Survived The Summer Holidays With Your Kids? Bazaar Arabia Columnist Ruwaida Abela Northen Shares Her Memoirs From A European Tour
Five weeks, four kids, two parents and a tour of Europe sans nanny — what could possibly go wrong?
Two Against Four
It started, as all great misadventures do, with a warm cup of coffee on a beautiful weekend morning and an overinflated sense of confidence and delusions. Five weeks. Four kids. Two parents. Europe. Zero nannies. We told ourselves it would be memorable. Not sure if we meant in the cherished photo album way, or the kind of memory you unpack with a therapist while they nod very slowly while scribbling in a notebook.
In our heads, it was all romantic piazzas, leisurely train rides, and the children giggling together in perfect harmony — like one of those European tourism ads where nobody spills juice on the rental car seats. In reality, we were willingly signing up to be the ringmasters of a roaming six-person performing group, complete with meltdowns, lost shoes, and questionable gelato flavours. My poor husband and I became human snack dispensers and on-call mediators for the travelling circus I happened to give birth to.
Some context, dear gentle reader:
Our life in Dubai is smooth. Too smooth. We have two wonderful nannies. People for everything. A minor inconvenience is when the car wash arrives 10 minutes late, or the Uber driver is — heaven forbid — three minutes away. Groceries? Swipe an app. Air con? Always humming. Someone, somewhere, is always ready to fix something for you before you even ask. It’s not just living — it’s gliding and we love it and are eternally grateful for it.
It’s a perfectly oiled machine that makes “real life” — the kind involving self-service checkouts, taking your own bags to the supermarket, standing in long queues, and not having everything and anything available on demand— feel almost unimaginable. But for my kids, Dubai is real life. They think this is just how the world works. Which is why taking them to Europe for five weeks without our full Dubai support system felt like throwing everyone into a reality show called Freaky Friday: Extreme Edition.
When we told friends, they reacted as though we had casually announced we’d be running a marathon while juggling flaming swords. “Four kids… for five weeks? In Europe? No nannies?”
“Yes,” we said, smiling like people who had clearly lost their grip on reality.
But here’s the thing: parenting is 10% logic, 90% blind optimism. And besides, if we could survive bedtime routines and four different school WhatsApp groups, surely we could survive this.
Right?
The Plan (Or Something Like It)
The planning started in January. John and I sitting on the sofa, iPads in hand, planning summer while the kids tossed out wildly unhelpful suggestions.
“Disneyland!”
“Super Mario Nintendo World!”
“The moon!”
“Are we flying Emirates?”
John, ever the optimist, started plotting routes as if the children (or I) would joyfully endure four-hour car rides without mutiny. Me on the other hand, started Googling things like ‘best travel snacks to prevent international incidents’. We settled on a loose itinerary — Gozo for two weeks, then Italy for three weeks, with side trips to Rome and Florence, and a “rest stop” in a small Tuscan village where the most exciting thing that could happen was a deer wandering across the road. (John did, in fact, hit a deer one night. But that’s another story.)
Packing: A Love Letter to Overpacking
If parenting teaches you anything, it’s that packing light is a fantasy. The pile of “essentials” grew until it looked like we were relocating permanently. Shoes for cobblestones, sandals for the beach, one “nice outfit” per child for dinners (which would never actually happen because you can’t have a nice dinner with children), and enough spare underwear to open a small market stall. Also, why do we own six different types of sunscreen?”
And because I am clearly unwell, I declared we would ban electronics. Why? Because we were going to have “quality family time.” Bonding! Talking! Playing games! Noble in theory. In practice, the first sign I had completely lost it. Without iPads to distract them, we overcompensated with entertainment: colouring books, card games, puzzles, sticker sets, travel-sized Qwirkle (google it, it’s fun), and every activity pack known to Amazon. By the time I was done, the “fun” section of the luggage rivalled the clothing section.
Somewhere between rolling T-shirts and shoving in a just-in-case extra bag of nappies, I realised that travelling with four kids requires the precision of a military operation and the patience of a saint. We had neither. Yet we managed to fit it all into four trusty Rimowa trunks — proof that you can, in fact, pack for a small army if you’re willing to sit on the case while your husband zips it shut.
Departure Day: The First Crack in the Armour
The morning we left — 5 a.m., because apparently I hate myself — spirits were high. The kids were buzzing, John was calm (of course), and I was picturing us gliding through the airport like a polished perfect family advert. That fantasy lasted about seven minutes.
One child suddenly remembered a toy he never played with at home but now couldn’t live without. Another was in the early stages of iPad withdrawal. A passport went missing. I was already sweating by the time we reached security. Still, I’ll give DXB credit — the new First Class Check-In zone is fabulous. For about ten glorious minutes, I thought, “We can do this.”
On the plane, I leaned over to John and whispered, “Five weeks. We’re doing this for five weeks.” He smiled that calm, reassuring smile that made me fall in love with him — and also made me want to shake him for being so relaxed. Thomas, our four-year-old, on the other hand, was enjoying his — I kid you not — third serving of caviar. Thank you, Emirates.
Secret Sauce #1: Overprepare for chaos, then relax into the mess. It’s not about avoiding disasters; it’s about enjoying the story you’ll tell later… as long as there’s caviar.
Parenting: A Sport for the Sleep-Deprived
Our grand tour was ambitious: Malta, Gozo, Rome, Florence, and Tuscany. It started in Malta — sun, sea, and friendly locals unfazed by our party of six. Then we hopped to Gozo, a place so peaceful it almost tricked us into thinking this trip might be relaxing.
By the time we boarded the flight to Rome, reality had set in — kids dying of thirst despite just draining the lounge’s juice supply, a carry-on heavier than a child, and the dawning realisation that moving six people through an airport is a competitive sport. Airports with kids are like obstacle courses designed by people who hate parents or perhaps even they are some sort of social experiment? Sprinting to the gate with a child who “can’t walk another step.” Frantic searches for a stuffed animal. Pretending you’re calm while mentally rationing snacks.
Then came Italy.
Rome: grand, chaotic, so beautiful you forget you’re dragging children over ancient cobblestones. Florence: Renaissance art and gelato diplomacy — the fine art of bribing children with daily scoops.
Tuscany: postcard-perfect until one child declared the TV was “too small” and another spilled an entire bottle of olive oil like we were baptising the floor.
By week three, we weren’t travelling — we were surviving. By week five, communication was reduced to military-style commands: “Shoes. Bag. Go.”
Secret Sauce #2: Accept that travel with kids is just putting out small fires all day — and sometimes, watching the sparks can be fun.
The Vomit Olympics: Some Families Collect Souvenirs…
Some families collect snow globes or postcards. We collect vomit stories.
By the end of the trip, all four of our children had managed to contribute their own… performance. Not all at once (small mercies), but each in a different location, with its own level of drama, public visibility, and lingering scent. It became a sort of unspoken family sport that no one wanted to win but everyone, somehow, did.
Amy, our polite 11-year-old, was the first. She waited until she was underwater, halfway through her diving certification and ten meters deep in the Mediterranean Sea, before calmly emptying the contents of her stomach. The instructor later called her “composed under pressure.” I call it “excellent manners.”
Adam struck next, in Gozo, at a beautiful Michelin-starred restaurant. A poor couple was mid–romantic date when Adam leaned over and contributed to their evening in a way not listed on the menu. We apologised. Profusely. Repeatedly.
Thomas made his mark in the historic town of Pienza. Luckily, it happened in front of an alley lined entirely with cheese shops. No one could be certain if that smell was a local pecorino or our four-year-old.
Theo saved his performance for the kitchen of our Tuscan villa rental. It was… forceful. And given that the villa was centuries old, I suspect it has seen worse.
By the end of week five, I wasn’t asking, “Will someone throw up today?” but rather, “Where? And when?” We never left without plastic bags in tow.
Secret Sauce #3: In parenting, as in travel, dignity is optional — a good sense of humour is not. Oh and always always pack wet wipes.
Lovely, Lovely Pools: Gozo Gets Interesting
If Malta was our gentle warm-up, Gozo was supposed to be the slow, lazy middle section of the holiday where we’d recharge before tackling Italy. A tiny, peaceful island with charming streets, good food, and no reason to rush anywhere. Naturally, we made it a spectacle.
We stayed in a beautiful luxurious historic hotel — the kind with centuries-old stone walls, winding hallways, and that faintly mysterious air of “people in the past definitely had affairs here.” It was all going swimmingly until one night a loud crash jolted us awake.
My immediate reaction was to blame John. For… making noise. (I don’t know what noise exactly. Snoring? Shuffling? Existing too loudly?) I muttered something accusatory in the dark before we realised that ceiling tiles had fallen onto the floor while we were sleeping.
The silver lining? The hotel, mortified, upgraded us to a larger suite with a beautiful terrace and a breathtaking view. This was our first reminder that in travel, as in life, minor disasters often come with perks.
This was also the height of Theo’s obsession with Blippi’s “Excavator Song.” If you’ve never heard Blippi’s ode to construction machinery, congratulations on your freedom. If you have, lets form a club. It was the only song allowed in the car. Every drive began with the demands: “Excavator song! Excavator song!” until we gave in, and then it played on loop until we arrived. Every. Single. Time.
And of course, let’s not forget that Gozo was also the scene of Adam’s Michelin-star moment. By the end of our stay, Gozo had given us the full range: historic charm, unexpected upgrades, adorable toddler quotes, earworm soundtracks, and a fine-dining disaster. Restful? Not exactly. Memorable? Absolutely.
Secret Sauce #4: Never underestimate the joy of a free upgrade — or the power of a toddler catchphrase to haunt your dreams.
Luxury(ish) Living: Under The Tuscany Sun
Tuscany was our “rest stop.” Three serene weeks in a beautiful villa surrounded by nature, where we would cook, relax, and pretend to be the kind of family that plays board games and watches sunsets together without someone crying.
The kids’ first crisis was the TV. There was only one, it was 14 inches, and it was apparently “the smallest TV in the world.” This was, of course, a tragedy. Keep in mind, we have seven TVs at home — and they still fight over the “best” one. Luckily, I had packed our Apple TV so we could at least connect it to this monitor posing as a TV, and they can watch their usual shows, which saved us from complete mutiny. By week five, they had learned to share it — proof that travel really does broaden young minds.
Then came Thomas, our four-year-old travel critic, who announced within hours that the bed sheets at home were “much softer” and so was the toilet paper. This may be my fault. As a hotelier, I insist on 800 thread count sheets and 3-ply toilet paper at home. The villa had neither.
The food situation caused equal distress. The kids could not comprehend that you couldn’t just order McDonald’s or groceries. “But what do you mean we have to go to the supermarket?” one asked, as if I had suggested we churn our own butter.
John, ever resourceful, created his own “kids club” by the pool, armed with games, colouring books, and the patience of an elephant (are elephants patient? I’ve decided they are). The kids enjoyed it for about twenty minutes before asking for snacks — and if I was sure I hadn’t packed their iPads. (For the millionth time: no, I had not. And yes, I see the error of my ways.)
I cooked almost every day, which I loved, I really do enjoy cooking, the cleaning up afterwards? Not so much. So in an effort to educate our children and seize a “life lesson teaching moment” we made the kids help set the table and load the dishwasher — tasks they approached with the enthusiasm of people heading to a tax audit (which reminds me I must file my Corporate Taxes). They also discovered that clothes don’t magically walk to the laundry room. This was a deeply unsettling revelation.
Secret Sauce #5: Luxury is subjective. To kids, it’s McDonald’s delivery. To parents, it’s a quiet moment at sunset with nobody asking for anything.
The Crowded Mistake: Siena on the Wrong Day
On paper, Siena sounded like the perfect Tuscan day trip — a little history, a little walking, maybe a long lazy lunch in a piazza. We took the 9 a.m. train, imagining ourselves strolling through medieval streets with coffee in hand. What we didn’t know — and really should have — was that we had chosen the day of the Palio di Siena horse race trials. In other words: the busiest day of the year. By the time we arrived, the city was heaving. Shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, banners fluttering, drums echoing through the streets. It was colourful and atmospheric — and instantly exhausting.
To make things worse, almost everyone except Tom and Theo had skipped breakfast (because apparently “we’ll eat when we get there” is a rookie mistake). The two who had eaten were up since 4:30 a.m., so by mid-morning they were fading fast. We found a tiny café, inhaled pastries, and ventured out — briefly. It took about ten minutes to realise sightseeing in this crowd was a fantasy. We decided to cut our losses and head back to the station. Unfortunately, there were no taxis, so we walked. Uphill. Three kilometres. At 1 p.m. In the summer sun. I don’t remember whose idea it was, but I suspect it was mine — and I’d like to formally apologise to everyone. We didn’t get our lazy Tuscan lunch that day. We didn’t see much of Siena either. But we made it back alive, which by that point was the real measure of success.
Secret Sauce #6: Some days, the best you can do is make it back in one piece — preferably before anyone throws up on your nude On x Loewe sneakers.
The Car Crime Spree: Montepulciano Mayhem
If there’s one thing we learned about driving in Europe, it’s that rental cars are not designed for large families. Every journey felt like playing Tetris with children, luggage, and snacks — except the pieces complained and needed the toilet every thirty minutes. Montepulciano was meant to be an idyllic hill town visit — charming streets, sweeping views, wine shops, cheese shops. And for about ten minutes, it was.
Then Theo, our two-year-old, had his induction into shoplifting. He walked into a store, spotted a toy car, and simply… walked out with it. No hesitation, no shame, no awareness of international laws. By the time I realised, he was halfway down the street clutching it like a prize. I ran back to the shop, breathless, apologising and paying. The shopkeeper just laughed and said, “Bambini!” in a tone that suggested this was not his first robbery by toddler.
Secret Sauce #7: Toddlers don’t believe in “shopping.” Only “acquiring”. Search them.
Tanned, Tired & Triumphant?
By the final week, something unexpected had happened: we’d settled into a rhythm. Not a calm rhythm — more like a steady background chaos we could navigate without constant panic. The kids were browner (thanks to hours outside) and marginally better at sharing (thanks to the 14-Inch TV Situation). They’d gone from “What do you mean we can’t have McDonald’s?” to accepting supermarket runs as part of life. Even Theo had almost stopped demanding the excavator song. Almost.
It wasn’t all chaos. There were moments of pure magic. Like the afternoon in Tuscany when a summer rainstorm rolled in and instead of running for cover, we stayed outside, laughing and dancing barefoot in puddles. I mean yes, we all got wet and had to change and that added to the mountain of clothes waiting patiently by the washing machine to be put out of their misery, but we had magic, okay?
In the evenings, we gathered for family games, competitive streaks fully unleashed, rules disputed, and still somehow ending in hugs. I even introduced the twins to my favourite movies as a teenager and we watched one every night after the younger kids went to bed.
The last days were a mix of lingering in piazzas, last scoops of gelato, and one final Tuscan sunset. We packed the trusty Rimowa trunks with slightly dirtier clothes and somehow more toys than we’d arrived with. At the airport, I looked at John and said, “We actually did it.”
Five weeks. Four kids. Two parents. And one hundred stories. It wasn’t the trip I had in my head back in January — it was better. Messier, louder, more chaotic… and more full of the kind of moments you remember for life.
Secret Sauce #8: The best trips are never the perfect ones — they’re the ones you survive, laugh about, and secretly start planning all over again. Also, it’s ok to travel without your kids… occasionally.
Lead image courtesy of Shutterstock