Holiday, Noise, and the Sound of Waves at 4 A.M.

I remember this holiday like a film that never really stopped running. From the first moment, there was movement, noise, colour, food, people—always something happening, always something to watch, to taste, to laugh about.

We landed in Gran Canaria, and already there you feel it—the air is different, softer, warmer, a little bit salty. It touches your skin in another way. You step outside and think, ah… this is not Germany anymore. This is life in a different rhythm.

Our hotel was full of energy. Buffets, people, plates, voices in all languages. At first, I stood in the middle of it, holding my plate, and someone pushed into my back, another crossed in front of me, and I had to laugh. It’s like a small battlefield, but with food. You move, you react, you try to keep your balance and your plate at the same time.

But then we changed the scene completely when we went on the ship.

And that ship—it’s like a floating city. Thousands of people, restaurants, bars, music, lights everywhere. You can walk for ten minutes and still not reach the end. Every corner has something new: a bar, a show, a place to sit, a place to eat. It never really sleeps.

In the evening, we had our restaurant, our table, our rhythm. Five courses, every night. Not rushed. You sit, you talk, you taste. Tuna in two styles, soft and pink in the middle. Deer carpaccio with marinated mushrooms that almost melt. Salmon, delicate and light. And then the duck breast—warm, rich, perfect for the evening. And always, at the end, cheese. I like this moment. You sit a bit longer, you slow down, you let the day settle.

And the people around us—our waiters from Bali. Always smiling, always attentive. We talked about their home, about our lives, about nothing and everything. It becomes more than service. It becomes connection. On the last evening, they folded a rose from a napkin for our wives. Small gesture, big feeling.

But the real magic for me is not in the big places. It is in the small ones.

In Tenerife, we went into a market hall. You don’t see it immediately—you smell it first. Fish. Salt. The sea inside a building. We followed the smell like hunters. Downstairs, in a corner, we found a tiny kitchen. One hot plate. One man cooking.

And then—mussels. Fifteen of them. Four big shrimps. Two Venus clams. Bread with aioli. Two glasses of wine. Twenty euros.

And I tell you, this was one of the best meals of my life.

We sat there, close together, almost shoulder to shoulder, watching him cook, hearing the pan, smelling the garlic, the wine, the sea. No decoration, no show. Just pure food. In German, we say puristisch. Everything reduced to what matters.

This is what I search for when I travel. Not the big restaurants. The small ones. The hidden ones.

Even on the ship, with all its size, my favourite moments were often the quiet ones.

Very early in the morning, sometimes at four, I woke up. Not because I had to. Because I heard something. The pilot boats coming close, these fast turbine ships guiding us into harbour. I stepped out onto the balcony, the door always open at night, and the sound of the waves was there—constant, deep, like breathing.

The sea at that time is different. Dark, but alive. And the ship moves slowly, carefully. You feel it, like a big animal finding its way.

I stood there, coffee later in my hand, and watched. And in my head, stories started. Small films. Scenes connecting. I think one day I will write them down.

During the day, everything changes again. Sun, people, laughter. My wife training for her triathlon, diving into the pool with full energy, discipline even on holiday. And me—my training was lifting glasses of beer. Tropical beer, from the island. Light, a bit of lemon, very fresh. We laughed a lot about this.

We explored cities, walked through streets we already knew, but somehow they still feel new. In places like Gran Canaria or Tenerife, you return, but you always discover something small—a new restaurant, a different street, another detail.

And sometimes, the holiday also gives you surprises you don’t expect.

In La Palma, it rained. Not just a little—real rain. We walked, got wet, ran into bars, waited, went out again. It breaks the picture of perfect sunshine, but it also makes the day more alive. You remember it.

We met people, talked a bit, shared tables in the morning. Conversations from Bavaria, from Eifel, different accents, different lives. Friendly, but light. The ship is too big for deeper connections. It’s more like waves—you meet, and then you drift apart again.

And always, in between, these small highlights.

A restaurant that remembers you after years. A chef who says “Amigo!” when you walk in. A plate of food that surprises you. A moment on the balcony where nothing happens, but everything feels right.

This holiday was not one single story. It was many small ones. Food, people, noise, silence, movement, stillness.

And when I think back, I don’t remember it as a timeline.

I remember it as moments.

The smell of garlic in the market hall.
The sound of waves at four in the morning.
The laughter over a glass of tropical beer.
The taste of mussels and wine.
The light on the water when the ship arrives in a new harbour.

That is the real journey.