Last month we took the kids to a family hotel in the lake district of north east Poland. It’s not too far from Warsaw, but because the roads throughout Poland haven’t been upgraded since some time in the middle 18th century, it took almost four hours to get there by car. Timewise it’s the equivalent of driving north from Glasgow and getting to Helmsdale. Distance-wise it’s the equivalent of heading north from Glasgow and stopping on the A9 some way short of Aviemore.
A friend of ours got in our car a few weeks ago and said, ‘Look! You’ve still got tapes! I remember them.’ Our car is from the last century and still has tapes. I’m sure a lot of people still have tapes, although it’s been a while since I was in such a car. So, eschewing MP3 technology and the rest, I had made up a tape before heading off on the journey. The phrase ‘made up a tape’ has sadly become quite antediluvian. The kids don’t know that yet, but one day I’ll say excitedly ‘I’ve made up a tape’ in front of their friends, and everyone will fall about laughing and start calling me grandad. It works for now.
We drove to the Hotel Golebiewski in the town of Mikolajki, specifically chosen because of its enormous indoor waterpark. And therein lay the key to the next three nights and four days. It was a waterpark-fest. The days were split thus: breakfast – waterpark for two hours – talk about going back to the waterpark – lunch – talk about going back to the waterpark – waterpark for two hours – dinner – talk about going to the waterpark the following day – bed.
The hotel has other family amenities. Ten-pin bowling, amusement arcade, ice rink. The hotel brochure has photographs of two ice rinks in it. One is the small, claustrophobic, pillar-strewn ice rink of the hotel…the other is of a large, wonderful, spacious ice rink, which is not in the hotel. It’s not entirely clear why there’s a picture of this ice rink in the brochure, other than to display what an ice rink should look like. There are also summer sports, illustrated by a picture of golfers putting on a cow field.
We arrived on a Saturday along with a large chunk of the rest of the country, who all pitched up in their Audis and BMWs. Perhaps there are special roads, reserved specifically for the Audis and BMWs, with their sleek German design and their integral cd players. There were a lot of tattoos on show, much evidence of leopard print clothing. We stood out from the crowd, partly because we didn’t speak the language, but mostly due to the fact that we had not killed any fake animals in order to clothe our children. However, we didn’t stand out quite as much as the Naomi Campbell-esque thing on display with her older white boyfriend. Stick thin, with the kind of comically inflated artificial breasts which require their own seat on an aeroplane.
This is the kind of place where the schism between parents and kids is at its greatest. However, having made the decision to go there, you pretty much have to put up with it. They want to swim, go bowling and spend money in the amusement arcade. Occasionally they’ll agree to go and eat. As adults, you spend a couple of hours in a place like this and want to get out for a walk. Kids never want to go for a walk. At least, not when there are such alternative attractions.
We scheduled in a walk for the first day, and a drive to the forest the next. They both complained bitterly throughout, One of Two in particular sobbing about how we were ruining her life. Not for a second do they see reason, not for an instant will they allow themselves any thought of anyone else. ‘We’re awake for a sixteen hour day. Fifteen hours of that day we’ll do what you want, you just have to do what we want for that one hour…’
Seems logical, seems like it should be easy enough to agree to. Not a chance. Total selfishness. And you know, you just have to suck it up. This is the true essence of childish behaviour. In adults we tend to characterize childishness as an inane sense of humour.
Unmitigated self-absorption, that’s childishness.
But, you’ve taken them to a hotel with a waterpark so they can have a great few days, and there’s just no point in arguing over a walk and ruining the weekend. You walk, you put up with the whining, you hope they get distracted long enough by the snow or the ice to forget that they’re not supposed to be enjoying themselves, and then you crawl back inside, hit the waterpark, trust they don’t get a fungal foot infection, cry havoc! and let slips the dogs of exuberance.
The food was worth remarking on. Buffet breakfast. Rows and rows of food, none of which you’d actually want to eat before about five o’clock in the afternoon. I should know better by now, but I’m continually amazed by the continental European’s ability to eat stewed vegetables in jelly and boiled eggs in pink mayonnaise for breakfast. Fish in aspic, raw carrot and cucumber in yogurt, strong cheeses, cold spicy meats, chocolate biscuits, Swiss roll. Some of them might, just might, be edible, but not for breakfast.
At the end of one of the rows stood a lone, forlorn figure of a chef, a wee woman making scrambled egg. An actual, identifiable breakfast food. We hit the scrambled egg stall every morning.
The weekend passed by. The kids said that it was the best hotel they’d ever stayed in. We said goodbye to the leopard-skin contingent and drove the short distance home in four and a half hours, stopping on the way at the kind of greasy diner that would make you pine for a Pot Noodle.
A successful weekend, another part of Poland chalked off the list. But one day, one day soon, we’re going to have to face the seven hour drive to the beach.
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