palmas before, so to speak, and know where the akevit stands inside the duty-free. They ooze Jean Paul Gaultier and confidence – they can do this.
The last one (and smallest) group, are those who are single and ready to mingle. Women are overrepresented in it, so it is clear that José and Miguel are the targets of the business. I’m crossing my fingers that it didn’t hit too hard when they discovered that it’s a long way from Gran Canaria to the Paradise Hotel. Although flatworms and venereal diseases are the same. Here we are talking about those who have the energy to style their hair before a seven-hour flight departing before eight in the morning. The outfits are chosen with care. To a certain extent, it is also my travel outfit, but with the aim of having the highest possible number of zipped pockets.
So we are on the way. “Welcome aboard on one of the greenest flights in Europe” (Bailey’s consumption en route is not included). Already on the plane down we got memories for a lifetime. Like when a fellow passenger declared that “I WANT A CUP OF TEA”, and then stared at the flight attendant as if she were a pervert – or at least rather thick-skinned – when she served the tea. She meant of course that she wanted another cup. With coffee.
Not surprising feels the useless that the flight is green. Traveling to Granca is in many ways like traveling back to the 90s. A place where laser pens are still a thing and people wear tattoo jewelry. We haven’t started sorting rubbish yet. People smoke cigarettes and enjoy themselves. We dance the Macarena.
On arrival will be we attached wristbands with the hotel’s logo on them. Just like being a patient in a psychiatric institution. “Just like being at a festival,” we tell ourselves.
Now we can finally start the week where I constantly feel like Halle Berry where she gracefully splashes up on the beach in that Bond movie you know. In reality, I look like exactly what I am: a winter-pale Scandinavian flanked by an inflatable shark. But the Canary Islands are the place where illusions are allowed to live and flourish. You certainly look good in a bikini! Come on, it’s not your children who make the most noise. No, you don’t drink too much.
It is just one rule in the South: It is not allowed to be bored. At the slightest hint that you’re about to immerse yourself in a book or bask in the sun, they’re there – the activators. Pretty Spaniards with boom blasters who want to take you to volleyball, water aerobics, sing-alongs, whatever. No one can say that it wasn’t “fun activities for the whole of the familia”.
So are what I was most nervous about beforehand: All-inclusive. But the fear turned out to be unfounded. Actually, the concept is brilliant: You avoid the armageddon atmosphere that comes with when Norwegians pay 16 euros per person to be admitted to a buffet, also known as the competitive sport where the ultimate goal is to never need to eat again.
I was also afraid we’d be the only sober adults for a mile, but all-inclusive proved to have the opposite effect. People calm down when access is unlimited. Possibly because the competitive element disappears. Or because the included red wine tastes like a mixture of household juice and nail polish remover. Or we didn’t notice because we went to bed before nine every single night.
So why was what we just went here, really? The Swedish dad in the sunbed next door at least got his say on it:
“I don’t like to travel.”
Then you want to go to Granca.
