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Happy Little Goth Girl and other stories from Spain
Two weeks ago yesterday I was launched over 1000 miles in a hollow metal tube with wings, filled with screaming babies, incontinent old people and air hostesses with more foundation than a row of houses. The flight was a gracious four and a half hours late and those of you who have been to Leeds Bradford airport will know that apart from sitting, staring into space or wandering aimlessly through WHSmiths there is very little to do to pass the time. Nevertheless I arrived at Palma airport about 3am and by some great fall of chance managed to make it to baggage collection without having to have a search party sent out after me. The airport is absolutely vast and reminded me off old-fashioned cartoons where the characters are running down a hallway and pass the same things again and again. The same is very true of Palma as on the way to the baggage claim you pass the same moving walkways, toilets, and vending machines again and again and again. It was like chronic De-ja vu. The bus home, manned by Manuel, pulled up outside the hotel at around 5am and I just about managed to traverse the hallways and lifts before collapsing onto my crappy cheap, but for the most part rather comfortable, sofa bed.
The reps meeting the next morning was filled with tired hilarity as the motor mouth Brummie didn’t pause for breath for 3 whole minutes as she tried to sell her crappy day trips that got the My Travel seal of approval. Shortly after this a transvestite, or so I was led to believe due to the looks of her moustache, tried to sell my Dad a holiday home. He managed to decline without making fun of his/her/its beard. We chose a few day trips to book including a ‘castaway’ cruise and the “incredible, beautiful caves of Drac” (both of which I will cover more later).
The weather is something I cannot be critical of, it remained hot and sunny for 13 of the 14 days we were there, and the day when it wasn’t nice and hot held a much welcomed thunderstorm. Now you must understand this isn’t a half-assed English thunderstorm, oh no. It was a full on continental thunderstorm with thunder that shook the buildings and lightning that set fire to skydivers and torrents of rain so intense they flooded the first floor balconies. I managed to get what I believe looks something similar to a tan, which is quite a revelation for me as being fair haired/skinned I usually just burn and have to bathe in aftersun. So yes, the weather was faultless.
The hotel complex itself was pretty funktastic; it has two pools, two pool tables, a volleyball thing, table tennis tables, an on-site supermarket and some other stuff. They had an entertainment program for children, presumably so parents could dump their children and go around drunkenly gallivanting – however in the daytime they also had activities for everyone, and I played water polo for the first time ever. To be honest, it is a kingly sport – and the Spanish version (No rules, just play – si?) is something I immediately adored. The hotel, for the first week I was there, was populated almost entirely by German people – which made it rather hard to talk to anyone as foreign languages are far from my forte. I did however meet some happy shiny Danish girls who were Guru-esque at card tricks.
The beach at Majorca is nice-ish, though they charge you for laying down on a sunbed, which I feel is slightly unjust – though the beach itself is beautiful with golden sands and clear waters. There is, however, just one disparaging sight – topless grandmothers. I cannot fault a nice topless milf, but when you get to sixty nobody is going to see whether you’ve got tanlines or not – so cover up. Hell I even thing they should ban the fat old crows from wearing bikinis – they should be forced to wear a nice sensible cardigan, beige trousers and comfortable shoes to hide their unsightly rolls which they flaunt – presumably to show how many bake-sales they’ve been to.
There are a few water parks in Majorca, the best being the Western Water Park (a wild west themed Disney-style park) and the cheapest being the Hidropark (Yes, spelt wrongly) Guess which you my cheapskate family when to… twice? You got it, cheap central. I was, at first, a bit peeved that we couldn’t go to the western thingy, but the Hidropark was actually good, in a tacky sort of way. The slides hurt your back when you went down them, the lifeguards weren’t sober and the wave pool was power by an angry otter – but qualms aside it was a fun day out, meaning we returned to the park a few days later. It was a nice day and chose to walk, and unluckily for me I happened to be wearing perhaps the most uncomfortable crappy plastic Reebok sandals that ever came out of a Sudanese sweatshop. It was walking to the water park the second time that I first saw her, Happy Goth Girl ®. She was about ten years old and with her family, who were dressed in the usual bright t-shirts and shorts. She, however, had opted for white face paint with black tears drawn under her eye, a black slipknot t-shirt with one of those netty things over them, baggy black trousers, wrist brands with metal spikes on them, and black shoes. I don’t know if it was the fact she looked two young to fall into the goth-style sort of thing, or the fact it was 39 degrees – but somehow she stood out.
Once I had got to the Hidropark a small hole had formed on the inside of my left foot due to the sandals rubbing, but I thought it would heal with the water and fresh air. I was quite wrong, it instead got infected and meant I had to hobble for a few days. It leaked yellow puss for a few days but now it seems to have dried up, though not before I opened the fridge door and jammed the corner into it a few days before we left.
The day trips were something we spent a few days doing – the first of which was a “castaway” cruise, which conjured up images of relaxing on a sun bed whilst slowly trawling the sea on a beautiful boat. We had, the year before, visited Turkey and been on a cruise which was truly breathtaking and just about everything we imagined it would be, with crystal clear waters and picturesque scenery – though the Spanish obviously see paridise different. The Castaway cruise was the equivalent of catching the bus to the shops, only we went via water. The same uncomfortable seats, disgruntled driver and lack of things to keep you occupied really made the visit comparable to British public transport.
Luckily for the Spanish tourist board I shall not be writing harsh reviews, as some of the other trips were very good. The motormouth rep went on and on about the ‘Caves of Drac’, so we chose to go – and they were very nice- if a little build up. They charged 30 euros per person for an hour trip around the caves, in which they crammed 300 people in. They opened at 10 on a morning and closed at 8 on a night, which meant they made 90,000 euros a day – disgusting!
The final trip I went on was a “hidden treasures” tour, which let you see the non-touristy stuff. We were led by a tourist guide who REALLY looked like Eugene Levy (Jim’s dad from American Pie) We visited some old town, went on a decent cruise around part of the island, went to the Michael Douglass foundation (apparently he’s big on Majorca and set up a museum because he likes it so much) where we learnt about the rather colourful history of the resort. We also went on a rustic railway to a tiny port called Val De Moassa for lunch. It was nice and quaint with a little harbour, tiny shops selling cockleshells and groceries – oh and a Burger King plonked unsightly right in the middle of the place. It was in the quiet town of Val De Moassa that I saw her again – happy goth girl, now with a nose piercing, eating an ice cream and giggling – something wasn’t right.
Apart from the cut foot, it was a pleasant getaway. I brought some booze back for my house party next week and met some decent people in the second week. On our last night we went to a pub for a meal, and as we were leaving to go back to the hotel she was walking towards us. Happy goth girl looked up and smiled at me, before skipping happily into the sunset. A perfect end to a demi-perfect holiday me thinks.
Two weeks ago yesterday I was launched over 1000 miles in a hollow metal tube with wings, filled with screaming babies, incontinent old people and air hostesses with more foundation than a row of houses. The flight was a gracious four and a half hours late and those of you who have been to Leeds Bradford airport will know that apart from sitting, staring into space or wandering aimlessly through WHSmiths there is very little to do to pass the time. Nevertheless I arrived at Palma airport about 3am and by some great fall of chance managed to make it to baggage collection without having to have a search party sent out after me. The airport is absolutely vast and reminded me off old-fashioned cartoons where the characters are running down a hallway and pass the same things again and again. The same is very true of Palma as on the way to the baggage claim you pass the same moving walkways, toilets, and vending machines again and again and again. It was like chronic De-ja vu. The bus home, manned by Manuel, pulled up outside the hotel at around 5am and I just about managed to traverse the hallways and lifts before collapsing onto my crappy cheap, but for the most part rather comfortable, sofa bed.
The reps meeting the next morning was filled with tired hilarity as the motor mouth Brummie didn’t pause for breath for 3 whole minutes as she tried to sell her crappy day trips that got the My Travel seal of approval. Shortly after this a transvestite, or so I was led to believe due to the looks of her moustache, tried to sell my Dad a holiday home. He managed to decline without making fun of his/her/its beard. We chose a few day trips to book including a ‘castaway’ cruise and the “incredible, beautiful caves of Drac” (both of which I will cover more later).
The weather is something I cannot be critical of, it remained hot and sunny for 13 of the 14 days we were there, and the day when it wasn’t nice and hot held a much welcomed thunderstorm. Now you must understand this isn’t a half-assed English thunderstorm, oh no. It was a full on continental thunderstorm with thunder that shook the buildings and lightning that set fire to skydivers and torrents of rain so intense they flooded the first floor balconies. I managed to get what I believe looks something similar to a tan, which is quite a revelation for me as being fair haired/skinned I usually just burn and have to bathe in aftersun. So yes, the weather was faultless.
The hotel complex itself was pretty funktastic; it has two pools, two pool tables, a volleyball thing, table tennis tables, an on-site supermarket and some other stuff. They had an entertainment program for children, presumably so parents could dump their children and go around drunkenly gallivanting – however in the daytime they also had activities for everyone, and I played water polo for the first time ever. To be honest, it is a kingly sport – and the Spanish version (No rules, just play – si?) is something I immediately adored. The hotel, for the first week I was there, was populated almost entirely by German people – which made it rather hard to talk to anyone as foreign languages are far from my forte. I did however meet some happy shiny Danish girls who were Guru-esque at card tricks.
The beach at Majorca is nice-ish, though they charge you for laying down on a sunbed, which I feel is slightly unjust – though the beach itself is beautiful with golden sands and clear waters. There is, however, just one disparaging sight – topless grandmothers. I cannot fault a nice topless milf, but when you get to sixty nobody is going to see whether you’ve got tanlines or not – so cover up. Hell I even thing they should ban the fat old crows from wearing bikinis – they should be forced to wear a nice sensible cardigan, beige trousers and comfortable shoes to hide their unsightly rolls which they flaunt – presumably to show how many bake-sales they’ve been to.
There are a few water parks in Majorca, the best being the Western Water Park (a wild west themed Disney-style park) and the cheapest being the Hidropark (Yes, spelt wrongly) Guess which you my cheapskate family when to… twice? You got it, cheap central. I was, at first, a bit peeved that we couldn’t go to the western thingy, but the Hidropark was actually good, in a tacky sort of way. The slides hurt your back when you went down them, the lifeguards weren’t sober and the wave pool was power by an angry otter – but qualms aside it was a fun day out, meaning we returned to the park a few days later. It was a nice day and chose to walk, and unluckily for me I happened to be wearing perhaps the most uncomfortable crappy plastic Reebok sandals that ever came out of a Sudanese sweatshop. It was walking to the water park the second time that I first saw her, Happy Goth Girl ®. She was about ten years old and with her family, who were dressed in the usual bright t-shirts and shorts. She, however, had opted for white face paint with black tears drawn under her eye, a black slipknot t-shirt with one of those netty things over them, baggy black trousers, wrist brands with metal spikes on them, and black shoes. I don’t know if it was the fact she looked two young to fall into the goth-style sort of thing, or the fact it was 39 degrees – but somehow she stood out.
Once I had got to the Hidropark a small hole had formed on the inside of my left foot due to the sandals rubbing, but I thought it would heal with the water and fresh air. I was quite wrong, it instead got infected and meant I had to hobble for a few days. It leaked yellow puss for a few days but now it seems to have dried up, though not before I opened the fridge door and jammed the corner into it a few days before we left.
The day trips were something we spent a few days doing – the first of which was a “castaway” cruise, which conjured up images of relaxing on a sun bed whilst slowly trawling the sea on a beautiful boat. We had, the year before, visited Turkey and been on a cruise which was truly breathtaking and just about everything we imagined it would be, with crystal clear waters and picturesque scenery – though the Spanish obviously see paridise different. The Castaway cruise was the equivalent of catching the bus to the shops, only we went via water. The same uncomfortable seats, disgruntled driver and lack of things to keep you occupied really made the visit comparable to British public transport.
Luckily for the Spanish tourist board I shall not be writing harsh reviews, as some of the other trips were very good. The motormouth rep went on and on about the ‘Caves of Drac’, so we chose to go – and they were very nice- if a little build up. They charged 30 euros per person for an hour trip around the caves, in which they crammed 300 people in. They opened at 10 on a morning and closed at 8 on a night, which meant they made 90,000 euros a day – disgusting!
The final trip I went on was a “hidden treasures” tour, which let you see the non-touristy stuff. We were led by a tourist guide who REALLY looked like Eugene Levy (Jim’s dad from American Pie) We visited some old town, went on a decent cruise around part of the island, went to the Michael Douglass foundation (apparently he’s big on Majorca and set up a museum because he likes it so much) where we learnt about the rather colourful history of the resort. We also went on a rustic railway to a tiny port called Val De Moassa for lunch. It was nice and quaint with a little harbour, tiny shops selling cockleshells and groceries – oh and a Burger King plonked unsightly right in the middle of the place. It was in the quiet town of Val De Moassa that I saw her again – happy goth girl, now with a nose piercing, eating an ice cream and giggling – something wasn’t right.
Apart from the cut foot, it was a pleasant getaway. I brought some booze back for my house party next week and met some decent people in the second week. On our last night we went to a pub for a meal, and as we were leaving to go back to the hotel she was walking towards us. Happy goth girl looked up and smiled at me, before skipping happily into the sunset. A perfect end to a demi-perfect holiday me thinks.
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The Ghost wrote:
> I cannot stand GOTHS, reason being because they worship the devil and
> that they look dead.
Oh please.. everyone is different. As for them worshipping the devil..each to their own. However there are more goths nowadays. And i dont think they worship Satan :S
> I cannot stand GOTHS, reason being because they worship the devil and
> that they look dead.
Oh please.. everyone is different. As for them worshipping the devil..each to their own. However there are more goths nowadays. And i dont think they worship Satan :S
The Ghost wrote:
> I cannot stand GOTHS
That would hurt my feelings if i wasn't emotionally dead;P
> I cannot stand GOTHS
That would hurt my feelings if i wasn't emotionally dead;P
I'm a goth.
Oh that reminds me, I have to go and sacrifice my sister, cut myself a little before I sit and cry for an hour.
Stop generalising people, it's biggotry.
Oh that reminds me, I have to go and sacrifice my sister, cut myself a little before I sit and cry for an hour.
Stop generalising people, it's biggotry.
I cannot stand GOTHS, reason being because they worship the devil and that they look dead.
Turkey isn't a nice place to live though.
It's too hot, it smells and it's disease-ridden
Like my matress.
It's too hot, it smells and it's disease-ridden
Like my matress.
You can buy houses in Turkey for £80,000.
And they're like palaces. Made of marble.
Wow.
And they're like palaces. Made of marble.
Wow.
Theres quite a few mountains there, I saw the "biggest mountain in the WHOLE of Majorca" though - but I can't remembers it's name. It didnt impress me a whole lot.
Hi Paradox:, did you see the mountain?
Hmmm... Europe ain't so fun.
It's all like... Old and stuff. Only the UK is good, and plentiful good it is.
"Word."
It's all like... Old and stuff. Only the UK is good, and plentiful good it is.
"Word."
Cool, sounds like a good trip to me, after you sounded less than enthusiastic prior to it.
Welcome back, man.
Welcome back, man.
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