Sitting
in a 5 star hotel luxuriating in the wonderful air conditioning. Outside is baking in noonday pavement
roasting madness but here inside this place of the rich, all is well. A pampering spa offers a massage, pedicure
or facial rejuvenation. On level 1
there is an expensive hairdressers. You
can tell how much they charge, as even 5 star guests can obviously not afford
to go in. Bored staff look at you with
genuine distain. “You cannot afford
us”, they seemed to positively glisten with the knowledge. They, of course, are absolutely right. In fact I can afford none of this I am an
interloper on foreign turf.
This
5 star luxury is a stolen moment and I sit here awaiting the hand on shoulder,
saying in pitying terms, “be gone, lowlife!”
But I have a small protection; I am wily to the ways of the rich and
their patch. First, you must dress as
if you belong. Wear your best but be
careful to look as if it is some old thing you’ve just thrown on. Be careful of shoes, watches and jewellery
they give always too much about you.
But it is also the attitude you need to have that languid air of, this
is all just not good enough. It is an
air of unhappiness tinged with “I’m paying through the nose for all of this and
it is just not what I am accustomed to?” Towards the staff they radiate the message, “you could do better
if you only made an effort”.
Inside,
I celebrate the free air conditioning, the icy cool against my tomato
skin. I am in ecstasy at getting all
this for free. At my flat, I’d be
sitting glued to my small fan but here I can take my pick of seats opulent and
rich with breath taking views of the blue Med below and the sweating tourists
on the open-topped buses below. What is
it about open topped buses? Are they a
torture that countries have invented to vent their dislike on unsuspecting
tourists? Here in Malta, red-faced
tourists with shoulders the colour of raw beef sit in the blazing sun, trapped
on the moving barbeque. Only their
abundant sweat to fry in.
We
have the opposite version on the North coast of Ireland, where I’m from. There, the tourists clamber eagerly onto
open topped buses to see the Giant’s Causeway and beautiful north coast. It pisses rain on them in torrents, often
combined with a ferocious horizontal wind and tourists frantically wipe their
soaked camera lens to capture the sodden splendour of our green isle. Nothing excites a tourist more than an open
topped bus. Downstairs is for the cautious
and those who make it to the top deck, whether cooked or drowned, grin their
happiness and appreciation, waving childlike at passing strangers.
The
five star guests at this place will never know the ecstasy of open topped
buses. Theirs is a different world from
the rest of us. Living in luxury,
insulated from the working masses, they hug their boredom and discontent to
themselves. Vaguely aware that they are
missing out on what they deserve but pacified by the subservience with which
they are cushioned. Only the best is
good enough, you sense, but uncertainty remains. Is this really as good as good as it gets?
If
you really want to see a happy tourist look to the open topped buses. These guys know that to really enjoy
anything you have to let go and remember the child within. Feel the seaweed between your toes, the wind
upon your cheek, the rain in your eye and glow in the experience.
