When hospitality was more than just hotels.

When I was young, a lot younger than today, I spent most of my school holidays with my family at my aunties’, uncles’ or grandmother’s. 

In the late fifties, very few Algerians went very far on holiday let alone frequented hotels. You would think that our relatives, especially those who lived by the seaside, would be reluctant to have us for three or four weeks in the Summer but you’d be totally wrong. When my family landed on their doorstep, we were made welcome as if we had come back from a trip to the Antipodes, after all, my mother’s sisters, brothers and our gran had not seen us for twelve long months. It was a question of everyone mucking in and enjoying whatever time we spent together, sleeping up to a half a dozen on mattresses laid out in the middle of the floor of every room in the house. 

Mealtimes were like feeding the five thousand and none of us kids was exceedingly fussy. We ate whatever was plonked in front of us. Often, when money was tight, meals were very simple and inexpensive. Once, macaroni with butter was on the menu and many of us kids had followed my somewhat fussy sister’s lead and turned our noses up at this very plain dish. My cunning uncle suggested a race at the end of which the winner would scoop an extra ball of ice cream. Within minutes we had all wolfed down every single morsel. 

Room around the dining table was usually scarce as the adults had first pick, so we, children sat wherever we could find an empty space. At lunch, we devoured the food as quickly as possible to get back to our outdoor games just in time for the adults to retire to the bedrooms to enjoy the obligatory Mediterranean siesta. 

In the late afternoon, when the heat of the day subsided a little, we all gathered around for a large bowl of milky coffee, a chunk of baguette and a chocolate bar or a triangle of cheese. Dinner came around 8 pm. A recycling of leftovers from lunch. We then spent our evenings in the yard or outside the front door, sat on rugs listening to my grandmother’s fairy tales before falling asleep on our respective mother’s lap.  

Often on Sundays, my diminutive gran took a horde of us to the beach. Looking back, I cannot help but admire her immeasurable patience and energy. Trying to corral six or seven noisy and excited youngsters could have been a nightmare for the seventy-year-old but we were fairly well-behaved apart from the odd whinge and she could be firm when needed despite her size.

She patiently sat in a quiet corner of the beach watching us like a hawk while we splashed, screamed and frolicked for two or three hours. Before we took the return bus, we were treated to the customary cone of freshly fried potato crisps lightly sprinkled with sea salt. 

Sunday evenings tended to be subdued and most of us, worn-out by the seaside escapade went to bed way earlier than usual. 

Late August arrived too soon and, saying our tearful goodbyes, we went back home just in time for the return to school. 

I have always cherished the memory of those simple days when people had a lot of patience for one another and when hospitality was not a word associated with hotels.