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February 17, 2004
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Experimenting
Our chosen holiday destination was that curious French institution: Club Med. This was my first time, although Mrs M has had previous experience. Everyone is either a G.O. (from the French meaning impossibly happy all the time) or a G.M. (meaning impossible to please). Being a G.O. means you get paid a pittance to enjoy an enviable lifestyle that passes as "work" - you get to cater to the whims of assorted weirdos while randomly participating in performances that range from pagan-like dances to nightly shows that range from sham to glam. To qualify as a G.O. you must be either impossibly good looking with a body to match or French. Sleaze doesn't hurt the menfolk in their applications either. Womenfolk need to be self confident enough to parade in outfits that occasionally would look more apt in certain areas of Padpong. Responsibles (from the French meaning those who walk around earnestly looking busy and important) make up the ludicrously large management team. Many seemed so busy walk around (mostly from their area to the bar and back) that it was a wonder their staff could work. Until it dawned that perhaps the staff could work because the responsibles were absent. G.M.s fall into several categories. There are the singles. These are the usual mix of the heartbroken, the desperate and the dateless - usually all in the same person. I imagined they would be fair game for the G.O.s but apparently not. Perhaps the sterile and artificial surrounds took their toll. Next were the honeymooners. The Antipodeans stood out a mile as the kind of white trash that revolve around the men discussing tattoos and beer while the women discuss their weddings and beer. The Europeans have a better idea of what honeymoons are for, using their time by the pool to canoodle and demonstrate to the world they are getting plenty of action and want you all to know it. There were the assorted Asian nationalities, primarily Japanese, Korean and Chinese, who stuck to themselves and did what they do best - harass the innocent children of Westerners for photos while avoiding sunlight at all costs. There were the veterans: those who's imagination is so limited that returning to Club Meds year after year is their idea of tourism. Lastly there were the families. No matter where they were from, they had the common experiences of desperately trying to shuffle the kids off to Kids Club ASAP or prevent them drowning while they demonstrated their prowess in the pool. Oh, and also contend with the occasional sibling squabbles and mealtime madness. Club Med itself seems to be an experiment in permanent happiness without the use of drugs. I swear at least one G.O. had plastic surgery to implant a permanent smile. The concept seems to revolve around being a self-contained world with no need to leave the safe confines of the Overall we had a good time and JC and PB thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Kudos to Dragonair who were thoughtful enough to make the flight home half empty even though they forgot the kids' meals. In the space of 10 days Club Med managed to teach me one important lesson above all else: buffet may be a good way to feed the masses, but it turns those masses off buffet for life. posted by Simon on 02.17.04 at 06:40 PM in the
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