Last week I spent a few days in Tenerife. It was a trip down memory lane. The last time I was there, I was 18…26 year ago. Then, I was taking a regular gap year as opposed to a grown up one. The plan was for my friend and I to work for the summer PRing; that is standing outside bars, trying to entice people in. “Buy one, get one free and a free shot,” I must have said that a hundred times a night, it’s seared into my brain. You got paid by the number of people you brought in. I was terrible. Too shy, I barely made enough to buy a kebab at the end of the night.
Totally unprepared
For the first couple of months we got by on the cash we’d taken with us, birthday money (I turned 19 out there) and occasional handouts from our worried parents. My dad likes to remind me of the time he rushed to the bank, banging on the doors as they were closing, so that he could deposit funds into my account. The clerk took pity on my dad, who explained that if the money didn’t go in before the end of the day, his irresponsible daughter would be homeless.
Was I concerned that I couldn’t meet my rent? Not that I remember. I do feel bad, in retrospect, that I put my parents through so much stress. This was a time before mobile phones and the internet. I used a payphone to called home when I remembered and wrote letters sporadically. In between times, they had no way of knowing if I was dead or alive.
It’s true that I was irresponsible. I wandered the foreign streets by myself late at night. I went to hotel rooms with random guys. I drank too much and took drugs, partied all night and slept all day. It’s also true that I had the best time. We had friends with names like Crackers and Strange. Shared an apartment with two young lads from Mansfield who we called our brothers. Took in waifs and strays and slept four to a bed. Ate powdered tomato soup from a packet because it was all we could afford. Begged for bites of other people’s kebabs at the end of the night because we were so hungry. It was an adventure.
Memories good and bad
After my disastrous attempt at PRing I got a job as a waitress in a family restaurant. I was a bit better at that and it meant that we could afford rent and food. The five months went in a blur and I only have snippets of memories. Feeling overwhelming joy as the entire restaurant sang Sweet Caroline on the Neil Diamond tribute night. Stripping down to my bikini bottoms and diving into the cool pool after a sweaty day shift while the holiday makers looked on in disbelief. Running along the streets on dark nights trying to avoid the cockroaches and hearing the inevitable crunch underfoot because there were just so many.
On my final night on the island, I went out to say my goodbyes. I vaguely remember arguing with my friend who, as a result, went home without me. I was drunk, I was alone and I had no money. I jumped into a taxi, knowing that I wasn’t able to pay for it. It was on the drive back to our apartment that the news came over the radio that Princess Diana had died. It was 31st August 1997. Tears streamed down my face. Even in my drunken state, I recognised the significance of her death. “Aqui.” Here. I told the taxi driver as we arrived close to my apartment; it was one of the few Spanish words that I’d picked up during my stay. I gestured for him to wait while I went to get some money and then I ran like my life depended on it.
I flew home later that day with a vague notion that I’d go back, but the next month I started university and my life changed direction.
Sliding doors
This time as I checked in at the airport to come home, the airline staff, a woman about me age, asked me if I’d had a good trip. “It’s been 26 years since I was last here,” I told her. “The last time, I stayed for the summer. It was a very different time.”
“That’s how I ended up here,” she replied, “I’ve been here 30-years. Took a gap year, stayed for the summer and never left. I now have an ex-husband, and kids in school.”
I always wondered what would have happened had I stayed and often regretted not going back. Seeing that this woman had a similar life to me, married, kids, a job, reminded me of the saying same shit, different place. Granted she lives in year round sunshine, I mean, who wouldn’t love that. But, she looked sad when she told me that she didn’t get back to the UK often because of the cost. My mum lives across the street. I’d hate not to have regular access to the people I love.
I’d purposely avoided returning to Tenerife without really knowing why. Now, I see that it was because of that regret of leaving. I felt like a failure. I’d left my friend behind (although she came home herself a few weeks later) and told everyone that I’d be back. It’s like in my head, they were still there, judging me, when in reality, they’d gotten on with their lives in the same way that I had mine.
I came away with a newfound love for the island and a sense of peace that I didn’t know I needed.
