It’s fair to say that we had our reservations about Varadero. Rumours of a soulless and indistinguishable international beach resort, a Cuban Benidorm, hung fresh in our minds on the five-hour drive from the Vinales.

With nothing to lose therefore, it so happened that Varadero surpassed our low expectations. Although it may not have summated in this challenge, the quintessential all-inclusive resort features, the foam parties, blaring poolside chart music and Michael Jackson tribute acts all garishly intact, Varadero certainly gave the climb a good shot. Submerged within the flow of piña coladas and strawberry daiquiris on tap, a very distinct Cuban flavour to Varadero can still be deciphered, and it is actually the additions from all of the other nations that frequent this popular resort which makes Varadero a refreshing cocktail of diversity.

So there’s your disclaimer. Varadero may not have provided me with the serious kind of material I might usually choose to write about, but if you still wish to read on you might find something in my cultural observations, in my anatomy of Varadero, that resonates with you.

Despite staying in a well-known chain of Spanish hotels the clientele was not as Hispanic-dominated as we had expected, and it was still easy to find yourself half way across the world, stuck in conventional sun lounger small talk with fellow Brits. However, the speak of distant mutual friends, England’s comparative lack of summer or, everyone’s new favourite, the Brexit question, was also intermingled with a whole host of other alien dialects. This made for lots of holiday entertainment; for people watching, the holiday edition.  Poolside, all of the classic cultural stereotypes that we so often deny begun to materilise, as tribes of people are left to function out of their habitat, far away from home.

My cultural education wasn’t just limited to people’s breakfast choices: yes the continentals really do eat those pickles I had been eyeing with suspicion every morning, or to deck chair etiquette, how do we Brits not realise that if you don’t get up at the crack of dawn to reserve your deckchair then you will tanning in the shade? But even the act of watching hotel TV was an eye-opener, the umbrella of channels encompassing most nationalities. On being ill briefly I received a 24-hour crash course in the madness that is American politics, through watching coverage of the Republican Convention (because there’s nothing like the sensible tones of Donald Trump to placate one’s existing sense of nausea.)

With perspective comes evaluation, and on a more sincere note, I felt I gained a lot from watching how all these different nationalities and their attitude towards their holidays, and on a greater scale, I presume their lives. For example, I envied the easy confidence with which the Spanish and Italian women enjoyed themselves. The first in line to partake in any kind of organised beach activity, whether it be water salsa, volleyball or inflatable obstacle courses, they did it with unyielding vivacity, whatever their age, whatever their size. In a time when so many of us are riddled with image-based insecurities, encouraged by, you guessed it, the unrealistic standards that social media platforms so assuredly promote as normal, it’s comforting to know that somewhere in the world there are still people left unmarred. Although the Spanish may have the unfair Mediterranean advantage, their olive skin and naturally toned figures certainly seem to help, this didn’t seem to be the defining factor. These women would have been so enthusiastic if they were at 15 or 50, 10 stone or 20.

Although my preference for this kind of open, carefree attitude is probably biased, as the name of this blog would suggest I’m of the more restless disposition, forever in search of new, rosier, places to explore, I do think we miss something of this uninhibited, happy-go-lucky attitude back in the motherland.

But perhaps the grass is always greener? Perhaps that prime front row deckchair spot would see you splashed from the pool and burnt from the lack of shade, or that the thrill from completing the children’s-only obstacle course isn’t quite so liberating. You won’t know for sure however until you strip off and join them, seizing the spirit of Varadero and leaving your reservations behind on your inconveniently placed deckchair.