There was a woman at Parque Warner who rolled in a full watermelon. A big one, like… beach-ball big. No knife. No plan. Just a watermelon and the kind of confidence you can’t buy. I watched her park it next to her flip-flops and go off for a smoke. It sat there, glistening, like it might hatch. And that, honestly, was not even in the top five weirdest things I saw that day.
Someone else had a fold-up massage table. Not joking. Proper one too. Aluminium legs, towel laid across, oils. He was giving his wife a foot rub next to the kids’ splash zone. There was something sacred about it. Gross, yes, but tender. I left them be.
And then there was the teenage lad with a traffic cone. Red and white. Don’t ask. No idea where he got it. He used it as a megaphone to yell at his mate halfway up the speed slide queue. “DAVOOOOO! YOU OWE ME AN ICE CREAM.” Security looked tired. Everyone did. Except him.
Anyway. If you’re reading this in your rental apartment surrounded by chaos and sunburnt children and someone’s already packed a snorkel… I’m here to save you from yourself.
You don’t need the snorkel. Or the inflatable flamingo that takes up 80% of the boot. Or the camping chairs. That’s a big one. There’s always one family that brings chairs. Like it’s Wimbledon. They set up next to the toddler pool, arms folded, and pretend it’s normal.
What you do need, if you value your sanity and/or skin:
Shoes. Not just flip-flops. Real, rubbery, chlorine-hating, sole-gripping sandals. You ever felt a Spanish tile at 2pm? It’s hell. It’s napalm. It’s what I imagine dragon spit feels like. I saw a man hop his way back to the lockers like a wounded bird. His child clapped. Harsh.
Sunscreen. You’ll forget. Or you’ll bring the dregs of last year’s bottle, all separated and sad. Don’t. Buy a new one. Lather like your future face depends on it, because it does. And do the ears. Always the ears. And the bit of your back you can’t reach — ask a stranger, I don’t care.
Water. I know. Obvious. But not fun. So you forget. Then 3pm hits and someone’s crying near the churro stand and you’re five euros deep into a bottle of warm Fanta. Freeze a couple bottles before you leave. Wrap them in a towel. Your past self will look like a genius.
A dry bag. Not essential, but you’ll wish you had one the second your phone takes a wave to the face. Or you drop your keys in the splash zone. Or a seagull, for some reason, goes for your crisps and chaos ensues. I keep mine strapped to my person like a survivalist. Contents: wipes, plasters, spare pants (for the kid, not me, mostly), two euros, and blind optimism.
Also, a plan. I mean an actual “if we get lost, we meet at the weird dolphin statue near the lazy river” plan. Do not rely on mobile signal. Do not assume your seven-year-old knows how to find you. Write your number on their arm if you have to. Sharpie doesn’t judge.
Everything else? Depends on your tolerance for public embarrassment. Want to bring a Bluetooth speaker? Fine, but I hope you enjoy being hated in three languages. Giant picnic? You do you. Just know that the seagulls here are ex-military and can unzip cool bags with one foot.
Someone once brought a pineapple. Whole. No knife. No context. It sat on a sunbed like a guest of honour. Sometimes I think about that pineapple. I hope it got home safe.
Don’t overthink it. Don’t underthink it either. Somewhere between “I need a camping stove” and “we’ll be fine with one towel for four of us” lies the truth. You’ll still forget something. That’s tradition. It’ll probably be the goggles. Or the child.
You’ll make do. You’ll dry off. You’ll buy ice cream you didn’t budget for. And when someone next to you sets up a fondue station near the foam slide, you’ll feel better about your own chaos. You’re doing fine.
Now go pack. And if you’re debating the bubble machine? Leave it. Trust me.
