While the saying goes that travel broadens the mind, a holiday in Tenerife might not meet the criteria. However, irrespective of this, we prepared ourselves with numerous sets of underwear and socks, packed haphazardly into our luggage, ready to break free from the somber weather of Ireland and desire to get a breather.
Our intention wasn’t to expand our knowledge or experiences.
The children were ecstatic and were marking down the days and weeks in anticipation of this trip for months. Yet, I felt overwhelmed with the task of packing and also the realization that my daughter would not accompany us this time. My concern wasn’t her merely leaving me to manage the boys, but rather the fear of the potential fatal plane crash while we were not all together. It’s not like I wanted her to perish with us, but the fact she had no access to the mortgage protection insurance details, which were safely stored in my head, and in a situation of unplanned aircraft-related tragedy, she would have a tough time finding all necessary information.
Stripping all sentiments of drama, I composed a text to her from the runway, providing all the details I could recall and the latest whereabouts of my will. I didn’t forget to affirm my love for her and also messaged my parents, requesting them to keep an eye on her should I meet my untimely end.
“Jennifer, stop with this silliness”, my mother responded with a hint of annoyance.
A surprised reaction from my daughter, “Hahaha, you can’t possibly be serious”, showed how lightly she took the message.
Without any errands left, I made myself comfortable for a flight slightly longer than four hours to learn about Kerry GAA, as offered by the man seated next to me.
The smallest lad, perched on his seat in the row ahead of me, mustered the courage to steal a glance outside the window a short while after our flight had ascended. “We’re up amongst the clouds now. They’ll cradle us if we plummet,” he reassured his elder brother sitting next to him. And I made a mental note to learn swimming once I returned to Ireland, as a contingency plan in case the airoplane I was aboard ever crashed into the ocean.
And so it happened, packed with midyear determinations, we grounded safely in Tenerife, poised for the cultural and holiday encounters that lay ahead. The characteristic of vacations with children is that it’s largely scripted chaos in a foreign setting. It’s the same old Euros in an unfamiliar place, provided the timing is suitable, but with a language barrier to interpret what the commentators on TV elaborate. Nonetheless, we could decipher what the numerous English spectators, who had swarmed Tenerife, conversed about. Something about homecoming.
One of the greatest perks of being a child is the inherent fearlessness to approach or swim straight towards unfamiliar people and forge friendships. And so, they primarily indulged in just that. Sport is an excellent icebreaker. A humble child naively described to a little boy from Leeds and another from Aberdeen, his newfound acquaintances in the swimming pool, about a save he had made during his own football practice that rivalled Turkey goalkeeper Mert Gunok’s save against Austria. And hence, novel vacation friendships bloomed.
It almost held true for the grown-ups too. The games supervisor scheduled a water polo match (which closely mirrored water rugby) with all who showed readiness to join in. When your family somewhat resembles a hired audience, gathering a crowd is a piece of cake. And thus, the incredible Hogans faced off against a band of young English gents and, to their credit, they only managed to defeat the team that was majorly children and a middle-aged woman. “One nil, Brexit,” one strapping lad charmingly whooped, as he whizzed by the eight-year-old.
But hey, I bear no resentment whatsoever.
Truth be told, it was pleasing to behold them triumphant in something this summer.
Evenings were usually characterised by spirited rounds of card games, until one child began to question the gender inequality in the card game 21s. Finding himself losing due to my King trumping his Queen, he was puzzled at my acceptance of the ranking. Consequently, we transitioned to a less contentious game – charades.
Then came the delight of dining out – the lack of preparation and clearing up being a large part of the appeal. Entertainment often took the form of Elvis impersonators. A younger child brimming with enthusiasm whispered in my ear, “The person singing this song is rather famous, isn’t he?” Unbeknownst to him, it’s rather uncommon for The King to have a Birmingham accent.
As we settled down for our concluding meal of the holidays, I was approached with the question I had already answered 99 times before, “Are all these boys yours?” The man continued to comment on the number of boys, minus the typical sympathetic tilt of the head I am accustomed to.
“I am a father to three boys and two girls. Though, I would have preferred five sons,” he admitted, much to my surprise.
Suddenly, a round of charades didn’t seem like a bad idea.