CHAPTER FOUR
Animals!
About a ten minute walk from the hotel there was a parrot park or mini-zoo. On a Friday morning I walked groups down along the sea front and into the park. This was very interesting for the guests but after three weeks became very boring for me.
There were two emus, however, that I did find fascinating, Rod and Hull. The three us loved each other. After the guests paid their entrance I would take them straight away to meet my feathered friends. Introductions complete, I then walked across the road to await everybody in a local hostelry. On one particular occasion, whilst drinking my customary coffee and brandy, my Brits all came to join me on the patio. As we strolled back along the promenade I became aware that we were quickly gathering an audience. Unusual, as most people had become accustomed to the crocodile-file Brits on their guided walks. Turning around, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Rod and Hull had escaped their cage and were walking pleasantly in a line behind my group, heads held high.
Animals played a large part in the guest’s days at the hotel. Although there were signs displayed all around the outside of the building instructing not to feed the dogs, this never deterred anyone. Strays were somewhat of a pest around the town. Brits are known to have a soft heart for animals so it
wasn’t very surprising that, before long packs would convene on the patio awaiting their daily rations. This wasn’t too bad while they were quiet, but when nightfall came the same people with the tidbits were the complainers awoken by the barking.
Two of the dogs soon became the favorites. Patch, you can imagine why, was a small mongrel who would adopt one couple at a time as his surrogate mum and dad. He would stand sentry duty when they were inside and escort them on their walks playing the dutiful bodyguard. The strange thing about Patch was that he always seemed to know when his parents were going home and would arrive at the hotel, barking furiously just as they were getting on the coach. As soon as they left he would sit and wait for the next group of arrivals and the process would start over. What we did notice was that the surrogates always looked similar so the theory was put forward that they must resemble his original masters. He was really awaiting their return.
Hoppy was mine, or rather I was his. He ruled the pack and no other dog could come near me when he was around. A three-legged Alsatian, he wasn’t put off when I conducted my walks. Seeming to know all the routes, he would turn up at some point, and ride shotgun guaranteeing us safe passage through the wilderness.
By the end of my second month in resort all the dogs had shiny leather collars, the only way to ensure that the catcher didn’t reach his target, and another role had been added to my job description, that of dog doctor. The animals had their own standing account at the vets set up by the guests and this would be added to on each departure day. We even had people use a large amount of their hard earned savings in taking the animals back to the UK.
Staying on the subject of animals, I’m sure that Garth, wherever he is today, will still be thinking of Bluebeard the parrot. He loved that bird.
Every Tuesday it was Garth’s job to hijack the noddy train. You know the type, every Spanish resort has one. We would take it over and shuttle one hundred Brits along the seafront yelling “Choo, Choo” at every possible opportunity. At the end of the line we then fed them mountains of fresh sardines and copious amounts of rough red wine. Even the mildest mouse became a tiger on those mornings.
Garth’s pride and joy at the beach bar was Bluebeard, a green and blue African parrot who someone, we never did find out, had taught to tell the punch lines of dirty jokes. Just when you thought he’d finished he’d yell out, “Oggy! Oggy! Oggy!” It wasn’t long before he had us all responding, just as loud, “Oi! Oi! Oi!”
He used to let you tickle him under the chin, at the same time lowering his head, until it was level with his perch. Garth used to love showing off this party piece until one morning it all went wrong. Trick accomplished, Bluebeard didn’t get up again. Garth went into spasms of horror trying to work out how he’d explain this to the owner who wasn’t exactly a small man. The parrot was dead! Well, the sardines and wine
became a wake as we all watched the limp body clutching to the perch. As the silenced crawled on, we looked at our watches, working out how to pay the bill and leave without anyone noticing. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Someone must have cracked, but no, it was Bluebird, stood upright and laughing loudly as he paced around his cage. That parrot had a sense of humor.
Earlier on I mentioned that the local bar owners made us feel very welcome. Of course, we used to recommend establishments and we were given the odd meal or drink in return. We all had our own favorites.
Mine was a jazz bar run by a beautiful English lady, rather strange for this part of Spain. She made us feel at home but we could never understand why her husband was always away on business. One evening I was to find out.
Harold was a rather large framed man who, if he said it was Friday on a Monday, you wouldn’t argue the point. He was friendly enough and always bought a beer. But there was that certain thing we couldn’t just put our finger on. Sharon was always a different person when he was around, not the happy go lucky cockney that we loved. She would stay behind the bar and just greet our entrance with a curt “Good Evening.” Harold seemed to be always accompanied by very large guys with bent noses. He watched Sharon as she worked, from a stool placed at the bar from where he could always see the door. There was a curtain behind him, which I later learned, led to a quick exit from the building.
One evening, in the hotel bar, I got into conversation with a guy. As a rep, you will talk to anyone and then look for the get out if things get too boring or heavy. He was not one of mine so the usual excuses were made,
but, before I left, he asked me where a good bar was to go in town. As Harold had asked me to send people down, and as a means of escape, I gave
him the address, didn’t think anymore of it, and went off to prepare for my own night out.
About three hours later I was walking past the jazz club when Sharon popped her head out of the door. Apparently she’d been waiting, hoping I would appear. She looked nervous as she spoke. “You’d better go in, He wants to see you. He’s in the back room!”
As I walked through I noticed the guy from the hotel at the bar passing the time with one of the locals. Not bothering to order a drink I swept aside the curtain and entered “the inner sanctum.” Glancing across Harold was sat on the other side drinking his usual gin and tonic. There was no smile, no welcome. Next to him stood a man mountain who appeared larger by the second. Something was definitely wrong. “You have ten minutes to get HIM out of here!” He left me in no way wondering whom he meant as I did an about turn and made friends once more with the guy from the hotel. A quick beer was all it took to persuade the now quite drunk guest that maybe the disco would be a more interesting place. “There’re lots of girls there!”
As we left the bar Sharon winked and whispered, “Come back later, love, I’ll explain.” A couple of hours and a few beers further on she smiled and said, “He was from the Met!” Harold was back to his normal smiling self and the incident was never mentioned again.
I’ve already mentioned that repping is a way of life. It’s also very incestuous. In that, I mean that reps almost always tend to mingle and socialize amongst themselves. The danger with this, of course, is that there is a tendency to become very insular, the “us and them” syndrome, guests and reps. It’s a cop out to stay within one’s peer group. They know the problems. They understand. It’s so easy to go out, get drunk, and just say, “I’ve had a bad day!” Everyone understands. On nights out the conversation always revolved around work. Mixing with other Companies became competitive as the alcohol took effect and this was then forgotten as members of the opposite sex were noticed. Next morning, usually a day off, we all met to compare hangovers, eat greasy breakfasts with the standard phrase “Never again!”
It didn’t take me long to get bored with this. I could, basically, have the same at home. Later, it was much more fun to go out and make a fool of myself with the locals, practicing the language and ordering the wrong dishes off a menu. It felt good when colleagues enquired what I was up to and, sometimes, I invited them along. I also realized that true friends are few and far between. Closeness does happen but that fades away as people move
resorts and countries. Contacts are kept but most fade away when other interests appear on the scene giving reps a fickle reputation in relationships.
Part of our briefing during training was not to make any statements to the Press under any circumstances. Any communiqués were to be made through a specialist office in the UK. We were always very wary, especially when any guest declared himself or herself to be members of the Third State. Any problem that could not be sorted out quickly was often met with a threat to contact a well-known consumer programme on TV. There was one guest who, when asked if he was enjoying himself, retorted, “Brilliant, but I’m going to complain!” He explained that out of twenty-nine brilliant holidays twenty-eight complaints had given him money back and part financed the next adventure. Little did he know that we then made our report.
Dating programmes on TV are big business and very popular. We had our share or these and claimed our fifteen minutes of fame.
One series, which usually specialized in young people, decided to film a “Special”, involving pensioners as the stars. Well, we had our brief. “Make the TV crew welcome and assist them in every way possible preparing for the arrival of the VIP Romantics!”
The Director showed us a film of the programme broadcast in the UK. The couple appeared witty and got on well together. They were a media match. It became my role to greet them at the airport and escort their limo back to Almunicar. All smiles for the cameras, things changed on route. Within ten minutes after leaving the car park they were at it, hammer and tongs. The cameras stopped; there was total silence as they sipped their champagne. The car was a “stretch” and our “loving couple” made sure that they were seated at separate ends. I was caught in the middle like some sort of marriage counselor. A minute of silence is a long time in conversation. Imagine an hour and a half, on what became the road to hell. All changed on the hotel forecourt. Cameras rolling, our couple stepped out of the car, ideal lovers as they checked in and went to their separate rooms.
They were never together, apart from filming. The romantic dinner, the moonlit beach walk, the “Choo, Choo” Sardine Train. All was lover’s paradise. Even Bluebeard had his fifteen minutes. For the rest, Doris was always surrounded by budding Lotharios and, as for Hugh, well he just went fishing. Since then, whenever I watch one of these shows, I don’t believe a word. It’s just for the ratings. TV magic. Were they real people or simply actors? We never did find out.
We had another media visitor. A well-known newspaper TV critic was assigned to us for a week for a Christmas travel special. “What were the senior citizens really like on holiday?” He arrived at Malaga, jeans and t-shirt clad with a young photographer who had a penchant for tea, a total non-alcoholic. Dave was a different story. Never without a whisky in his
hand, he adopted the policy of “get drunk and get to know the guests.” He became known, very quickly by the bar staff, as the “cigarette man” as the ashtray was never allowed to be changed. The empty packets were his memory note pads. Ian, his film man, carried him up to bed four out of the seven nights that he was with us. Saying this, his copy, when we received it, could only be described as sheer brilliance and very funny. He must have had an amazing memory, despite the scotch, or the extra case full of empty cigarette packets had definitely done the job.
Christmas was definitely different in Spain. For a start, they never really celebrate December 25th. For them, the big day is January 6th. All the children await the Three Kings and open their presents on Epiphany morning.
Christmas caused Julia, David, Garth and myself concern, not least the festive pudding. Our Company mailed puddings to every hotel in the world where they had guests, a little piece of home. Previously this had caused problems. No chef outside of Britain, apparently, knows how to cook this specialty. In Cyprus it was served with gravy and two veg and the Tunisians served a plate of plum pudding with various olives. This resulted in the four of us giving the chef a crash course in Brit gastronomy.
As things turned out Christmas day was a great success. Everyone wore their customary silly hat and sat down to a lunch that resulted in a mix of Spanish and British tradition. The chef did a great job with the pudding but we all accepted failure gracefully where the brandy sauce was concerned. The only hiccup was a summons to the Managers office half way through the meal. He had budgeted half a bottle of wine per person. We had two hundred and fifty guests at the tables. At the time of the call they had consumed five hundred bottles between them.
“What the hell!” Luis shrugged, “It’s Christmas! Fancy a cognac?”
The festivities came and went. People went home and new ones arrived. The year went on and day moved into day. The same questions were thrown at us as we learnt to answer them as if we’d never heard them before. We could cope with anything! Then the Americans arrived!
The power of the Press is amazing. The article from our Scottish friend had been mailed to a friend in the States and someone had deemed it a good idea to organize a trip across the Atlantic for a group of fifty Pennsylvanians. No worries, you might be thinking. Well! Americans are completely different from us Brits. We were in for a wide awakening. I had always thought of Americans as a totally different breed. That view would be confirmed over the next month. I had never met such a demanding group of people before. All things in the States are bigger and better and I added a new role to my job description, Babysitter.
Mrs. Winkle wanted to be told how to do everything. She would never start her day without her timetable. All things might be bigger and better but these people had no spirit of adventure, no initiative. They would not even go into town without a guide to take care of them. Convinced that they had come to a third world we all became mother and father to the group. My usual “start to the holiday” resort walk took four hours as individuals wandered away marked only with their “I’m Bill from Pennsylvania” badges. We used to have a “phrase of the week” board in the hotel reception. This was an amusing focal point, which anyone could add to. This rapidly changed to a ‘Quote of the Year Competition” as, whilst on an
excursion, Phyllis from Sashtucket enquired, “Why are all the Spanish towns named after American places?”
I must admit, I am over exaggerating just a tad. Amongst the group there were those who came across as being normal. We also had our fair share of eccentrics.
Gladys was lovely. Eight five years old, she originally came from Canada but had married a GI during the war. Widowed now, she was the quiet one of the group and would just wile away her days sitting on the terrace or strolling along the promenade.
One of the excursions was a typical Spanish night when we would take them into the hills for the customary paella and sangria. The last five hundred metres to the restaurant were inaccessible by coach so we had arranged donkey carts and mules to carry people the rest of the way. We thought it might be a bit of a novelty, especially for the Americans. On one particular evening a good time had been had by all. Never before in the history of sangria had such a quantity been consumed. As we were all preparing to leave and go down the hill Gladys swayed out of the door. She’d obviously had an enjoyable time. Walking up to one of the mules, she then persuaded an elderly Spaniard, who supposedly thought his luck was in,
to give her a leg up on to the animals back. This accomplished, she took hold of the mane, blowing her Romeo a kiss, and whacked the mule hard on its hindquarters. A sight to behold. “Yahoo!” Gladys roared and took off downhill at a rate of knots followed feebly by her Spaniard, in pursuit of his
mule.
With exhilaration she explained later, “I haven’t done that in years. Not since I rode the ’33 Calgary Stampede.”
I enjoyed having the Americans in the hotel. It gave a more international feel to my activities. I could have Inter-Continental Games, my own mini Olympics. Up to now I have given the impression that we were the only nationality in residence. That’s not true. There was a Belgian tour operator as well as the passing Spanish trade. That gave an interesting slant to the hotel entertainment. Officially I was only there for my own guests but it wasn’t long before it became obvious that this wasn’t feasible. They all wanted to join in. Company policy dictated that some items had to be exclusive but, in the main, it was a “free for all”. It helped with the “mix and mingle” as well. It wasn’t long before Country would sit with Country and conversations were multi-lingual with phrase books to the fore. To say that our guests were varied would be somewhat of an understatement. They certainly came from all walks of life. Over the years I have looked after every job description from road sweeper to merchant banker, brain surgeon to librarian. The holiday can certainly be classless as people mingle in strange environments. There was always a common denominator once the ice was broken. Maybe it’s because the guests were all retired from working life and didn’t need to compete or keep up with the Joneses. It made my life easier. Keeping them entertained, though, was a different matter.
Let me explain. Obviously, people have different senses of humour. To satisfy this is made harder when taking note that different nationalities have to be accommodated. There even exists a language gap between US English and UK English.
To give an example of this, I was introducing, one evening, a game contestant from across the ocean. In the “warm up” chat I asked her a question.
“What time do you like to be knocked up in the mornings Sylvia?”
A simple question, I thought, enquiring when her alarm call was each day. She glared at me and stormed off the stage.
“My sex life is nothing to do with you, young man!”
The Brits thought it was hilarious whilst the Spanish and Belgians simply looked on in puzzlement. Next morning I was summoned into Pancho’s office. Sylvia had made an official complaint. Later that day humble pie was eaten in the form of a huge box of chocolates. Sylvia accepted smilingly but she never appeared again to see any of my shows.
I did learn from this debacle. Afterwards, I only chose contestants for my games from those who took part in events during the day. I had time to learn their personalities, senses of humour, and gained an idea of how far I
could go without giving offence. I knew whom to use effectively, those who would join in the fun and make the entertainment for the rest, that were only happy to take part as an audience from a safe distance.
Certain guests in the hotel were regular visitors to the resort. “Doctor Daisy”, as the staff had nicknamed her, was one of those. A retired surgeon, she arrived every year, with her husband, on the same day, booked the same room and stayed for three months. When we first met I considered them to be a lovely couple, very refined, but it didn’t take me long to discover their eccentricities.
I soon realized that they were a typical “know it all” couple as they quite often used to stand at our information desk and issue suggestions and helpful tips. They weren’t always, however, correct and it was mostly Garth, David and myself who got the blame.
During one of the welcome meetings Garth was in mid spiel, giving pictorial descriptions of his excursions. On introducing the Jeep Safari, in my opinion the best fun filled trip ever devised, a loud cough was heard from the back of the room. This was then accompanied by an even louder,
“Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!”
All Garth could do was recognize the interruption as all heads turned.
“Can I help you?” He asked Dr Daisy.
“Haven’t you heard? They’re very dangerous, my Dear. Six people were killed in Turkey on one of those!”
Keeping his calm my colleague replied with a quiet, “Oh really and when was that?”
“Twenty five years ago, you must remember. It was terrible!”
Still not flummoxed, Garth replied, “How old do you think I am, Doctor?” and continued, “Does anyone know any Titanic stories before I tell you about the Boat Trip?”
My run in with the now infamous Doctor, whose husband I later learned was Edwin, happened about two weeks later.
Most evenings, after dinner, they would make an entrance into the bar and place themselves on the same high stools from where they had an excellent view of the entertainment. The seats should have had reserved signs on them, as they would get very annoyed if they were already taken. After the meeting Daisy had decided not to talk to Garth again and, not too good for me, that I was her golden boy.
The couples’ tipple was extremely large G&T’s and a quick drink never lasted less than four hours. On the night in question, after I had finished the “Mr. and Mrs. Show”, I was summoned to the bar.
“You were brilliant, Darling! Edwin and I loved the Show! Join us for a drink.” I had the feeling that to refuse would bring me greater wrath
and damnation than had been bestowed on Garth, so with trepidation, I accepted.
“We’re having a little cocktail party in our room tomorrow night, Darling!…. Only for Special people!…. You’re invited!…and you can bring your Boyfriend!” This was yelled rather than said as the entire bar staff collapsed in laughter and silence rang around as I dropped my vodka and coke and clinged to the nearest passing waitress. “Have you met my fiancé?” I stuttered.
As a rep I soon realized that no days were the same. Of course, a lot of the questions repeated themselves as guests came and went. There was always the routine paperwork that no one thinks we have to do. But we were always surprised on a daily basis. The Quote Board never lacked for suggestions.
The only time I met up with a question that might have been hard to answer was on a particular arrival day. As I stood on the “Meet and Greet” line, a seemingly aged happy couple walked out of Arrivals. Beaming with that now accomplished “Welcome to Spain” smile, I directed them towards the coach. As his wife tottered off, the husband was not so fast. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he whispered quietly, “Do you know the phone number of a private detective? I think my wife’s having an affair.” She was eighty-six. The astonishing thing is I knew the answer. Only that morning I had noticed an advertisement in the local British newspaper as I was awaiting their flight.
Airport duty was a part of the description that most of us did not look forward to. Flight delays were always a threat and it was with relief that we boarded our resort coaches on time. Company policy dictated that we must always help our guests with their luggage onto the check-in belt. There was
always the threat of physical injury, and hernias loomed as we lifted those cases. One morning a lady requested assistance and, lifting the case, my back almost cracked. With tongue between teeth, I hissed, “What the heck have you got in here?” Innocently she replied, “Not a lot. I’ve been collecting rocks for my grandson.” On another occasion a sweet couple decided they liked the Spanish bananas. “So much sweeter than back at home.” Imagine what was in the case!
I know that when I go away I like to travel light, just a few t shirts and shorts and maybe something smart but casual for the restaurant. Our guests, most of them staying for a month or more, arrived at Malaga with wardrobes fit for a movie star. It wasn’t unusual for them never to be seen in the same thing twice.
On the other hand, though, Alex and June arrived carrying only what they were wearing and a very small backpack apiece. They were always seen in a combination of the same things for twenty-eight days. They did buy a lot of washing powder though.
Alex and June can only be described as being something else. A lovely couple, but if you wanted to talk sensibly to them, it had to be done before eleven o’clock.
The hotel bar opened in the mornings at 8am. Usually the only customers at that time were locals calling in for their wake up “expresso”. Life for Manuel, the barman, changed dramatically with the arrival of Alex and June. From their first morning onwards they would be sat at the bar by 07.30, chain smoking their newly discovered Spanish cheroots and eagerly awaiting the first gin and tonic. Even before switching the coffee machine on Manuel’s first task was to change the ashtray. I presume that they did eat but, in a whole month, I never once saw them in the restaurant.
This actually leads on to one of my more perturbing medical cases. To explain, on my day off I tried never to go around the hotel. A guest, for something not important, would always collar me and a day became half a day.
I don’t know why but on that particular morning I’d decided to take a coffee in the bar whilst deciding what to do. Anyway, the place was empty. No locals, no Alex and June. Just as I was about to order there was a roar, “Thank God, I’ve found you!” Turning around, Alex was stood there in a
total state of dementia. “I can’t wake her, I think she’s dead!”
Grabbing a receptionist on the way, I raced up to the room to find June unconscious on a stained and soaked bed. The ambulance arrived quickly taking June and a sobbing Alex to the local clinic, as I promised that one of the team would be with them very quickly.
Several minutes of enquiries informed me that all of my colleagues were out of the hotel, so feeling resigned to missing my day off I taxied down to the Centro Salud.
“They won’t let me in son, she must have gone!” quietly muttered Alex as he met me on the steps. Trying to calm him down I explained that this was normal procedure in Spain, and that until a diagnosis was made no one could see the patient.
Entering the building I was immediately summoned to see the doctor. Now I knew that it serious.
“It’s too advanced for us to deal with here. We’ve stabilized her but she has to go to the main hospital for further treatment.”
So it wasn’t long before Alex and myself were speeding along, siren blaring, on the 40-minute journey to watch June trolleyed in and attached to
a multitude of monitors and drips. I don’t mind admitting that I was scared watching her unconscious form as the doors closed on the observation room.
Alex and myself shared two packets of cigarettes that afternoon. Strictly taboo Company wise, to smoke in uniform, but I didn’t care. Alex was mostly silent with an occasional “She’s a good girl. We’ve had 40 years together.” All I could manage was “Don’t give up hope yet” and light him another cigarette.
After what seemed like a week, but was really only six hours, June walked, smiling as though nothing had happened, out of the treatment room. “They’ve released me. Can we go home please?”
On the way back to the hotel June handed me an envelope. Inside was her diagnosis and recommendations. June explained that when she had woken up there was a wasp in the room. She had tried to kill it but was stung. Immediately taking an anti-histamine, this had reacted with the alcohol in her bloodstream causing her to go unconscious. In the letter the emergency doctor not only recommended but also ordered her not to drink any more alcohol. “It nearly killed her.” He wrote. I translated this but to no avail. Arriving back at the hotel, Alex and June thanked me profusely and then proceeded to the bar to celebrate her safe return. In addition, on their
departure day, they left a 5000-peseta note for me in reception, wrapped around a bottle of gin.
Sunday, 9 March 2008
Friday, 8 February 2008
CHAPTER THREE All Kinds of People!
CHAPTER THREE
All Kinds of People!
Some people pass through your life and you never even notice them. There are others who make such an impact you wouldn’t want to forget them. Every way of life has its characters and I certainly met my fair share in the ten months I spent in Almunicar.
Mrs. Facetty was ninety-five years old but she didn’t look a day over sixty. She was the original party animal. Always, laughing and joking. If there were music playing she would be dancing. But with her we made one mistake. During the welcome meeting David made a very brave announcement. With great pride, he informed all the guests that if they had a problem we could sort it out. Not too serious you’re probably thinking, but not always practical and, definitely, not always possible. Mrs Facetty became our first supreme example of this.
She told everyone that she was a Russian princess and that she had once been a trapeze artiste in the State Russian Circus. If that was the case she should have definitely have had a head for heights. Mrs. F’s problem was that she didn’t like her room. It was too high and she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Not really a problem, just go to reception and get her a change. This I did personally. I even showed her the new room. “Darrlling, it’s beautiful. Thank you so verrry much!” She always spoke with that Russian lilt that no one could tell whether it was fake or not. Another job well done, I congratulated myself as I walked down the corridor.
That was day two of her month’s stay. Next morning I was sitting at the Rep’s Desk when up she waltzed again. “I don’t like my room! It’s too near the lift!! Too noisy!! Bad for my migrrraine!” “OK, Mrs. F, Let’s go and see what we can do.” Ten minutes later I’m showing her and asking, “How’s this one?” “Perfecto, Darrling! You’rre an angel!” Another happy customer. Two days later, just as I was thinking all was well with the world she’s back again.
“I DON’T LIKE MY ROOM!! It’s too far from the lift!! I can’t walk that far!!” Yet again, a very resigned looking manager just handed me a key and gave me that the look that only a Spaniard can give. Yet again I got that Russian accent of thanks and a reassurance that she was happy. You might think that was the end of it but you’d be wrong. A week later I was summoned to a very angry Manager’s office where I encountered what can only be described as a volcano about to erupt. “Get HER out of my hotel!!!” He roared almost popping at the temples. It didn’t really take much intelligence to work out whom he meant. Yes, you’ve guessed it, Mrs. F.
I stood there hoping he would calm down. Senor Gomes was not the best of communicators when he was upset. They don’t have a phrase book for a mix of Catalan, English and anger. Eventually we compromised. Mrs. F could stay but I had to tell her. NO MORE ROOM CHANGES! That was going to be easier said than done. But, at least, she could stay. How would I have explained to an ex-Russian trapeze artiste that she was out on the street?
So that was Mrs. Facetty. I didn’t see her for the rest of her stay, not until that is, her departure day. As she was checking in at the airport I summoned up the courage to approach her. “Where have you been Mrs. F? I haven’t seen you around.” She just looked at me and smiled. At least I think it was a smile. “I’VE BEEN AVOIDING YOU!”
The hotel was on a part of Spanish coastline known as Costa Tropical. Turn right at Malaga airport and keep on going for an hour. The scenery was amazing and only two hours drive away lay the beautiful City of Grenada. The Alhambra Palace is one of the wonders of the world and the majority of guests had this as a “must to visit.” This is fine if you’re walking fit but the problem was we had quite a few guests in wheelchairs. This meant that we had to put a ban on anyone who wasn’t capable of coping with the cobbles and steps at the Palace. This didn’t put them off.
I didn’t realize how devious older people could be sometimes. Garth usually guided the excursions. He would arrive at the hotel some mornings to meet the coach and, there before him, stood a line of wheelchairs. All waiting for their dreamed of day at the Alhambra. How can you tell someone they can’t go when it has been their dream of a lifetime?
The Alhambra Palace caused problems for me as well. Sometimes, if we had more than one coach, I would guide the second. This I loved as it gave me the chance to show off the local knowledge I had learnt in such a short time.
Anyway on this particular occasion I was in charge of a group of forty-five pensioners from a social club in Liverpool. We had already had
problems when they had complained that the local flea market didn’t speak English. “The hotel show’s not as good as the Las Vegas one’s we see on the TV, is it Billy?”
Well, on the way to Granada they insisted on a beer stop. OK, but it took me an hour to get them back on the bus. Once at the Palace everyone is told to stay together, follow the umbrella and only stop for photos when the official guide stops. The place is always packed so stragglers are easily lost. Even with this, most people are amazed at the immensity and sheer beauty of the place. Not my Liverpudlians. On arriving at the exit gate we found we were exactly forty-five short. I went back in to search but to no avail. It was an hour and a half later that we came across them, sitting at a pavement bar sipping San Miguel’s. “We thought we’d wait for you here.” was all I got.
Anyone who has visited Granada will know that the Generalife Gardens are next to the Palace. I thought I had heard it all when one of my Scousers commented, “Who wants to visit a garden owned by the General Life Insurance Company.”
Working as a rep is not all smiles and happy times, especially when the guests are all 60’s plus. Throughout my career as a rep I have come across and had to deal with many unpleasant situations. However, no prior training could ever have prepared me for my first season. Everyone goes on holiday to have a good time and forget his or her troubles. Unfortunately that is not always the case. They tell you on induction to expect anything and never to get too involved. After a few years “on the job” that may be sometimes possible, depending on the situation, but as a “green” rep, that is certainly not the case. One can get very close to the guests in a short time, and, if something happens to them, it is almost impossible not to take it close to the heart.
On my first Christmas Eve overseas at about 9pm I was standing at the hotel reception. The desk was at the bottom of a nine-storey atrium with stairs that twisted to the top floor. Christmas music was playing over the tannoy and I was having a joke with Paco, the Duty Manager. Suddenly there was a loud, long scream, which would have been at home in any
Alfred Hitchcock movie. Paco and I flew up the stairs to encounter a lady totally in hysterics. “My husband!” she sobbed and pointed to her room. The sight that met my eyes will always be with me. The poor man had had a heart attack and was already changing colour. During the training course we are taught resuscitation but you never imagine that you would have to use it. Anyway, we tried it, but to no avail. We could not help. It was too late. I have never been any good at consoling or commiserating so I could have kissed that other guest who appeared in the room and volunteered to take over the situation with the gentlemen’s wife.
You can imagine how I felt, with it being Christmas Eve, having to conduct a carol concert an hour later for the rest of the guests knowing that, upstairs, was a woman who would never ever forget that night for as long as she lived, and that later I would have to make the re-patriation arrangements. I went through this, in total, eight times in my ten-month season.
Part of the daily routine was the clinic visit. No one spoke English so Garth and I used to take turns to play “attendant and translator.” Falls, scrapes and the occasional placebo. Actually, this became a major part of the role as Garth and I quickly realized that we weren’t just reps but surrogate family. This was what made being a “rep” very rewarding and, for me, well, I realized I didn’t want to do anything else.
Mildred was amazing. She came to stay with us for six weeks. She knew how to enjoy herself. Any man that was single was a target. She was a definite man-catcher. Or so we thought! Every time we saw her she was having coffee or drinking cocktails with a different man. She would have put any partying teenager to shame. That all stopped. Two weeks into her holiday a gentlemen arrived who she proudly introduced as her husband. Well, what could we say? By this time we had we accepted everything as it happened. We never doubted. As it happened he was her husband.
Alfred was his name. In reality he was a Chelsea Pensioner. Now CP’s can only live at the Barracks if they are widowed or single. Mildred was from Blackpool; Alfred was, originally, from Swindon. They had met on holiday in Wales. Now, if a Chelsea Pensioner gets married they are not allowed to stay on at the Barracks. Mildred still had her own house up North and Alfred was happy living where he was. So they had made the decision to maintain the status quo, just meeting up for holidays, when their pensions allowed, thus keeping their marriage a secret. Alfred was very quiet and sedate. He was happy sitting with a beer and his newspaper, whilst Mildred wanted to be the life and soul of the party. For the two weeks that Alfred was with us his wife played the dutiful role, always sat by side, and laughed at his jokes. A different story once he’d gone back to Swindon. She was on the prowl again. Somehow though, we always took her behavior as “tongue in cheek.” She was one of our characters.
There was one guest, George, who always used to wear ladies’ stockings. Nobody used to mention this. He was always immaculately dressed although above his polished shoes we never missed the stockings. He spoke the Queen’s English and was always elegant, no matter what the time of day. He would arrive at the hotel bar at exactly 12.05 everyday and order his usual gin and tonic. There are some people in this world that can only be described as “having presence.” George had it. He never spoke much about his past but everyone knew that it had been something special. He would stand up when a lady approached his table, would be the first to open a door and would always change sides half way when crossing a road with a female companion. George was a “fish” that any elderly widow would wish to land and, during his month with us, many tried but with no success. Many of the guests often liked to talk about their past lives, George
never did, which was probably what made him so interesting, along with his elegance and the ladies stockings.
There was one night when he did open up though. I had decided to take a stroll along the Promenade to get some fresh air after dinner. I had only been out a few minutes when a familiar voice called out. “Come and have a drink, Old Boy!” George was seated alone at a pavement café and
looking a little bit tipsy. “Today’s my anniversary. It would have been forty five years.” After a brief silence he continued, “She should have been here with me but she was taken last month. I had to come. She would have wanted me too.” That evening turned out to be one of my most interesting nights in Spain. I didn’t really say much, just drank beer and listened to George as he told me about his life. It wasn’t a man just talking but a storyteller unraveling a tale. He had been the first in his village to join up for the War, choosing the Tank Regiment. However, by the time he arrived in the desert he had worked out that the life expectancy of a tank commander was not very long, so he volunteered for the Intelligence Corps or Secret Service, which he considered to be a much safer option. Apparently he spoke three languages like a native and spent most of the rest of the war behind enemy lines. His wife, he explained to me that night, was a beautiful francaise who he had met whilst working with the Résistance. Eventually after a few beers I plucked up the courage. I had to ask. It was my only chance. “Why the stockings?” With a smile he explained. “We used to go out on missions at night. It was so very cold lying for hours waiting in ambush so Claudette used to lend me an old pair of her silk stockings to keep my legs warm and help the circulation. I wear them as a sweet memory of her but now, if anyone asks, I just explain that they are surgical and for medical reasons.” “Anyway,” he added, “amongst these old fuddy daddies, who cares!”
I left the café that night feeling a better person after listening to George’s story. He made me promise, though, to tell no one. For me, this latter day James Bond’s secret was in a safe place.
Airports are fascinating places. People, however, seem to change their personality when they arrive at the check-in lounge. Someone who is usually a mild, unassuming person can suddenly change into an outrageous warlord if his or her flight is delayed. Over the years I have had chicken dinners thrown at me, beer shampoos and my parenthood thrown into question. If a plane is late, the rep automatically becomes the managing director of the airline. At first I used to get very upset with peoples’ reactions to delays, but experience eventually told me not to take anything personally.
“I’ll never travel with your Company again!” Sure enough, next year, “Good to see you again Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Remember me?”
Some British people, when they travel can be very funny. They seem to think that if they speak very loudly and very slowly then every nationality will understand them. If I had a pound for each time I was approached with the question “Do you speak English?” I would be a rich man. Sometimes we would look at the person in a blank way and reply, just as loud, “Non!” or “Que?”
Airport announcements can be very garbled at the best of times but I will never forget one particular day. We needed to contact a guest about some luggage so decided that the best way would be over the tannoy system. I phoned the Information Desk and requested that they put out a call out for a Mr. Hassall to report to our check-in area. Can you imagine our consternation when the following was heard at a very loud volume throughout the airport?
“Will Mr. Arsehole, Mr. Arsehole, please report to the check-in area?” Three thousand travelers collapsed in tears of laughter and, needless to say, no one would own up to being “Mr. Arsehole.”
As you’ve probably gathered the guests all came from a wide variety of backgrounds. That can also be said for the reps. My colleagues were just as diverse.
Garth should have been pharmacist. You only had to look in his
bathroom to see that he had major shares in a chemist’s shop. Even when working, his rep’s bag contained enough deodorants, gel and aftershave to keep him going for a week. His real name was Simon but he didn’t think that that was macho enough so he called himself Garth. We were forever having our photos taken with departing guests, and each time this happened, off would come the bottle bottom glasses that he desperately needed. Actually he was a great guy and he very soon became my link with sanity as we used to sneak out to the local Spanish bars that we knew the guests wouldn’t dare frequent. In town we were still somewhat of a novelty but everyone easily accepted us as the “crazy Brits” who mixed in.
Julia was a lovely lady. Once a radiographer, she was twenty-two stone. When she arrived in resort we considered ourselves the “old timers.” David, Garth and I had already been there for three weeks. We didn’t need anyone else. It was our territory. Thinking about it now, it’s funny how quickly you forget that you’re new. We had set up the resort, made the
contacts, and didn’t want anyone to come in and usurp our patch. That all changed one night after Julia arrived. All she said was, “Ok, guys who’s buying me a beer?” By the end of that night, when we had gone round for
round, Julia had agreed to do all the admin, arrange the airport transfer lists, and look after everything financial. She was going to do everything we hated to do, and besides, she could drink like a trooper. In fact, as we quickly realized, it wasn’t long before Julia had us well and truly organized. So there we were with our team for the season.
My main task, apart from the resort walks was entertainment host. The main objective was to keep the guests busy. Historical walks, country rambles, treasure hunts. I had never walked so much in my life. When I ran out of routes to take them I just did them again in reverse.
Quizzes, bingo, French bowls. There’re only so my activities you can do to keep their interest. The problem was that we had two hundred and fifty arrivals spread over three days a week. The majority of those stayed for a month. That’s a lot of quiz questions to keep them different. I actually soon began to realize how competitive these older guests can be. Sometimes, just to boost their interest, I used to organize male versus female competitions. This didn’t last very long as it caused what can only be described as a real
battle of the sexes. Remember the Liverpudlian social club? When I tried it with them it nearly ended in world war three and I can only compare it to two teams of football fans who hated each other.
A lot of the guests, albeit in their 70’s plus, fall in love. Romance was a regular occurrence. A well repeated phrase in the repping world is “walking the road of shame.” Basically, it means getting spotted going home after a night of passion in someone else’s room. Believe it or not, but this used to happen regularly amongst our group. If it was a first time occurrence it usually occupied an embarrassed smile. On a regular basis it was a wink and a grin. There was Arthur who became the king of the walk. He was eighty-four and didn’t care who knew. He used to write an addition to the “Do Not Disturb” sign. “We’re making babies!”
Apart from the standard flamenco shows and hotel entertainers, every Wednesday night there was the reps show. This was a night when each holiday company had to provide one of their crew to help put on a show. Garth, David and Julia coerced me. One night when we were all having a few beers I somewhat volunteered myself. It was one of those occasions when you wake up the next morning and wonder what you’ve agreed to. It turned out to be good fun.
Singing was never my forte but the end result was miming to different songs and generally making a fool of myself dancing around. Nervous cannot describe how I felt but the audience made everything fine.
It was rather tacky at first but, as the weeks went on, we all became rather professional and the applause seemed to encourage us.
My highlight of the season happened after a night of three quick changes. I had mimed and danced to “Singing in the Rain”, had everyone standing waving their hands in the air with “New York, New York” and performed a difficult duet with the French rep of “Anything you can do, I can do better!” A couple approached me and asked, “How do you change your voice to sound like the originals? We think you’re brilliant!” My three
colleagues saw the reaction I was having on the guests and furthermore wanted to be part of the show.
It was at this point that I knew that I didn’t have a job. I had a way of life. Previously all I was interested in was making money and feathering my nest. Here I began to notice that I was having an effect on people. The four of us were helping people to enjoy themselves. For me personally, that was reward in itself. Ok, the money was there but it wasn’t the be all and end all. We lived in a five star hotel all-inclusive food wise and were appreciated by the guests. They were demanding though. Even at mealtimes we were never
off duty. We soon became accustomed to the phrase “I know you’re not working, but can I just ask you a question?” With a smile, we always responded, “No problem. How can I help you?” I don’t think I ever had a non-interrupted meal in the ten months that that I spent in Almunicar.
All Kinds of People!
Some people pass through your life and you never even notice them. There are others who make such an impact you wouldn’t want to forget them. Every way of life has its characters and I certainly met my fair share in the ten months I spent in Almunicar.
Mrs. Facetty was ninety-five years old but she didn’t look a day over sixty. She was the original party animal. Always, laughing and joking. If there were music playing she would be dancing. But with her we made one mistake. During the welcome meeting David made a very brave announcement. With great pride, he informed all the guests that if they had a problem we could sort it out. Not too serious you’re probably thinking, but not always practical and, definitely, not always possible. Mrs Facetty became our first supreme example of this.
She told everyone that she was a Russian princess and that she had once been a trapeze artiste in the State Russian Circus. If that was the case she should have definitely have had a head for heights. Mrs. F’s problem was that she didn’t like her room. It was too high and she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Not really a problem, just go to reception and get her a change. This I did personally. I even showed her the new room. “Darrlling, it’s beautiful. Thank you so verrry much!” She always spoke with that Russian lilt that no one could tell whether it was fake or not. Another job well done, I congratulated myself as I walked down the corridor.
That was day two of her month’s stay. Next morning I was sitting at the Rep’s Desk when up she waltzed again. “I don’t like my room! It’s too near the lift!! Too noisy!! Bad for my migrrraine!” “OK, Mrs. F, Let’s go and see what we can do.” Ten minutes later I’m showing her and asking, “How’s this one?” “Perfecto, Darrling! You’rre an angel!” Another happy customer. Two days later, just as I was thinking all was well with the world she’s back again.
“I DON’T LIKE MY ROOM!! It’s too far from the lift!! I can’t walk that far!!” Yet again, a very resigned looking manager just handed me a key and gave me that the look that only a Spaniard can give. Yet again I got that Russian accent of thanks and a reassurance that she was happy. You might think that was the end of it but you’d be wrong. A week later I was summoned to a very angry Manager’s office where I encountered what can only be described as a volcano about to erupt. “Get HER out of my hotel!!!” He roared almost popping at the temples. It didn’t really take much intelligence to work out whom he meant. Yes, you’ve guessed it, Mrs. F.
I stood there hoping he would calm down. Senor Gomes was not the best of communicators when he was upset. They don’t have a phrase book for a mix of Catalan, English and anger. Eventually we compromised. Mrs. F could stay but I had to tell her. NO MORE ROOM CHANGES! That was going to be easier said than done. But, at least, she could stay. How would I have explained to an ex-Russian trapeze artiste that she was out on the street?
So that was Mrs. Facetty. I didn’t see her for the rest of her stay, not until that is, her departure day. As she was checking in at the airport I summoned up the courage to approach her. “Where have you been Mrs. F? I haven’t seen you around.” She just looked at me and smiled. At least I think it was a smile. “I’VE BEEN AVOIDING YOU!”
The hotel was on a part of Spanish coastline known as Costa Tropical. Turn right at Malaga airport and keep on going for an hour. The scenery was amazing and only two hours drive away lay the beautiful City of Grenada. The Alhambra Palace is one of the wonders of the world and the majority of guests had this as a “must to visit.” This is fine if you’re walking fit but the problem was we had quite a few guests in wheelchairs. This meant that we had to put a ban on anyone who wasn’t capable of coping with the cobbles and steps at the Palace. This didn’t put them off.
I didn’t realize how devious older people could be sometimes. Garth usually guided the excursions. He would arrive at the hotel some mornings to meet the coach and, there before him, stood a line of wheelchairs. All waiting for their dreamed of day at the Alhambra. How can you tell someone they can’t go when it has been their dream of a lifetime?
The Alhambra Palace caused problems for me as well. Sometimes, if we had more than one coach, I would guide the second. This I loved as it gave me the chance to show off the local knowledge I had learnt in such a short time.
Anyway on this particular occasion I was in charge of a group of forty-five pensioners from a social club in Liverpool. We had already had
problems when they had complained that the local flea market didn’t speak English. “The hotel show’s not as good as the Las Vegas one’s we see on the TV, is it Billy?”
Well, on the way to Granada they insisted on a beer stop. OK, but it took me an hour to get them back on the bus. Once at the Palace everyone is told to stay together, follow the umbrella and only stop for photos when the official guide stops. The place is always packed so stragglers are easily lost. Even with this, most people are amazed at the immensity and sheer beauty of the place. Not my Liverpudlians. On arriving at the exit gate we found we were exactly forty-five short. I went back in to search but to no avail. It was an hour and a half later that we came across them, sitting at a pavement bar sipping San Miguel’s. “We thought we’d wait for you here.” was all I got.
Anyone who has visited Granada will know that the Generalife Gardens are next to the Palace. I thought I had heard it all when one of my Scousers commented, “Who wants to visit a garden owned by the General Life Insurance Company.”
Working as a rep is not all smiles and happy times, especially when the guests are all 60’s plus. Throughout my career as a rep I have come across and had to deal with many unpleasant situations. However, no prior training could ever have prepared me for my first season. Everyone goes on holiday to have a good time and forget his or her troubles. Unfortunately that is not always the case. They tell you on induction to expect anything and never to get too involved. After a few years “on the job” that may be sometimes possible, depending on the situation, but as a “green” rep, that is certainly not the case. One can get very close to the guests in a short time, and, if something happens to them, it is almost impossible not to take it close to the heart.
On my first Christmas Eve overseas at about 9pm I was standing at the hotel reception. The desk was at the bottom of a nine-storey atrium with stairs that twisted to the top floor. Christmas music was playing over the tannoy and I was having a joke with Paco, the Duty Manager. Suddenly there was a loud, long scream, which would have been at home in any
Alfred Hitchcock movie. Paco and I flew up the stairs to encounter a lady totally in hysterics. “My husband!” she sobbed and pointed to her room. The sight that met my eyes will always be with me. The poor man had had a heart attack and was already changing colour. During the training course we are taught resuscitation but you never imagine that you would have to use it. Anyway, we tried it, but to no avail. We could not help. It was too late. I have never been any good at consoling or commiserating so I could have kissed that other guest who appeared in the room and volunteered to take over the situation with the gentlemen’s wife.
You can imagine how I felt, with it being Christmas Eve, having to conduct a carol concert an hour later for the rest of the guests knowing that, upstairs, was a woman who would never ever forget that night for as long as she lived, and that later I would have to make the re-patriation arrangements. I went through this, in total, eight times in my ten-month season.
Part of the daily routine was the clinic visit. No one spoke English so Garth and I used to take turns to play “attendant and translator.” Falls, scrapes and the occasional placebo. Actually, this became a major part of the role as Garth and I quickly realized that we weren’t just reps but surrogate family. This was what made being a “rep” very rewarding and, for me, well, I realized I didn’t want to do anything else.
Mildred was amazing. She came to stay with us for six weeks. She knew how to enjoy herself. Any man that was single was a target. She was a definite man-catcher. Or so we thought! Every time we saw her she was having coffee or drinking cocktails with a different man. She would have put any partying teenager to shame. That all stopped. Two weeks into her holiday a gentlemen arrived who she proudly introduced as her husband. Well, what could we say? By this time we had we accepted everything as it happened. We never doubted. As it happened he was her husband.
Alfred was his name. In reality he was a Chelsea Pensioner. Now CP’s can only live at the Barracks if they are widowed or single. Mildred was from Blackpool; Alfred was, originally, from Swindon. They had met on holiday in Wales. Now, if a Chelsea Pensioner gets married they are not allowed to stay on at the Barracks. Mildred still had her own house up North and Alfred was happy living where he was. So they had made the decision to maintain the status quo, just meeting up for holidays, when their pensions allowed, thus keeping their marriage a secret. Alfred was very quiet and sedate. He was happy sitting with a beer and his newspaper, whilst Mildred wanted to be the life and soul of the party. For the two weeks that Alfred was with us his wife played the dutiful role, always sat by side, and laughed at his jokes. A different story once he’d gone back to Swindon. She was on the prowl again. Somehow though, we always took her behavior as “tongue in cheek.” She was one of our characters.
There was one guest, George, who always used to wear ladies’ stockings. Nobody used to mention this. He was always immaculately dressed although above his polished shoes we never missed the stockings. He spoke the Queen’s English and was always elegant, no matter what the time of day. He would arrive at the hotel bar at exactly 12.05 everyday and order his usual gin and tonic. There are some people in this world that can only be described as “having presence.” George had it. He never spoke much about his past but everyone knew that it had been something special. He would stand up when a lady approached his table, would be the first to open a door and would always change sides half way when crossing a road with a female companion. George was a “fish” that any elderly widow would wish to land and, during his month with us, many tried but with no success. Many of the guests often liked to talk about their past lives, George
never did, which was probably what made him so interesting, along with his elegance and the ladies stockings.
There was one night when he did open up though. I had decided to take a stroll along the Promenade to get some fresh air after dinner. I had only been out a few minutes when a familiar voice called out. “Come and have a drink, Old Boy!” George was seated alone at a pavement café and
looking a little bit tipsy. “Today’s my anniversary. It would have been forty five years.” After a brief silence he continued, “She should have been here with me but she was taken last month. I had to come. She would have wanted me too.” That evening turned out to be one of my most interesting nights in Spain. I didn’t really say much, just drank beer and listened to George as he told me about his life. It wasn’t a man just talking but a storyteller unraveling a tale. He had been the first in his village to join up for the War, choosing the Tank Regiment. However, by the time he arrived in the desert he had worked out that the life expectancy of a tank commander was not very long, so he volunteered for the Intelligence Corps or Secret Service, which he considered to be a much safer option. Apparently he spoke three languages like a native and spent most of the rest of the war behind enemy lines. His wife, he explained to me that night, was a beautiful francaise who he had met whilst working with the Résistance. Eventually after a few beers I plucked up the courage. I had to ask. It was my only chance. “Why the stockings?” With a smile he explained. “We used to go out on missions at night. It was so very cold lying for hours waiting in ambush so Claudette used to lend me an old pair of her silk stockings to keep my legs warm and help the circulation. I wear them as a sweet memory of her but now, if anyone asks, I just explain that they are surgical and for medical reasons.” “Anyway,” he added, “amongst these old fuddy daddies, who cares!”
I left the café that night feeling a better person after listening to George’s story. He made me promise, though, to tell no one. For me, this latter day James Bond’s secret was in a safe place.
Airports are fascinating places. People, however, seem to change their personality when they arrive at the check-in lounge. Someone who is usually a mild, unassuming person can suddenly change into an outrageous warlord if his or her flight is delayed. Over the years I have had chicken dinners thrown at me, beer shampoos and my parenthood thrown into question. If a plane is late, the rep automatically becomes the managing director of the airline. At first I used to get very upset with peoples’ reactions to delays, but experience eventually told me not to take anything personally.
“I’ll never travel with your Company again!” Sure enough, next year, “Good to see you again Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Remember me?”
Some British people, when they travel can be very funny. They seem to think that if they speak very loudly and very slowly then every nationality will understand them. If I had a pound for each time I was approached with the question “Do you speak English?” I would be a rich man. Sometimes we would look at the person in a blank way and reply, just as loud, “Non!” or “Que?”
Airport announcements can be very garbled at the best of times but I will never forget one particular day. We needed to contact a guest about some luggage so decided that the best way would be over the tannoy system. I phoned the Information Desk and requested that they put out a call out for a Mr. Hassall to report to our check-in area. Can you imagine our consternation when the following was heard at a very loud volume throughout the airport?
“Will Mr. Arsehole, Mr. Arsehole, please report to the check-in area?” Three thousand travelers collapsed in tears of laughter and, needless to say, no one would own up to being “Mr. Arsehole.”
As you’ve probably gathered the guests all came from a wide variety of backgrounds. That can also be said for the reps. My colleagues were just as diverse.
Garth should have been pharmacist. You only had to look in his
bathroom to see that he had major shares in a chemist’s shop. Even when working, his rep’s bag contained enough deodorants, gel and aftershave to keep him going for a week. His real name was Simon but he didn’t think that that was macho enough so he called himself Garth. We were forever having our photos taken with departing guests, and each time this happened, off would come the bottle bottom glasses that he desperately needed. Actually he was a great guy and he very soon became my link with sanity as we used to sneak out to the local Spanish bars that we knew the guests wouldn’t dare frequent. In town we were still somewhat of a novelty but everyone easily accepted us as the “crazy Brits” who mixed in.
Julia was a lovely lady. Once a radiographer, she was twenty-two stone. When she arrived in resort we considered ourselves the “old timers.” David, Garth and I had already been there for three weeks. We didn’t need anyone else. It was our territory. Thinking about it now, it’s funny how quickly you forget that you’re new. We had set up the resort, made the
contacts, and didn’t want anyone to come in and usurp our patch. That all changed one night after Julia arrived. All she said was, “Ok, guys who’s buying me a beer?” By the end of that night, when we had gone round for
round, Julia had agreed to do all the admin, arrange the airport transfer lists, and look after everything financial. She was going to do everything we hated to do, and besides, she could drink like a trooper. In fact, as we quickly realized, it wasn’t long before Julia had us well and truly organized. So there we were with our team for the season.
My main task, apart from the resort walks was entertainment host. The main objective was to keep the guests busy. Historical walks, country rambles, treasure hunts. I had never walked so much in my life. When I ran out of routes to take them I just did them again in reverse.
Quizzes, bingo, French bowls. There’re only so my activities you can do to keep their interest. The problem was that we had two hundred and fifty arrivals spread over three days a week. The majority of those stayed for a month. That’s a lot of quiz questions to keep them different. I actually soon began to realize how competitive these older guests can be. Sometimes, just to boost their interest, I used to organize male versus female competitions. This didn’t last very long as it caused what can only be described as a real
battle of the sexes. Remember the Liverpudlian social club? When I tried it with them it nearly ended in world war three and I can only compare it to two teams of football fans who hated each other.
A lot of the guests, albeit in their 70’s plus, fall in love. Romance was a regular occurrence. A well repeated phrase in the repping world is “walking the road of shame.” Basically, it means getting spotted going home after a night of passion in someone else’s room. Believe it or not, but this used to happen regularly amongst our group. If it was a first time occurrence it usually occupied an embarrassed smile. On a regular basis it was a wink and a grin. There was Arthur who became the king of the walk. He was eighty-four and didn’t care who knew. He used to write an addition to the “Do Not Disturb” sign. “We’re making babies!”
Apart from the standard flamenco shows and hotel entertainers, every Wednesday night there was the reps show. This was a night when each holiday company had to provide one of their crew to help put on a show. Garth, David and Julia coerced me. One night when we were all having a few beers I somewhat volunteered myself. It was one of those occasions when you wake up the next morning and wonder what you’ve agreed to. It turned out to be good fun.
Singing was never my forte but the end result was miming to different songs and generally making a fool of myself dancing around. Nervous cannot describe how I felt but the audience made everything fine.
It was rather tacky at first but, as the weeks went on, we all became rather professional and the applause seemed to encourage us.
My highlight of the season happened after a night of three quick changes. I had mimed and danced to “Singing in the Rain”, had everyone standing waving their hands in the air with “New York, New York” and performed a difficult duet with the French rep of “Anything you can do, I can do better!” A couple approached me and asked, “How do you change your voice to sound like the originals? We think you’re brilliant!” My three
colleagues saw the reaction I was having on the guests and furthermore wanted to be part of the show.
It was at this point that I knew that I didn’t have a job. I had a way of life. Previously all I was interested in was making money and feathering my nest. Here I began to notice that I was having an effect on people. The four of us were helping people to enjoy themselves. For me personally, that was reward in itself. Ok, the money was there but it wasn’t the be all and end all. We lived in a five star hotel all-inclusive food wise and were appreciated by the guests. They were demanding though. Even at mealtimes we were never
off duty. We soon became accustomed to the phrase “I know you’re not working, but can I just ask you a question?” With a smile, we always responded, “No problem. How can I help you?” I don’t think I ever had a non-interrupted meal in the ten months that that I spent in Almunicar.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
CHAPTER TWO Ooh! Ahh! Cantinaar!
Three weeks later I found myself having undergone two rather grueling interviews, taken a train journey to Durham, and in my first placement as an “Overseas Holiday Representative. “Strange?” you might think. “It might be the North of England, but it certainly isn’t overseas.” Well, this was my training. If I could survive three weeks with changing groups of over-sixties plus, I must be able to do the job. Then would come the real thing, distant lands.
Well, I did survive and, not only that but surpassed. Those three weeks showed me the true value of life. I was a holiday guide for groups of people who had so much experience in all the things good and bad in life. One eighty five year old lady was passionate about Manchester United, “OOH! AHH! CANTINAAR!!!” She would cheer after a few beers, proudly showing off her red and white stripped rinse. “Come on you Reds!!!” My particular favorite was a seventy year old “superstar”, who could hardly walk but when the band played a waltz she was Ginger Rogers with Fred Astaire. These are only two examples of the range of personalities I mixed with in Durham, an older age who knew how to enjoy themselves and whose personalities overflowed. Where did they get the energy? I was the one who went to bed shattered every night. Bingo and line dancing, mystery walks and karaoke, what would I think of for them to do next? As each week came to an end and the groups would go home I would feel sad. I felt as though I was losing a surrogate mother or father.
I had forgotten my agenda but my address book was rapidly filling up. In just three weeks I had learnt so much. Now I didn’t just have a job but a “way of life.” Not a sales target in sight.
Well, that was how it all started. That was my initiation into the world of “repping.” My three weeks over I now must eagerly await the letter, my
placement for the next ten months. “I wonder which part of France it will be.
Spain is such a lovely place but it is not France. You can imagine my consternation when the letter arrived. I discovered that for the next ten months my home was going to be a small seaside resort in Southern Spain. They had employed me because I spoke French and then sent me to a totally different Country. Still, “What the heck! Another new adventure!”
I arrived at Malaga airport at 05.00 feeling somewhat punch drunk and tired. My friends who talk about pigs in the pub had given me a send off to remember and, as I waved through check-in at Manchester, I promised to send endless amounts of postcards and keep in touch regularly. I must admit I felt rather alien walking into arrivals, not knowing whether I would be met or really where I was going. I had studied the library guidebooks but no one seemed to have heard of Almunicar, not in the UK anyway. The airport seemed huge with only what can be described as a lot of Spanish people milling around. “Please let there be a friendly face!”
As I ran the gauntlet of “You want Rentacar” men I finally saw my name held high. It was Garth. He was with me on the training course so; at least, there would be someone I knew. He quickly shuffled me to the nearest coffee shop and, thankfully, did the ordering in what to me seemed very good Spanish.
Explaining that he had been there for three days already, I began to feel slightly relieved as he ran through our programme for the next week.
The journey from airport to resort seemed endless. My first experience of local taxi drivers guaranteed that I stayed awake even though my eyes wanted otherwise. We followed winding coastal roads, Garth giving a running commentary as we passed through the quaint villages. Looking out the taxi window I found myself muttering “One small step for mankind, one giant step…..” How did that phrase go? Did Neil Armstrong really feel like this? It was 8.30 by the time I closed the bedroom door, having agreed to meet Garth and David, he was to be my new boss, at 10.30. As I lay on the bed my mind was in a swirl. I dozed off wondering if I had done the right thing.
Walking into the dining room later that morning I realized how honeymooners must feel as, self-consciously, eyes followed me to my table. Phrase book in hand, I pretended to know what I was doing as I glanced down the breakfast menu, decided to be simple and just took the croissants and coffee. “Gracias.” I had just spoken my first Spanish.” This language isn’t too bad.” All I had to do was meet David.
“The guests don’t arrive for two weeks.” David explained. I don’t know if he had got the wrong impression but he seemed to think I knew what I was doing. “They’ve never had British here before so we have two weeks to get everything ready.” “Here’s your map! Go out and get to know the town! Garth will show you around.”
Well, that was a challenge. Now I was to “boldly go where no Welshman had gone before.” None of the restaurants or bars had English menus. In fact, no one seemed to speak a word of English. Garth and myself were designated the gigantic task of changing everything in the hope that they would be welcoming. Actually we were quite successful. People were very friendly, especially when they saw the extra pesetas to be made. We did see some amazing sights appear on the menus. “Grilled Stack and Friend Egg” made us wonder what exactly they were going to offer our adventurous Brits. One day I ordered a cup of tea with milk and was proudly presented with a glass of hot milk with a teabag floating in it. Maybe this was a Spanish tradition?
By the end of the first week I pretty well knew my way around the town. In deed some of the locals had taken on the role of being our best friends. I realized that I was actually enjoying myself and began to wonder
why I hadn’t thought of this before. I felt a strange buzz out of being amongst the only Brits amidst a field of Real Madrid and Barcelona supporters. Now all we had to do was get two hundred and fifty guests to the hotel in one piece.
Well, the first arrival day went without any hiccups. We didn’t lose any bags, and more important, all of the guests managed to check-in without a hitch. The next big step was the Welcome Get Together. I had done many a sales presentation in the past. But to be confronted by two hundred and fifty over sixties seated in a room was somewhat daunting. Every one of them had their own expectations and they all had to be pleased. They were all seasoned travelers, so would they realize that this was my first time? I took what I thought would be the easy way out. David and Garth would conduct the meeting. I would take them all later, in small groups, on what we decided to call “a resort walk.” At least this way I stood a good chance of getting to know them. Show them around the town, give some information, throw in a few jokes and that should be it. Finishing the walk off in a bar should break the ice. What I hadn’t worked out was that those who weren’t happy would use this opportunity to air their grievances rather than wait to see David and Garth at the end of their meeting. At first I was a bit flummoxed but time and experience soon told me how to handle this. I was a spy working behind the lines, gathering the information, and staying one step ahead. “I will take that on board.” Became the phrase and later my colleagues and myself would sort things out.
Well, I did survive and, not only that but surpassed. Those three weeks showed me the true value of life. I was a holiday guide for groups of people who had so much experience in all the things good and bad in life. One eighty five year old lady was passionate about Manchester United, “OOH! AHH! CANTINAAR!!!” She would cheer after a few beers, proudly showing off her red and white stripped rinse. “Come on you Reds!!!” My particular favorite was a seventy year old “superstar”, who could hardly walk but when the band played a waltz she was Ginger Rogers with Fred Astaire. These are only two examples of the range of personalities I mixed with in Durham, an older age who knew how to enjoy themselves and whose personalities overflowed. Where did they get the energy? I was the one who went to bed shattered every night. Bingo and line dancing, mystery walks and karaoke, what would I think of for them to do next? As each week came to an end and the groups would go home I would feel sad. I felt as though I was losing a surrogate mother or father.
I had forgotten my agenda but my address book was rapidly filling up. In just three weeks I had learnt so much. Now I didn’t just have a job but a “way of life.” Not a sales target in sight.
Well, that was how it all started. That was my initiation into the world of “repping.” My three weeks over I now must eagerly await the letter, my
placement for the next ten months. “I wonder which part of France it will be.
Spain is such a lovely place but it is not France. You can imagine my consternation when the letter arrived. I discovered that for the next ten months my home was going to be a small seaside resort in Southern Spain. They had employed me because I spoke French and then sent me to a totally different Country. Still, “What the heck! Another new adventure!”
I arrived at Malaga airport at 05.00 feeling somewhat punch drunk and tired. My friends who talk about pigs in the pub had given me a send off to remember and, as I waved through check-in at Manchester, I promised to send endless amounts of postcards and keep in touch regularly. I must admit I felt rather alien walking into arrivals, not knowing whether I would be met or really where I was going. I had studied the library guidebooks but no one seemed to have heard of Almunicar, not in the UK anyway. The airport seemed huge with only what can be described as a lot of Spanish people milling around. “Please let there be a friendly face!”
As I ran the gauntlet of “You want Rentacar” men I finally saw my name held high. It was Garth. He was with me on the training course so; at least, there would be someone I knew. He quickly shuffled me to the nearest coffee shop and, thankfully, did the ordering in what to me seemed very good Spanish.
Explaining that he had been there for three days already, I began to feel slightly relieved as he ran through our programme for the next week.
The journey from airport to resort seemed endless. My first experience of local taxi drivers guaranteed that I stayed awake even though my eyes wanted otherwise. We followed winding coastal roads, Garth giving a running commentary as we passed through the quaint villages. Looking out the taxi window I found myself muttering “One small step for mankind, one giant step…..” How did that phrase go? Did Neil Armstrong really feel like this? It was 8.30 by the time I closed the bedroom door, having agreed to meet Garth and David, he was to be my new boss, at 10.30. As I lay on the bed my mind was in a swirl. I dozed off wondering if I had done the right thing.
Walking into the dining room later that morning I realized how honeymooners must feel as, self-consciously, eyes followed me to my table. Phrase book in hand, I pretended to know what I was doing as I glanced down the breakfast menu, decided to be simple and just took the croissants and coffee. “Gracias.” I had just spoken my first Spanish.” This language isn’t too bad.” All I had to do was meet David.
“The guests don’t arrive for two weeks.” David explained. I don’t know if he had got the wrong impression but he seemed to think I knew what I was doing. “They’ve never had British here before so we have two weeks to get everything ready.” “Here’s your map! Go out and get to know the town! Garth will show you around.”
Well, that was a challenge. Now I was to “boldly go where no Welshman had gone before.” None of the restaurants or bars had English menus. In fact, no one seemed to speak a word of English. Garth and myself were designated the gigantic task of changing everything in the hope that they would be welcoming. Actually we were quite successful. People were very friendly, especially when they saw the extra pesetas to be made. We did see some amazing sights appear on the menus. “Grilled Stack and Friend Egg” made us wonder what exactly they were going to offer our adventurous Brits. One day I ordered a cup of tea with milk and was proudly presented with a glass of hot milk with a teabag floating in it. Maybe this was a Spanish tradition?
By the end of the first week I pretty well knew my way around the town. In deed some of the locals had taken on the role of being our best friends. I realized that I was actually enjoying myself and began to wonder
why I hadn’t thought of this before. I felt a strange buzz out of being amongst the only Brits amidst a field of Real Madrid and Barcelona supporters. Now all we had to do was get two hundred and fifty guests to the hotel in one piece.
Well, the first arrival day went without any hiccups. We didn’t lose any bags, and more important, all of the guests managed to check-in without a hitch. The next big step was the Welcome Get Together. I had done many a sales presentation in the past. But to be confronted by two hundred and fifty over sixties seated in a room was somewhat daunting. Every one of them had their own expectations and they all had to be pleased. They were all seasoned travelers, so would they realize that this was my first time? I took what I thought would be the easy way out. David and Garth would conduct the meeting. I would take them all later, in small groups, on what we decided to call “a resort walk.” At least this way I stood a good chance of getting to know them. Show them around the town, give some information, throw in a few jokes and that should be it. Finishing the walk off in a bar should break the ice. What I hadn’t worked out was that those who weren’t happy would use this opportunity to air their grievances rather than wait to see David and Garth at the end of their meeting. At first I was a bit flummoxed but time and experience soon told me how to handle this. I was a spy working behind the lines, gathering the information, and staying one step ahead. “I will take that on board.” Became the phrase and later my colleagues and myself would sort things out.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
CHAPTER ONE : How Things Can Change!
CHAPTER ONE
How Things Can Change!
Most people seem to want to be a “Holiday Rep.” They see the Rep in the hotel for an hour and think he lives “the life of Riley” on the beach and in the bars for the rest of the day. Well I didn’t!
For me, happiness was living in a small sleepy village in North Wales, drinking pints of Welsh Bitter and riding my horse across the hills on a rainy day. I was a successful salesman. My challenge came in meeting my monthly figures in the Monday to Friday world of Sales and Commerce and meeting up with the boys in the local to watch the racing and put the world to rights. We were “experts on everything”.
That was my world for almost fifteen years. I saw no reason for it to change. Another twenty to twenty five years and then I would retire. It would become my turn to sit in the corner and talk about the price of pigs and all things “country.”
Little did I realize that everything would change. Life would never be the same again and, as for pigs and pints, well, they were a never to happen. The axe fell with the fatal words, “Sorry Joe, but we’ve got to let you go!” My future was now insecure.
Redundancy for me was another word for retirement. I didn’t want to admit that another person could pull the strings. My life plan was mine. I was in control. Only I could decide when things could end. That was why I found things rather confusing and could not adjust. Being able to sit in the pub I found was not what I wanted. I had to find something else, where I could command. With my experience, it shouldn’t take me long to become gainfully employed once more. After all, I had lots of talents to offer. I had my plan.
Three months later I’m still gainfully unemployed and collecting my giro. The “Job Club” is the highlight of my week as I have swapped my agenda for job applications. My high power salary has been replaced by 39 pounds 45 pence subsistence. Every newspaper is read from cover to cover with the “Sits Vac” being first priority. I find myself in the company of a completely different circle of people whom, usually, I would never have dreamt of mixing with. The self-confidence I possessed in the fast world of business was beginning to fade. I was now finding it hard to mix with the guys I could once compete with on an equal level. At the same time the whole unemployment thing taught me a lot. Previously I was only interested in material things. Every sales target achieved was a bonus that would buy
another “state of the art” whatever it was. I began to realize that money was not the be all and end all. I began to look at myself differently and enjoy the things that, before, I had not even noticed. Cutting the grass can be fun on a sunny day and a properly cooked meal tastes so much better than a microwave dinner for one. I was making the adjustment and joining a world I never knew existed, and if I did, probably would never have acknowledged.
One of the daily tasks that I set myself was to spend the afternoon at the local library. They had a very nice coffee shop and I found it rather fun to pass the time with a cake and espresso just people watching. When that ran out of time they had a good newspaper section where I could continue my search for gainful employment. The problem I was encountering was that all the advertisements were looking for young, degree holders who had no experience of the commercial world but could equally be trained to do whatever the companies wanted and, for sure, would be paid less money. Now I was beginning to realize that I would have to review my game plan, start from the scratch. A career change was called for, but what would it be? It would not be long before the answer would arrive and, for me, from a most unexpected source.
On one of my visits to the library I happened to pick up a newspaper, which, usually I would not have considered. This paper had a supplement specializing in a different profession daily. Previously, I would only read it when it covered the Sales sector. Strangely, today it seemed to pull me towards the table. As if by magic, I could not resist the urge to pick it up. Immediately, there it was on page four, the advertisement that would change my life.
“Overseas Representative! Must speak Portuguese or Greek!”
“I don’t speak either.” I thought as I glanced down the page. However, the thing that appealed to me was the fact that they weren’t asking for university “haven’t dones.” It was actually my age group that they were looking for. “Anyway I can speak French, so what the hell!” “I’ll give it a go!”
So, that was the beginning.
How Things Can Change!
Most people seem to want to be a “Holiday Rep.” They see the Rep in the hotel for an hour and think he lives “the life of Riley” on the beach and in the bars for the rest of the day. Well I didn’t!
For me, happiness was living in a small sleepy village in North Wales, drinking pints of Welsh Bitter and riding my horse across the hills on a rainy day. I was a successful salesman. My challenge came in meeting my monthly figures in the Monday to Friday world of Sales and Commerce and meeting up with the boys in the local to watch the racing and put the world to rights. We were “experts on everything”.
That was my world for almost fifteen years. I saw no reason for it to change. Another twenty to twenty five years and then I would retire. It would become my turn to sit in the corner and talk about the price of pigs and all things “country.”
Little did I realize that everything would change. Life would never be the same again and, as for pigs and pints, well, they were a never to happen. The axe fell with the fatal words, “Sorry Joe, but we’ve got to let you go!” My future was now insecure.
Redundancy for me was another word for retirement. I didn’t want to admit that another person could pull the strings. My life plan was mine. I was in control. Only I could decide when things could end. That was why I found things rather confusing and could not adjust. Being able to sit in the pub I found was not what I wanted. I had to find something else, where I could command. With my experience, it shouldn’t take me long to become gainfully employed once more. After all, I had lots of talents to offer. I had my plan.
Three months later I’m still gainfully unemployed and collecting my giro. The “Job Club” is the highlight of my week as I have swapped my agenda for job applications. My high power salary has been replaced by 39 pounds 45 pence subsistence. Every newspaper is read from cover to cover with the “Sits Vac” being first priority. I find myself in the company of a completely different circle of people whom, usually, I would never have dreamt of mixing with. The self-confidence I possessed in the fast world of business was beginning to fade. I was now finding it hard to mix with the guys I could once compete with on an equal level. At the same time the whole unemployment thing taught me a lot. Previously I was only interested in material things. Every sales target achieved was a bonus that would buy
another “state of the art” whatever it was. I began to realize that money was not the be all and end all. I began to look at myself differently and enjoy the things that, before, I had not even noticed. Cutting the grass can be fun on a sunny day and a properly cooked meal tastes so much better than a microwave dinner for one. I was making the adjustment and joining a world I never knew existed, and if I did, probably would never have acknowledged.
One of the daily tasks that I set myself was to spend the afternoon at the local library. They had a very nice coffee shop and I found it rather fun to pass the time with a cake and espresso just people watching. When that ran out of time they had a good newspaper section where I could continue my search for gainful employment. The problem I was encountering was that all the advertisements were looking for young, degree holders who had no experience of the commercial world but could equally be trained to do whatever the companies wanted and, for sure, would be paid less money. Now I was beginning to realize that I would have to review my game plan, start from the scratch. A career change was called for, but what would it be? It would not be long before the answer would arrive and, for me, from a most unexpected source.
On one of my visits to the library I happened to pick up a newspaper, which, usually I would not have considered. This paper had a supplement specializing in a different profession daily. Previously, I would only read it when it covered the Sales sector. Strangely, today it seemed to pull me towards the table. As if by magic, I could not resist the urge to pick it up. Immediately, there it was on page four, the advertisement that would change my life.
“Overseas Representative! Must speak Portuguese or Greek!”
“I don’t speak either.” I thought as I glanced down the page. However, the thing that appealed to me was the fact that they weren’t asking for university “haven’t dones.” It was actually my age group that they were looking for. “Anyway I can speak French, so what the hell!” “I’ll give it a go!”
So, that was the beginning.
Thursday, 24 January 2008
A LIFE IN THE DAY!
A LIFE IN THE DAY
By
JOSEPH C. FRY
SYNOPSIS
The subject matter is a work of non-fiction and is autobiographical, taking the reader along as the author faces mid-life redundancy and then finds himself in the strange world of the overseas holiday representative, usually a younger person’s line of work.
As a travelogue it takes in Spain, Portugal, the Mediterranean, and finally cruises down to Brazil.
Being approximately 65,000 words in length and written in the first person, a series of adventures and situations, some hilarious, some very sad, unfold which carry the reader along on a voyage of discovery.
In short, it is a journey through life which shows that nothing is unusual, and that in everything there is humour and a bright side. It is not only the young who possess the wonder of life. It shows that people never really grow old; they just become wiser, and most learn how to use this knowledge.
By
JOSEPH C. FRY
SYNOPSIS
The subject matter is a work of non-fiction and is autobiographical, taking the reader along as the author faces mid-life redundancy and then finds himself in the strange world of the overseas holiday representative, usually a younger person’s line of work.
As a travelogue it takes in Spain, Portugal, the Mediterranean, and finally cruises down to Brazil.
Being approximately 65,000 words in length and written in the first person, a series of adventures and situations, some hilarious, some very sad, unfold which carry the reader along on a voyage of discovery.
In short, it is a journey through life which shows that nothing is unusual, and that in everything there is humour and a bright side. It is not only the young who possess the wonder of life. It shows that people never really grow old; they just become wiser, and most learn how to use this knowledge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)