Was holidaying better in the 90s? Or did we just get old?

After 30 years of Mykonos holidays, Laura Millar reflects on the evolution of her favourite island and what keeps her coming back. Photo / 123rf
After holidaying in the same place for 30 years, Laura Millar reflects on how much life, and travel, has changed. But the real question is, was it better in the 90s?
It was June, 1993, and it had taken me and my best friend Daniel just under 15 hours to get from our home town of Edinburgh, Scotland, to our destination. And no, that wasn’t even to somewhere fabulously far-flung, such as Thailand or Indonesia. Instead, it was to a Greek island which, at the time, could only be reached by taking a flight to Athens (four hours), heading to the port of Piraeus and waiting for the first ferry to depart (another three hours), then an eight-hour journey via several other islands until we – finally – arrived at the promised land: Mykonos.
It was our first time in Greece, and we were taking a much-needed break from weeks revising for, then sitting, our university exams. We chose Mykonos because Daniel, who’s gay, had read in Lonely Planet about its welcoming values and fun nightlife, and I was only too happy to come along for the ride. We fell instantly for the charming main town, Chora. We loved getting lost within its narrow, winding streets, where upmarket boutiques selling D&G and Gucci rubbed shoulders with tiny, candlelit, Greek orthodox chapels. We’d stumble across small squares covered in bright pink bougainvillea, or wander along back alleys where weathered, head-scarved women sat gossiping on their front steps as they watched the world go by, and where skinny cats posed prettily for tourists in hope of a few scraps.
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The beaches were beautiful, too – one, called Paradise, lived up to its name, with crystal clear water and golden sand, while Super Paradise stood out for its lack-of-clothing clause – and were, back then, reached by bone-shuddering old buses with a distinct lack of suspension. The nightlife was a riot, often seeing us staggering back to our rented room at 4am, having danced ourselves dizzy while downing supersized bottles of local Mythos beer. In short, it was a hoot of a holiday, and one we immediately wanted to repeat. This marked the start of an annual ritual, where we roped in more and more of our friends to come and join the party. Some came regularly; some, like a former flatmate, or the occasional work colleague, only once or twice. But there is a still small core group who will move heaven and earth to try and make this trip every year, despite life having taken most of us in different directions.
At the beginning, we were all soon-to-be-graduates; the future loomed ahead and we weren’t entirely sure what form it would take, so a hedonistic week or two in the sun was just what we wanted. We treated sunbathing like a fulltime job, racing to the beach and staying glued to our loungers, covered only in Factor 15, until the sun started to sink. Smoking was still popular, and we got through many packs of Marlboro Lights per day. In the era before mobile phones, we all brought disposable cameras, and would meet up after we got home to pass round images taken during nights out where we didn’t care about posing, but only about losing ourselves in the music. It was, in short, a gloriously carefree time. No constantly checking work emails (they hadn’t been invented), no worrying about how to pay the mortgage (we didn’t have one), and no thought given to the effects of smoking and sunbathing (although we definitely do now).
As the years passed, our lives, inevitably, changed. Slowly, we started to climb the career ladder; myself as a journalist, Daniel as a diplomat in the British Foreign Office, our friend Katrina as a news reporter for the BBC, and our friend Merry as a communications officer for a big beer company. Later, Daniel would be posted abroad, spending two or three years at a time in often-dangerous places such as Afghanistan or South Sudan; Katrina and Merry both had children, and thus new, and different priorities; my job started to involve more and more travel.
But our time in Mykonos was non-negotiable; and the fact we spent less time together during the rest of the year made it an extra pleasure to catch up. We spend our days, and nights, talking about anything and everything, from world events to relationships, as we used to do in our early twenties (and drink and dance the way we did then, too). Responsibilities and partners are left at home; in Mykonos we rediscover our younger selves. I turned 40 here with a fun dancefloor kiss with a twenty-something; but a decade later, I turned 50 as part of a long-term, ongoing relationship.
Of course, much is different now – we can fly here direct from the UK, for a start, and we’re all earning decent enough money that we’ve graduated to smart Airbnbs, rather than a room in a tiny apartment. We’ve not smoked for years, and we all slather on Factor 50 religiously. But other things stay the same: our favourite “restaurant” is a cheap hole-in-the-wall joint which makes the best grilled chicken gyros in town, and we still start the evening with homemade vodka cocktails before paying over the odds for one or two in a club in town. Is my holiday better now that it was 30 years ago? Well, I’m still going with the people I love – and that’s what really makes it special.