The greatest part of going on holidays with a friend is the hour a day you spend lying on your beds, scrolling on your phones, not speaking to each other. This decompression time preferably happens after the afternoon activity and before the dinner preparations begin. Maybe you turn the air conditioning on and stick your feet under the covers if they get a little chilly. Phone time truly reaches its orgasmic zenith when you get your shower out of the way first and then enjoy your scrolling while lying on your bed, in your towel.
On New Year’s Eve a dear pal and I flew to Tenerife to see in 2026 with a week in the winter sun. As childfree elder millennials we decided we deserved a room each. After the day of travelling we stood outside our respective doors, just down the hall from each other, and each instinctively knew that it was phone time. “See you in an hour, or maybe more?” she asked. “Enjoy your phone,” I replied, and we happily parted ways.
Of course, the scrolling didn’t start straight away when I entered my hotel room. First, I had to do the mandatory full inspection: opening every single drawer, wardrobe and cupboard to do a recce for goodies and freebies they’d failed to mention at reception – I once stayed in a hotel in New York that had a minibar that was included in the price and have been chasing that high ever since.
Also on the roster: inspecting the tea and coffee making facilities even though I drink neither and even though I believe those stories about people boiling their underwear in hotel kettles to be an urban myth, I still steer well clear; scrutinising the towel allocation; reviewing whatever tiny toiletries and accoutrements had been provided; checking for the presence of a trouser press despite never having used one nor seen one used. Then followed the ceremonial reading of the information booklet just in case I needed to phone a local doctor, attend a church service or order a midnight omelette. And then, of course, came the dance of the light switches.
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I’d never actually counted the number of light switches in a hotel room before but, at 21, the junior suite at the dated but comfortable hotel on the east coast of Tenerife has to be up there with the record setters. And, of course, as in hotels the world over, none of switches did what you expected them to do. The place had lit up like a Christmas tree as soon as I’d slotted the key card into place inside the door.
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After I’d completed my room inspection and opened my suitcase with the intention of hanging everything up but knowing that I would just fire things in and out of it all week, it was phone time. I needed to bring the illumination down by several notches but matching a light to a switch proved near impossible. Many of the switches appeared to be wedded to a fairly redundant hall light outside the bathroom, while none seemed to be paired with the glaring Big Light above the bed, nor its many counterparts.
In contrast, many modern hotel bedrooms have the opposite problem. You’re hardly able to find your suitcase, never mind unpack it amid the muted mood lighting and many, many low-wattage lamps. Maybe smart technology is the answer to this? A simple voice command to turn on the bedside sconce or the balcony light? Although, given that my own Alexa speaker at home likes to spring into life when nobody is talking to her and often appears wilfully ignorant, entrusting the lighting to an AI system might cause havoc.
When we weren’t enjoying phone time, my friend and I were engaging in similarly sedate pursuits. We’d purchased two books in a deal at the WH Smiths at Dublin Airport – Pachinko and Demon Copperhead – and we planned to swap them halfway through the holiday. We had also packed a deck of Uno cards and we found one channel among the many French and German offerings on the hotel room telly that was showing Goodfellas in English on repeat.
Apart from a few excursions, including one rental-car spin round Tenerife’s dizzying coastal and mountain hairpin bends that gave me blisters from gripping the steering wheel so tight, we fit in alarmingly well among the hotel’s notably older clientele. “There’s us,” we’d nudge each other as two elderly ladies shrieked with laughter trying to affix their towel clips to the sunbeds.
Reader, I had purchased my own towel clips by the end of day two.
