Travel Magazine

Expat on Vacation: My Big Fat Greek Package Holiday!

By Russellvjward @russellvjward
It's 6am and the two hour drive to Gatwick Airport in heavy early morning traffic awaits. My big fat Greek package holiday is underway, a ritual enjoyed by thousands of Brits and their European neighbours every year and a tradition that this expat couldn't resist on a return to the 'motherland' from the land down under during this year's English summer.
Upon arrival in England's second largest and arguably ugliest airport, all such negative thoughts are put to one side as the adventure kicks off with a turn on the 'self-service' check-in stations... which don't work and which don't check us in. The extended Ward family will now be dispersed across the fully-booked flight as a result.

Greece beckons.

Onwards and upwards as we head to the duty free to stack up on copious amounts of cheap alcohol and large numbers of trashy books - essential ingredients for a hard-earned package holiday. As I sit in the departure lounge crammed in beside my fellow travellers, the airport tanoy blaring out every few minutes, I take stock of how different this experience is to a remote Australian beach getaway or to a retreat to some far-flung tip of the Canadian mainland. I've missed Europe and it's hustle and bustle but it will take me some time to get used to the high volume of people holidaying in a relatively small region.
We take our seats on the plane which resembles a booze bus, not a flight to a pretty Greek island. There is growing anticipation at the summery delights waiting for us at our destination and the plane is pulsing with nervous excitement and flowing with over-priced alcohol. Less than twenty minutes into the flight and somebody is already smoking in the non-smoking toilets. The school teacher reprimand is made to all passengers, including the guilty culprit, and then we're back on our way.

Typically Greek scenes like these await us.

My father has treated my wife and I to this unexpected holiday and has also kindly ordered a meal for each of us on the four-hour flight and I am famished by the time it arrives. And so are my traveling neighbours who have taken to staring at my 'optional' meal with the intensity of starved wild animals. I'm sat alone at the rear of the plane, which just so happens to be where the 'cheapskates' are seated, the type that refuse to purchase a meal, any non-complimentary drinks, or anything else for that matter. In a sea of English pikeys, I sit guarding my meal as if it were my last.
We land at Kos Airport. Actually, we land at the world's smallest airport. It has one customs officer, one baggage reclaim stand, and one undeniably attractive but obviously adolescent travel rep who directs us to our 'ride' to the hotel. Boarding the bus, we are told it is a fifteen minute transfer from airport to hotel. Alarm bells start to ring. Only fifteen minutes to the hotel. That makes the airport mighty close to the hotel. That makes the airport mighty close to the beach. That makes for some interesting scenarios. I put my fears to one side as the bus heads off.

The view from the hotel room.

The hotel is beautiful. It's been a while since I last 'package holidayed' with the best of them but this one is a beauty. It has thirteen swimming pools, three bars, five restaurants, a gym, private beach, tennis and football courts, even a theater. And our rooms are lovely. They are clean, of a decent size, air conditioned, and they have the most divine views of the water not one hundred metres from where we stand. My parents join us on the shared balcony and we congratulate each other on a great find.
In the distance over the water, a light shines brightly in the sky and I remark that there must be mountains on the islands opposite Kos. We could even be gazing at a traditional Greek village on top of one of those mountains. As we gaze out, the light grows larger in size, then splits into a number of smaller lights - three to be exact. These lights start to illuminate the water near the beach, then light up the beach itself, the hotel, the swimming pools, our bedrooms, us. As we watch, the intensity of the lights change angle, a familiar shape forms in the sky, and a roar splits the sky as a plane with the words 'Air Berlin' written on its underbelly screams over the top of our heads. It looks like the Germans have arrived.

Aircraft incoming!

In the morning, we head to the beach, neatly laid out with beach umbrellas, sun loungers and the obligatory tight-short-wearing Italian or five. Swimming in the warm Aegean sea is divine. There are no killer sharks here or deadly tropical stingers. The ocean rips are non-existent and I float on my back with not a care in the world. The occasional topless Euro chick swims past accompanied by an overweight Euro man and his moobs (aka man boobs).
I leave the water and settle down to the task at hand. The goal of my big fat Greek package holiday is to fry under the blistering Greek sun. Third degree burns are the order of the day, as I 'slip slop slap' my zero-factor coconut oil over, and into, every crevice of my anatomy. My plan is to burn, peel, and re-fry over the next seven days with the intention of returning to England the brownest man in the land.  And to then spend subsequent weeks glowing in the belief that I am the brownest man in the land.

Not a care in the world.

By lunchtime, most beach dwellers are close to being half-cut. This is an all-inclusive resort which means everything is free, including the alcohol. The tragic northern English couple behind us totter over to the beach bar for another 'sex on the beach' and one more 'shag in the bag'. The Americans of Europe, the Italians, bleat incessantly on the sand with prego-this and prego-that, managing to drown out the sound of the planes as they pass overhead at fifteen minute intervals. It's more than I can take so I skulk off to my room for a quiet afternoon siesta and another five chapters of my book.
The evening arrives and I'm red-faced and sorry-assed, wishing I had eased off on that coconut oil. Nonetheless, I happily gorge on my all-inclusive buffet and drown my sorrows in free house wine. No big fat Greek package holiday would be complete without the hotel staff putting on a display of traditional dancing and singing, which takes place next to the restaurant and very close to the main swimming pool. My wife, parents and sister are dragged up to partake in a little of this Greek dancing, putting them precariously close to the pool. And my father is fairly well lubricated on the house red and quite definitely on his way. I have my camera at the ready just in case.

Beware the pool... it's behind you!

Later, we head to the amphitheater and this season's holiday anthem is blasting out from the main stage. For the second time in one night, my wife is dragged onto the stage - this time by a Scandinavian midget with bad hair. I cringe. She cringes. The whole audience cringes. This is a big fat Greek package holiday at its finest - embarrassing yet necessary, relaxing yet almost always over-the-top.
My big fat Greek package holiday has been a blast from the past, a renewed adventure on the European continent, and a much needed dose of time with my England-based family. As with all big fat Greek package holidays, the evening inevitably draws to a close and the end of the holiday always nears.
Things in my life have now changed and of course I live on the other side of the world yet, after all this time, old habits die hard and I still find myself wondering whether it will be raining in England upon our return..........

Thanks for the Greek memories.

Are you off on a vacation away from your 'home away from home' this year?  Have you ever been on a European package holiday and what was your experience of it?  Do tell all!

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