My holiday from hell: we were 20 drunk teenagers in a Sicilian villa. I would like to apologise to our host | Life and style
Twenty British 16-year-olds rent a remote Sicilian villa for a week of partying and late-night binge drinking. It sounds like a holiday host’s nightmare. Well, anyone’s nightmare. Add in the fact that the host was staying on site with his elderly Italian parents, as the teenagers partied on without a care for their own welfare or anyone else’s. This wasn’t a holiday from hell for my teenage self, but I’m pretty sure it was for our hosts.
It was 2013 and, for many of us, it was the first time we had been away just with friends. Let loose from familial constraints, it was easy to get carried away. I arrived a few days later than the others but was the main contact with our host, Pablo. This meant that, before I even set foot in the villa, I received a string of messages threatening to kick us out. The police had apparently already been called after two late nights of nonstop boozing.
It quickly became apparent how reliant we were on Pablo to get anywhere. None of us had a car, and the villa was more than an hour’s walk from the nearest village, which didn’t even have a shop. This was something I probably should have considered when booking the villa. Not only did our poor host have to pick us up from the airport, he also ferried us to and from the supermarket several times.
Entering on a high horse of judgment over my friends’ previous actions, I quickly joined in with the drink-laden festivities. The warnings from Pablo’s parents did nothing to stop the loud music and swaying teens spreading out across all areas of the garden and poolside. We left food, bottles and cans littered everywhere.
I didn’t help build any bridges. After one long night, at about 5am, I felt the need for a quick dip and dived into the pool. As a swelling feeling of nausea began to overwhelm me, I climbed out and crawled to the nearest bush to vomit. As I lay there, hoping for the queasiness to pass, I became aware of a vague noise in the distance: shouting, in a language I didn’t understand.
Pablo’s parents were coming towards me. I knew I had to move – and quickly – so I started to crawl towards the house. The shouting grew louder and louder as I dragged myself along the ground to the villa, collapsing inside with relief at avoiding more conflict.
A particularly frosty moment came when Pablo drove two of my friends across the island to rent motorbikes. They had convinced him they were eligible to do so by pointing to the motorcycle symbol on the back of their provisional licences. They were not, and Pablo had missed his English lesson to take them. The hour’s drive home took place in furious silence.
The holiday ended with our sorry offering of a tip – all our remaining loose change – as Pablo said goodbye to us at the airport. The large pile of 20 cent coins did nothing to make up for the traumatic time we had subjected him to. It is fair to say we didn’t do much for Anglo Sicilian relations that week. But I will always remember the incoming screams of an Italian nonna as I lay half-conscious in the grass. A fond memory of how not to holiday.
