This is where you stick random tidbits of information about yourself.
Delphi
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
TUESDAY
aAAAGH...
I've put my back out. It happened on Monday lunchtime after a night out at The Hole in the Head.
I was lying in bed listening to Sandy gently rattling the windows with her snoring and wondering if we'd get more complaints about the noise from the student house next door when I heard the jingling of our cat's collar bell.
Usually it only jingles its bell if it wants something like food, or to go out, or come in, or when it's watching a wildlife programme on TV.
You can always tell when it's been watching TV because the screen has little dots of cat snot in a straight line right across it. Like our living room window.
Anyway, I was lying there already unable to sleep so I put the light on to see what he wanted. To my surprise, he was sitting there with a little blond mouse in his mouth. I asked him what he was doing and when he opened his mouth to reply, to his surprise, the mouse dropped on to the carpet and legged it for the bed and disappeared underneath. I told him he should have kept his mouth shut and he said "Me-'Ow?"
Sandy asked what all the noise was. After a few minutes, our cat decided it was time to hit the bed and came and wedged himself between us. No sooner had his head hit the duvet, he was out like a light. And so was Sandy. I was still lying in the darkness whilst my wife and my cat snored a duet. There was no sound of the mouse.
At lunchtime on Monday, I came home from school for my lunch and went upstairs to see if I could locate the mouse. I looked in shoes, in the wardrobe, and under the bed with a torch but to no avail. Then I stood on the bed and shone the torch down the back next to the wall. And there he was. Crouched in a little ball. He looked like he was dead. I waggled the wire from the bedlamp until it touched him and to my shock and horror the mouse disappeared. His sudden movement startled me and I jerked back in case he was about to attack. That's when I put my back out.
Twenty-four hours later I'm on pain killers and still not sleeping very well. I walk around the school like an old man and there's been no sign of the mouse. I think the mouse disappeared into all those balls of fluff we've been cultivating for so long.
We might have to leave the mouse to the cat. If he hasn't eaten the cat already.
Friday, April 25, 2003
FRIDAY 25th APRIL BARRYāS HOUSE, CRAWLEY Dead late.
ĪHow to Complain with Positive Effectā.
Almost a fortnight later and I present myself back at the airline desk at Gatwick where they have absolutely no knowledge of any meeting but due to the kind attention given by the supervisor, I receive an apology and some helpful advice. She doesnāt mention the sickbag.
We are breaking our journey back to Cornwall by staying overnight with our friend Barry, so five minutes after I phone he arrives at Gatwick, he whisks us back to his place to rest. I can hardly believe that this morning we were in Naxos. That this afternoon I posted my Blog in Piraeus and now Iām here soaking in my bath the same evening. Amazing. I was really wound up when I arrived in Greece and found the remnants of my bag on the carousel at Athens airport. That was ages ago. Iām glad I waited till now to sort it out in my head.
I watch the drifting wisps of incense mingle with the steam above my head and conclude that if I am to restore any semblance of justice in this entire nightmare, I will have to move with stealth. After all it's me against big guns and complaints are not unknown to them. I plan my attack carefully as I sip some Ouzo from a vase.
I dig out all my receipts, photographs and correspondence, and prepare my statement of complaint. I do not feel petty.
Tomorrow Iāll present my insurance claim, then visit the local library where, in the Registry of Businesses (UK), I should be able to note the name, address and telephone number of the Chief Executive of the holiday company concerned. Then Iāll telephone and casually ask the telephonist the e-mail address of the Chief Executive. If I set out the letter as though writing to a business confidante, with the odd compliment, a few well-chosen phrases and words like Īcavalier disregardā, Īcare and attentionā, Īcustomer satisfactionā, Īsoiled reputationā, Īdisappointment, surprise, reputation, sorry and sadā, Iāll appear more rational instead of blowing my top. Iāll send a copy to my computer at home, then paste it in an e-mail to the ĪChiefā with a copy sent to "Watchdog", the TV consumer programme.
IF I DONāT RECEIVE A REPLY OR ACKNOWLEDGEMENT WITHIN A WEEK, IāLL FIRE OFF A SECOND SALVO DIRECTLY AT THE CHIEF EXECUTIVE PERSONALLY, EXPRESSING SURPRISE AT THE SILENCE IN VIEW OF WHAT IS AT STAKE.
Iāll probably receive a speedy reply from his secretary with apologies and assurance of investigation.
Iāll respond with concern and promise to reserve judgement.
Thereāll be another silence and Iāll reiterate my complaints, send a copy of my first letter and notify "Watchdog" once again.
The secretary will promise immediate instruction to their Customer Services Branch.
Our Īsuperā ferry just didnāt fit against the backdrop of ancient Naxos. It was just too modern. It looked like a huge solitary trainer. Or a giant supository. We sat on a bench on the stern watching the white stripe left in the sea by the propellers. "I feel like a beer." said I. "So do I. But who's going to the bar?" said she.
"Kalimera" The old boy smiled at Sandy and pointed to the space next to her. "OK?" Heād appeared as if from nowhere and gave us quite a start. "Of, course. Signomi. Excuse me" and she shifted along towards me, "Parakalo. Please sit down." "You English?" "Why yes. How can you tell?" "Well, itās Easter and the English love the flowers. My name is Yiorgos Grispos but you may call me George. This is your husband?" "Yes. Some Greeks call him Andonis but I call him Tony." George laughed, "Ti kanis, Andonis. How are you?" We were being very formal just like the older Greeks like it. "Kala. Good. Esis?" "Poli kala. Very good." "George this is my wife, Sandy, though some Greeks call her Alessandra." "Alessandra and Andonis. Good Greek names. Good choice."
He was a philosopher and had taught in the US, Britain as well as at the University of Athens. He looked like Socrates with his bald head and magnificent white beard.
George sighed. "You know since my wife died, I live with my sister in Athens but I miss the solitude of Schinoussa. You canāt think in a city. I visit the little island whenever I can. Have you been there? I stay with an old friend at the bay called Almiros."
After the niceties his conversation took on a more serious tone.
"Please forgive me, Iām an old man and my time is passed but I worry for the young. Our world is in such a state. We humans seem to presume weāre at the top of the evolutionary scale, but how do we know? What if the rest of the animal community simply suffers us for being the crazed other creatures that we are, for being the planetary assassins that we demonstrate ourselves to be?"
Sandy shot me a glance. Was this guy a nutter? We do seem to attract them.
"You know my friends, animals have it easy. I had a cat once but I think he ran away to settle down. I used to study him. He couldnāt fail. All he had to do was be himself and he was an instant success. No driving ambitions; no slave to whim or fashion; passive; other worldly. He grew its own clothes and then just lay around grooming himself. Perfection. He was completely content as long as I fed him. All I got in exchange was the occasional purr. But I loved his way of moving through his world alone. Without judgement. He taught me a lot. Cats love being cats. Cats donāt start wars. Cats arenāt thoughtless enough to destroy the planet. They are just happy being cats."
I felt trapped but we were mesmerised now.
"Humans are not very happy. Weāre the only creature stupid enough to design itās own destruction on the way to a heart attack. Perhaps we look in the wrong place for happiness. We try to find it with technology and gimmicks when we should be developing ourselves into better humans."
George kept smiling but he was serious.
"And look at our leaders. They are showing definite signs of madness. Why entrust something as important as our future with people who are so insecure? If the world were a village, we would surely lock Īem up."
I still felt trapped.
"Perhaps weāve already had our turn and our time is nearly up. Maybe some other creature is already waiting in the wings to have their turn. Like the donkey or the cockroach. Or even the earth itself."
"But not cats?" Sandy.
"Oh no. Theyāre far too ·er·cool. They wouldn't be interested."
A smiling young man appeared at our side and nodded at George.
"Well, here is my chaperone. It must be time for my nap. Please forgive the ranting of an old man. I spend too much time alone. Goodbye Alessandra and Andonis. Take care of each other."
Hi Sandy had a mad little birthday yesterday. After breakfast and the presents, we spent the first couple of hours lounging on the beach until a fierce Meditteranean sun rushed us into the shadows of the old town to cool off. Still, a couple of hours wasnāt bad and after some refreshing ice-cold, squashed-to-order tall, cold glasses of orange juice, we made our way slowly up to the castle to have a poke about.
The Īkastroā is perched right on top of the town and in the past has been inhabited by a whole series of 'liberators' busily ransacking the Cyclades for hundreds of years, such as theVenetians in 1207 and the Turks in 1562 to name just several. Make a note: Thereās a restaurant here where they donāt mind you using their toilet in 'emergency'. Itās called The Apollonas. Just below the ramparts lies the old town proper ö a series of narrow alley ways and passageways and tunnels that are a schoolkidās dream. You are costantly surprised by sudden explosions of bourgainvillia spilling from balconies in really dazzling clouds of colour. Glimpses of the Meditteranean peep through the old window grills and wall mosaics are everywhere. The whole area is an adventure. Ancient archways, wooden doors with peeling and cracked paintwork, myths and magic trip you in the shadows. Some of the houses are still inhabited and but thereās hardly anybody about. Those that are, nod and whisper, "Kalispera, Goodafternoonā so as not to wake those in siesta.
But it was lunchtime and we were going doolally with the irresistable smell from a hundred restaurant kitchens torturing our greed. All we wanted was to sit in the shade of some tree outside some little taverna and chill some, and once again, the gods smiled because just as we turned a corner we almost fell into the little wooden chairs outside the restaurant of our dreams. Weād arrived at Giakouniās Caf Bar just off the sea front where we lounged with our backs against the crumbling ancient walls and pleasured ourselves on Kalamaris, tzadiki and their home produced crassis. Our food is fishy and lemon juice drips from my fingers and everything is Greekly delicious and Sandy got the giggles. ĪOur Wine all Barrelled from Our Farm' announced a proud notice.
Afterwards, Sandy finished off the sketches sheād been making of the houses in the castle area while I went hunting for the world famous Underberg gut reliever - just to be sure. Then we let that afternoon relax and sat in silent wonder in that street under that striped awning with that sun finding its way through those gentle shadows onto my arm at that moment on that day in this life. Radio Naxos sang, "Everything is beautiful" and we were charmed.
When the sun dipped a little, we took a little excursion in a bone-shaker of a bus around some of the old villages and on to a liqueur distillary. But the best part was rolling down an hourās worth of mountain road to a little beach resort and then being buffetted and knocked to pieces in some serious rollers on a wild and woolly beach. We just couldn't stand up.
In the evening of Sandyās birthday we return to Giakouniās for dinner but it was a completely different set-up. There were no outside tables free so we had to sit inside nursing rather flat cocktails called White Lady that tasted a little more alcohol free than we were expecting. These so-called drinks were chaperoned by a little dish of obligatory oversalted peanuts. Karma hit me instantly and a peanut fragment caught in my throat and although I wasnāt exactly choking, it was stuibbornly refusing to budge. Eventually, the sleepy waiter got the message after some noisycoughing and some frantic waving of my arms. It only took one glass of water and I was free to order another drink. For dinner, I ordered the fillet of chicken WITHOUT the everpresent Tzadiki. Sandy had an omelette. After my whitebait replacement, we wandered down on the harbour front for a nightcap and to listen to the street musicians play Zorba's Dance before returning to our balcony for Crme de cacao and another mind blowing sunset.
Sandyās incredibly down to earth, in fact, SO down to earth sheās coming back up again. She's a natural born buddhist. She never tries anything "fancy" ö ever. She always walks two or three paces behind me. She starts yawning around eight pm onwards. She has no real desire to "cut loose". She never shows enthusiasm for anything except us. She gives the impression she canāt wait to get home. And whereas my chicken was so inedible and tasteless that I had to send it back, Sandyās omelette was "delicious". I thought the wine was tart and yet Sandy enjoyed hers immensly. Sheās quite timid and shy and a natural beauty in every way. And I dig her.
So that was yesterday.
I'll write about today tomorrow and post it from Piraeus Cyber Cafe.
Tomorrow we catch the Flying Dolphin Express to Piraeus at 9am to get us back in time for our return flight to Gatters at 3pm-ish.
Yes, I am grumpy. Even as a kid I hated coming in from playing when it was bedtime and there was school next day. I hope I never grow up.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
TODAY IS WEDNESDAY 23RD APRIL SANDYāS BIRTHDAY
And sheās still half asleep. She looks great when sheās sleepy. And sexy too! Weāve just had some breakfast on our balcony. Bread, yoghurt, honey and peaches with coffee. The balcony is not very wide, just enough for a table and a couple of chairs.
As I said, we returned yesterday and went straight to the Tourist Info to see the lady there about a room. "No problem. We have a room, basic. How much you wanna pay? Six or seven Euros? Seven? No problem." The lady has an American accent and is very slick. Somehow I get the feeling that no matter what you Īwannaā pay, you get the same room.
They phone someone to come and show us where it is and while we were waiting Sandy shot off to the pharmacy for some ĪTUMSā. These anti-squit tablets were recommended ages ago on our first visit to Naxos and we know they work. Anyway, before long we are on safari through a labrynth of old town passageways that are sometimes tunnels and sometimes little pretty open spaces between the warrens of buildings. We pass Hotel Panorama, Chateau Leregoli, Eleniās Artshop, Handicrafts and then climb up steps, more steps and still more steps towards the Kastro and the oldest accommodation in town, The Hotel Dionysus. Nowadays itās a youth hostel divided into male and female dormitories and it has a roof garden where you can sit and enjoy the fresh air. And you need to too because the whole building is so dilapidated, musty and run down that it should be condemned - which is exactly how the hostelling youth like their holiday accommodation. We were given a choice of two rooms and the one we chose was definitely the more salubrious. It had a broken toilet seat, broken toilet window and a hole in the bedsheet. Over the sink was a sign with posted orders that screamed ĪDO NOT WASH CLOTHESā so loud that where there was paint on the walls, it had its fingers in its ears. We decided not to hang around and find somewhere else.
When we first arrived down at the ferry area and were waiting for the Norwegian lady that showed us the Dionysus, a girl on a motor scooter had offered us cheap accommodation so we went back to see if we could find her. She was there OK but the places she showed us were too near the basilica where weād stayed once before and we knew what a deafening racket they made early morning. Anyway, the gods smiled and we found this hotel and our landlady is more like your favourite aunt. Her name is Keria Despina Pantelon. She even let us haggle the price down to what she wanted us to pay and we moved in with great relief. We have hot and cold water, the share of cooking facilities, spotless linen, the balcony, as I said, a sea view and a perfect view of the ancient ruins of the Temple of Apollo on the bit sticking out to sea.
I can touch the house next door if I lean across the passageway below and by sheer coincidence, I stayed there ten years ago with two chums from Falmouth in Cornwall. Also we have table and chairs on the roof overlooking the whole town and other islands including Paros, and a yard with a washing line, pegs etc so we can study other peopleās underwear. All in a family run house for travellers and all marble and ancient wood. Last nightās sunset was one of the most breathtaking we have ever seen ö although we had had a few Ouzos. We were served our drinks in what looked like vases and there was so much ice, Sandy was looking for a little model of the Titanic. Absolutely the bees knees.
But now!
I have to nip out and find something to give Sandy for her birthday present.
Then!
Itāll be time to hose ourselves down and hit the town for a special birthday day out. See you later.
LATER
I found a pretty Īcatā card and a stone Greek owl for Sandyās present and then we bought some more Euros and everything is dreamy.
Itās late afternoon. We are staying in the Hotel Pantelon, Naxos town although the sign outside just reads 'Rent Rooms'. It has a balcony but no Jiver. Heās back on secret Schinoussa.
I was sitting with him waiting for Stratos to get a move on and take us to the quay for the 10am ferry. The boat was due in five minutes and Stratos was getting annoyed at me constantly hurrying him up. "You canāt rush a Greek", someone said to me a thousand years ago and it is so, so true. Anyway, Jiver was sitting next to me dozing as usual on a bench in the yard. I was trying to tune in to local radio on my portable but it was difficult to find the signal. I intended to tape some radio and music onto my Dictaphone to kill time and to make a souvenir. Now itās not generally well known, but there are very few seagulls in Greece. I donāt know why but thatās a fact. Yet this morning there was one on our roof and it was getting right up my nose making an almighty din. I was almost turning meat-eater. Unable to stand any more interference, I actually shouted at him to "fāoff" and to my amazement, he shut up. Complete and instant silence. Then, just when I was getting through to local Radio Naxos, and I swear the next is true, he swooped low over my head, screeched an angry squawk and dumped on me. A direct hit right on my bald patch. Jiver shot through a hole under the gate and disappeared and we never saw him again before we left.
And thatās not all. The morning became even stranger. It was very calm and beautiful as usual. I packed confusedly and together, Sandy and I stored our bags in the Īlock-upā inside our pension. We were on our way for coffee when we were joined by an old guy whoās been nodding and smiling to us everyday. There we were just walking along and he joined us without saying anything and the three of us trotted along in silence as though we did it every day. I suppose he fancied a walk, and rather than walk alone he decided to walk with us. There arenāt that many people in our village so I suppose that must be the custom, for company I suppose. I donāt know why but we pretended we were going for a swim and so he went off toward the bakery. We went up to the kafeneion and had coffees Īmetrioā which is supposed to mean medium sweet but theyāre always like treacle, and croissants sealed in foil like crisps. They were stuffed with chocolate and really fresh. Delish.
Mid voyage, weāre chugging our way across the sea when Sandy points out a swell like is left in the wake of a ship. But there is no ship in sight. I cross to the other side of the deck to scan the water but see nothing. When I get back, Sandy canāt take her eyes off the surface, "Did you see it? A triangle of something brown skimming through the water?" From then on we kept looking but with fading hopes. Why do I always miss out? Iāve never seen a whale or a shark or a dolphin close up and Iāve never seen a ghost. Iāve never met an alien or been abducted by them to my knowledge. I have had an Īout-of-body experienceā but Iāve only ever seen one UFO. But as for seagulls, theyāre always shitting on me. In the room below ours is an ancient lady who burns incense in her garden. Not the kind you buy in head shops but the kind you smell in church (not the old lady). I love its strength.
And now we are leaving. At ten tomorrow, the good ferry Skopeliti will take us back to Naxos for the last few days of our holiday.
From our balcony here with its perfect views, I watch our neighbours, a couple of donkeys, play-fighting in the acre of scrub and sandy hillside below until they call a truce and casually stand stock still, snorting and flicking their tales at the ubiquitous flies. I like donkeys because they are peaceful, patient and wise. I throw them some carrots and wave them goodbye. Jiver is snoozing in the shade of Sandyās legs on the sunny balcony. Sandyās a bit down, like me, but keeps herself occupied by painting little watercolous in her art book.
The secret island of Schinoussa has a population of 120 divided between two villages. Panagia has about 100 residents and Mersini has 20 for definite because I think we met them all. According to our friend Spiro, "The reason the village is out of sight of the harbour is that in the old days many pirates landed on the island so the villagers were forced to build on high ground. In that way they could watch the sea from all angles and were not taken by surprise by the pirates."
Every now and then we stumble into paradise on earth and find such peace and tranquility that it is practically a sin to breathe a word about it to another living soul. Timeless, tiny Schinoussa is just like this. This is rural Greece; mainly a farming, fishing and animal rearing community that has hardly changed from the beginning of who knows when and we must pay heed. Its allure comes from being so disarmingly unsophisticated and the last thing it needs is careless tourism.
The view from the ferry is of an unassuming harbour with perhaps half a dozen fishing boats bobbing and swaying before two optimistic tavernas, and you might well be forgiven for not investigating further, but for those who do succumb to her seduction and step ashore, Schinoussa is blissfully enchanting and never to be forgotten.
And yes, I can definitely confirm that the squits have gone.
Havenāt been to the toilet since last night so hopefully the squitters have passed. After three days we still hadnāt found the Post Office. On our way to the beach, we interrupted some scallywags playing in the dust and asked them if they knew where we might find the Telegraphia. In a fit of giggles, they led us down a narrow flowery path into a sunny yard where a man was chatting to a donkey. The elder boy smiled and in beautiful English presented the old man as,
"The Post Office."
The old man became serious, straightened his back and looked us over. Then he sighed and led us up some steps and into his house. I asked for ten Euro stamps, "Deka. Europe. Parakalo." He rummaged around inside a tin box before declaring, "I only have enough stamps for six cards. And you need three on each card to make up the revenue." I nodded and selected the relatives, then with them almost covered in stamps, I looked about for the post box. "Just leave them on the side-board, I take down to the ferry later."
We decided to nail the arrangements for our exodus as soon as possible because when one`s body is full of disgusting surprises, one begins to wonder just how long one can manage without a friendly chemist. On our way to find out about the ferry, Sandy tells me that she calls the cat Jiver because heās so cool.
ĪAll Your Holiday Needsā boasts the sign outside the ĪTourist Centre Super Marketā, a lean-to tacked on to the last house in the village (though overlooking some breathtaking scenery). As soon as I could catch his attention, I asked the young assistant when the ferry left for Naxos.
"Naxos? Every day." He was busy castigating some friends at the counter.
"Thanks. Do you have a timetable?" I smiled. He frowned.
"Outside. There is a notice board!" He continued his bullying rant. I went outside. No sign of a notice board. I went back inside and politely asked him once again. He shot me an impatient glance.
"Behind the wall!"
Outside, there was nothing behind the wall but an old shoe. This time, I returned and decided to do it the Greek way. So from the doorway, I interrupted without apology, arms outstretched in the local Īdefinitiveā stance and raised my voice in Greek (this means with a certain impatience at his stupidity) and asked him to come and show me. All eyes were on the crazy Englishman. He marched out from behind the counter muttering something to his friends and signalled for me to follow. We were so close and so in step, it looked rehearsed. Rounding the corner of the shop, he glared at me and without looking where he was pointing, he jabbed a finger in the direction of the glass-fronted notice board containing a pale square of A4, its wording long-since faded by the sun.
"Time table!"
I shrugged. Then when he turned to look, he couldnāt believe his eyes. A blank sheet of paper. He even looked over the wall at the shoe then impatiently smeared away the grime and leaned forward toward the glass. Zilch. Crestfallen, he grunted and pushed his way through his friends and disappeared inside the shop. They fell about sniggering, their hands covering their mouths.
The kid who introduced us to the "Post Office" pulled Sandy's sleeve and proudly announced in his perfect English, "Excuse me Sir, but the ferryboat leaves every day at about twelve." She thanked him, shook his dusty hand and they stood grinning at each other until he blushed and walked inside. His mates were impressed.
Iām pleased to report that the squits have definitely passed.
Yesterday was one of the gentlest Fridays Iāve had this lifetime. In the afternoon, when it was too hot to move, we intended snorkelling in an isolated lagoon (I nearly said swimming but it was much too hot for even that). Warm, crystal clear waters and deserted beaches, well it just seemed so obvious and so natural that to wear anything seemed silly. So we just floated about naked. I wondered why we make such a prudish fuss? And the lagoon is a work of art in pastel. A huge oyster shell under a turquoise sea.
We suffered there until we could take no more and were forced to take shelter in the shade of an ancient, swaying pepper tree. Once there, we simply let the afternoon sift between our fingers and dozed and dreamed and listened to the cooing of mad, gossiping doves who lived in a beautiful white and blue dovecote and the drone from some extremely busy beehives that dotted the hillside behind.
I was still suffering from Sudden Tummy Surprise.
When weād had enough, we dragged ourselves back to our pension under the full glare of that merciless sun. Stupidly, I`d left my hat on the balcony and it wasnāt long before I suffered with stinging heat all over my dome. Salt crystals became tiny lenses of magnification, like the pricks from a zillion red-hot needles. I was sunstruck. It wasnāt long before my body was on fire and my face was a bearded tomato. I was definitely unwell. I completely understood the wisdom of those swimmers who rinse their heads from a bottle of tap water when they come out of the sea.
There was no alternative but to get in bed and wait for it to pass and thatās why Iām writing this lying down.
Out on the balcony, Sandy has made friends with an orange and white kitten she calls Jiver. Donāt ask...
Yesterday was one of the gentlest Fridays Iāve had this lifetime. In the afternoon, when it was too hot to move, we intended snorkelling in an isolated lagoon (I nearly said swimming but it was much too hot for even that). Warm, crystal clear waters and deserted beaches, well it just seemed so obvious and so natural that to wear anything seemed silly. So we dispensed with wearing anything at all and just floated about naked. I wonder why we make such a prudish fuss? And the lagoon is a work of art in pastel. A huge oyster shell under a turquoise sea.
We suffered there until we could take no more and were forced to take shelter in the shade of an ancient, swaying pepper tree. Once there, we simply let the afternoon sift between our fingers and dozed and dreamed and listened to the cooing of mad, gossiping doves who lived in a beautiful white and blue dovecote and the drone from some extremely busy beehives that dotted the hillside behind.
I was still suffering from Sudden Tummy Surprise.
When weād had enough, we dragged ourselves back to our pension under the full glare of that merciless sun. Stupidly, I`d left my hat on the balcony and it wasnāt long before I suffered with stinging heat all over my dome. Salt crystals became tiny lenses of magnification, like the pricks from a zillion red-hot needles. I was sunstruck. It wasnāt long before my body was on fire and my face was a bearded tomato. I was definitely unwell. I completely understood the wisdom of those swimmers who rinse their heads from a bottle of tap water when they come out of the sea.
There was no alternative but to get in bed and wait for it to pass and thatās why Iām writing this lying down.
Out on the balcony, Sandy has made friends with an orange and white kitten she calls Jiver. Donāt ask...
Hi again! Last night we agreed the local kafeneion serves the most delicious food of all. Usually, we sit at a table outside. Thereās this one long street that snakes through the village before it loses interest and fades into sand. Moths dance around the lightbulb. Bats swoop and dive. Cicadas play maracas. Dogs and children bark in the dark. Townsfolk sit and quietly gossip in lengthening shadows. They tilt their heads and smile in our direction. We feel accepted as we stroll amongst them, mesmerised by the silence and the fragrance and the crunch beneath our feet, enchanted by the stretched visions of coastline floating above the sea in crystal clear illusion. This morning I had Greek Tummy Surprise. We have no medication and thereās no pharmacy, just the doctor. Also weāre running out of money already and thereās no bank, just the extortionate exchange rate inflicted by the travel shop. Weāre too unprepared to stay very long so weāve decided to preserve our beautiful memories and return to Naxos within the next few days. Across the road from our pension is a small restaurant in a garden of purple bourgainveallia. Under a banana tree, heavy with fat, green fruit, we took a chance on food and breakfasted on stale bread, jam and coffee milkshakes and promised to treat ourselves to a banquet later if we can find a more imaginative restaurant. Mid-morning, a dark cloud drifted over the village and almost apologetically released a sudden downpour of raindrops as big as grapes for a couple of minutes before the heat from the sun regained control and shooed it away, leaving shadows to drift in slow motion again. During the deluge, everything that could took cover; from people, cats and dogs, donkeys and kids, cows and goats, down to spiders and insects. And everywhere was the balm of dust and wild jasmine. It just makes you go all gooey.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
Thursday Heaven Hi Yesterday, at the bow of our ferry we met Spiro. Eight years ago, he was a top basketball player for Albania. During the International League Final against Moscow, he defected, made a marriage of convenience with a Russian doctor in Athens and had lived on Schinoussa for the past eight years. Last week, he'd fractured his forearm and had been to get it X-rayed on the Ībigā island. On Schinoussa he knew of a place we could stay and could arrange a lift up to the village from the quay and that's how I came to be tipsy by that vision from the balcony when we arrived. The owner of our pension is Stratos, a little round man who never stands still but who rolls his truck up and down the hill from the port in lieu of an island bus service. His equally rounded wife, Oriana and their cleaning lady Nadia, who says sheās from Bulgaria but who Stratos says is a Turk, did everything they could to make us comfortable. Stratos even cobbled my broken sandals and offered us mosquito repellent although I think his repellent is more repellent than the mosquitoes. Apart from the tinkle of goat bells, the lowing of cattle and the braying of a distant donkey, the dusk is completely still. Its sky is orange fading into purple night. A twinkling mass of stars fills the sky that sits over us like a huge upturned bowl brought occasionally to life by the flashing of a darting star. And there, in the stroke of a brush, lies the sash of the magnificent Milky Way, a breathtaking ache of the heart. I love it here. (to be continued) Ibid.
As youād expect during the summer in Greece, this morning is bright and sunny and after a restless night in the cell of a hostel definitely intended for 1st century pirates, I decided to put my problems on Īholdā and suggested we take a ferry to one of the smaller islands. We had no idea where we were going so we just wandered along the little quayside until we came across a ferry that was about to weigh anchor. The sign on the gangplank read "Schinoussa". Neither of us had ever heard of it. Ideal. Somehow I thought it would be another Īquietā package island. Neither the brash Naxos nor the westernised Paros, perhaps something in-between, but I was mistaken. Within two hours weād arrived. As I stood there on the silent balcony of our room, looking down at the far flung outer islets fading into the truly purple twilight, floating like appliqu shapes on the utterly clear blue truly mirror-like water, I knew I had no memory of anywhere more beautiful or peaceful than this gentle, secret island of Schinoussa. You couldnāt knock it. The crossing from Naxos was a dream. Smiling, thoughtful faces in search of the "other" Greece, the real Greece, poured over maps or stretched on tired backs, calmly mesmerised by the rolling Mediterranean; lost in private reverie. There is something deeply reassuring in the knowledge that havens of humanity remain unsullied by the Americanisation of our psyche. And thereās something incredibly refreshing when youāve been trying to communicate with a someone of a foreign culture and neither of you understand the otherās tongue and then you make yourself understood by reverting to the universal language of mime and grunts and hopefully, much nodding. Just like we all did at the beginning. And to sit with foreign people, listening to their babble and knowing full well that no one in that group can speak your language, and to be made aware that you are welcome within that foreign circle, it gives me hope. I love to be where people exist by choice, without the dictates of fad and fashion, in splendid naivete and where schedules are just a joke.
As youād expect during the summer in Greece, this morning is bright and sunny and after a restless night in the cell of a hostel definitely intended for 1st century pirates, I decided to put my problems on Īholdā and suggested we take a ferry to one of the smaller islands. We had no idea where we were going so we just wandered along the little quayside until we came across a ferry that was about to weigh anchor. The sign on the gangplank read "Schinoussa". Neither of us had ever heard of it. Ideal. Somehow I thought it would be another Īquietā package island. Neither the brash Naxos nor the westernised Paros, perhaps something in-between, but I was mistaken. Within two hours weād arrived. As I stood there on the silent balcony of our room, looking down at the far flung outer islets fading into the truly purple twilight, floating like appliqu shapes on the utterly clear blue truly mirror-like water, I knew I had no memory of anywhere more beautiful or peaceful than this gentle, secret island of Schinoussa. You couldnāt knock it. The crossing from Naxos was a dream. Smiling, thoughtful faces in search of the "other" Greece, the real Greece, poured over maps or stretched on tired backs, calmly mesmerised by the rolling Mediterranean; lost in private reverie. There is something deeply reassuring in the knowledge that havens of humanity remain unsullied by the Americanisation of our psyche. And thereās something incredibly refreshing when youāve been trying to communicate with a someone of a foreign culture and neither of you understand the otherās tongue and then you make yourself understood by reverting to the universal language of mime and grunts and hopefully, much nodding. Just like we all did at the beginning. And to sit with foreign people, listening to their babble and knowing full well that no one in that group can speak your language, and to be made aware that you are welcome within that foreign circle, it gives me hope. I love to be where people exist by choice, without the dictates of fad and fashion, in splendid naivete and where schedules are just a joke.
SIX HOURS LATER IāM WALKING THE STREETS OF MY DREAM ISLAND HOLIDAY DESTINATION SEARCHING FOR A TRAVEL INFORMATION OFFICE WITH A FAX MACHINE IN ORDER TO ARRANGE A FACE TO FACE FOR THE MOMENT MY PLANE LANDS SO I CAN LODGE MY COMPLAINT. I ALSO WANT TO ARRANGE FOR A FULL SICK BAG TO BE SENT TO THE TRAVEL COMPANYāS GATWICK REPRESENTATIVE IN TIME FOR OUR MEETING.
BEFORE I CAN DO THIS, I HAVE TO FIND A PUBLIC TELEPHONE TO CONTACT THE LOCAL AGENT IN ATHENS AND ASK FOR THE APPROPRIATE FAX NUMBER.
I FEEL A LITTLE STRESSED.
I GET THROUGH AND AM GIVEN A MANCHESTER NUMBER TO RING FOR THIS INFORMATION. SOMEONE IN MANCHESTER GIVES ME THE NUMBER FOR CUSTOMER SERVICE.
BACK AT THE TRAVEL SHOP THEY CONFIRM THE NUMBER AS INCORRECT.
MORE STRESSED.
I RETURN TO THE TELEPHONE KIOSK AND PHONED MANCHESTER AGAIN.
I`M ASKED TO CALL BACK WHEN THEY HAVE THE CORRECT INFORMATION.
MY PHONE CARD IS ALMOST EXHAUSTED AT THIS POINT SO I HAVE TO BUY ANOTHER.
EVENTUALLY I PHONE BACK AND AM GIVEN ANOTHER NUMBER.
OVER IN THE TRAVEL SHOP, THEY MAKE THE CONNECTION AND I PAY THE FEE AND RECEIVE THE ĪOKā CONFIRMATION.
ALL IN ALL, THIS ADDED FIASCO HAS COST ME A LITTLE OVER TEN EUROS (ABOUT SEVEN QUID), A FURTHER DRAIN ON MY PATIENCE PLUS MY PEACE OF MIND.
AS YOU WILL AGREE, SPENDING THE FIRST DAY OF AN ANNUAL HOLIDAY SEARCHING FOR SOME REASSURANCE FROM THE COMPANY IN WHOSE HANDS WE PLACE THE SAFETY OF OUR BAGGAGE IS CACK.
Itās the start of my first package holiday in years and my first holiday in weeks. Four in the morning, I`m tired, evil-tempered, disappointed, frustrated and very, very angry, but this is not the time to scream and shout. I have to hold it all together. Besides, Athens Tourist Police carry pistols.
I think it was the moment I reluctantly accepted the unfamiliar parcel going round and round on the carousel as my own that I realised I`d have to chill and be cool if I expected to get any form of redress from whomever was responsible. It had been quite a day already and now my brand new rucksack had been shredded. It looked like lace.
Eighteen hours earlier and I'm waiting on my Cornish branch line platform, watching the sea sparkle and listening to the Blue Tits sing. Iām free as a bird and waiting for my main line connection at the start of my two-week break. I don't even mind the train being six minutes late. But I should. Because six minutes is just long enough for me to miss my connection to Reading. OK. So I`ll catch the next one. But that won't pull out for another hour. The phrase "domino effect" comes to mind along with a picture of me waving "kalo taxides" (which means bon voyage) to my plane climbing high in the sky from Gatwick. A shiver of panic thrusts me through the swing doors of the ticket office to join the other disgruntled passengers that take a quarter of an hour to dissolve before I can harass the clerk into rearranging my schedule. I fill out a Complaint Form to pass the time.
The next available train can only take me as far as Exeter Station, and from there Iāll have to catch another on to Reading.
OK.
But the Exeter train is following the mail train and running "a little late". My edges are fraying and in danger of becoming decidedly ragged. An hour to wait at Reading. Restless but relieved, I kill time by drinking things in railway cafes and wandering the railway shops thumbing magazines and books until I stumble, just stumble, on a notice board that informs me that the train now standing at Platform 4 is the Gatwick Express. It`ll be leaving in three minutes. I`d been directed to the wrong platform. Aaagh.
And my adventure has only just begun.
My flight to Athens leaves more or less on time but within half an hour, along with other sufferers, I'm forced to ask for a blanket to contend with the faulty air-conditioning but there aren't enough to go round. There's an uncool, draughty atmosphere on board. Even the stewards are rubbing their forearms in a bid to keep up the circulation. I half expect them to warn us to "keep active" and "Fer Christās sake donāt fall asleep". I just hope my emergency exit isn't jammed.
And there's no elbowroom. This makes eating almost impossible during dinner and when I inevitably drop my plastic knife into the black hole between myself and my neighbour, I all but scream.
Someone's got it in for me. Usually I love the flight, even when itās as cheap as this. It's the overture to the vacation. But this time I want to get off and go home, and following Johnny English without headphones isn't exactly riveting and so, lulled into a real sense of rigid boredom, I'm glad when we finally land.
As Luggage Claim areas go, the one at Athens airport is not renowned par excellence and while many travellers are known to stare at the carousel there as a form of cultural distraction, I am a zombie when waiting for my bag. Then suddenly it dawns on me that the shapeless lump making its third tour of the carousel is in fact my rucksack. I go into instant denial, even when I recognise some of my personal effects that are now held within the bundle of canvass rags by white sticky tape.
But how? By what process? Who`s responsible? Where`s my apology? EXPLAIN!!
These rucksacks are advertised as being specifically tough even in rugged conditions. The officer in Athens Lost and Found is genuinely concerned and phones through to the plane where the baggage handlers confirm that the blob arrived in that sorry condition from London. I will sue. She helps me take some photographs for evidence. It looks like itās been dragged along behind the jet. Was this some cynical, vengeful and mindless terrorist employee of the airport who thinks I have a sense of humour? Had he merely shrugged off his Gatwick responsibility knowing I could simply claim on the insurance? Itās a nightmare.
Clearly, when a tragedy of this magnitude happens, someone responsible should tactfully break the news to the next of kin and not just leave them to find out the depressing details when theyāre suffering from every effect of whacking jet lag known to man. (this might be continued...)
It has been in darkness and now it is in light. In its own heartbeat it finds reassuring rhythms. It feels more comfortable. Before the light, it was cold with just the images of a sky overhead and the horizon, with desert in between. In the light it is warm and so are the rocks and sand and some trees that it can touch. They are hard and warm. It is soft and warm. Soft is hurt by hard. It knows these things.
Its mind tells it that it is not like these others but it is of these others. It tells it that it is a different thing quite able to change its position, unlike the rocks that it climbs, or the trees that give it things to eat and drink, or the ground where it changes consciousness. It tells it that it is different from them. It is mobile. Nothing else is mobile, only it. It has been waiting for the light to bring with it the mood to change and to move. It does not search. It knows nothing but it is not ignorant. It has memory. It has known pain. It knows no fear but it knows danger. It does not know desire but it has need. Need to eat, to drink, to stretch and to rest. It knows these things. It knows no other creature like itself. It is alone but not lonely.
It moves to a tree in some boulders on the horizon and finds a small pool of the water there. A knows stillness. The rocks are hard like other rocks and the water is just as wet as the water on the leaves of the trees. But here is a lot of this water and the water is dark.
When it looks, something moves in the water. Some other thing that is mobile. Some other thing. It looks closer. It is startled by something in the water. There is a thing in the water that moves at precisely the same moment that it does. It looks down and keeps still. Instinctively it withdraws a little from the pool. The thing does the same. At first, it likes the thing. There is something about this thing that it likes. The thing is close but not too close. The thing has no smell. It senses no danger from the thing. Then it knows something new. This thing is mobile and as mobile as it.
Or as slow.
But not different.
This thing in the water is almost the same as it. But not absolutely. It reaches down. The thing reaches up. It is still there but where is the thing? The water has the thing. The thing loses shape. Then slowly the thing comes back. It can make the thing go but it has to wait for the thing to come back. The thing will not be controlled. The thing is mobile, just like it. Then it knows its mind was mistaken. There is another thing now and there might be more. It can no longer trust its mind completely. When the darkness comes back and it lies on the ground to rest, it knows there are more things to know.
(to be continued)
Love Poem
Thank you for a lovely evening Thank you for my tea. Thank you for evrything Thank you for me. Go forth and get fresh.
Ibid.
······.. Sunday
I looked around the room then through the window to the white capped mountains of north-eastern Hungary. The cold wind whistled through the town outside while I sat, warm and content, by a purring stove that squatted on four housebricks, the centre of attention and the only source of heat in the inn apart from that coming from the open kitchen. The winter had been bleak and although spring would be more gentle, the tables and chairs had been left gathered around the stove to make the diners more comfortable. It dawned on me that for the first time in two week's walking I`d be comparatively safe from wild animals, except the ones in my dreams, of course. I had actually seen a real wild boar one day when tramping through the woods on the slopes near Zahony and it had been looking for food. Every morning started the same way. I woke up never quite sure what century I was in because I would hear farmyard noises and voices in a language I could never understand, even when I stayed in towns. Everything was so mediaeval. I was travelling in a time warp. The Hungarian country-folk might have very little money but they have boundless humanity. I had been told of this before I`d left England. Daily, I grew to realise how much I relied on that innocent hospitality to ease me on my way. One morning, weary from hours of wandering through a wilderness of boulders and rocks, I rested by a deep pool and when I looked, my reflection made me jump. I kept still until I felt foolish. Then I withdrew a little from the pool. Instinct I suppose. In a quiet moment, I began to imagine other, earlier dawns and wondered what it might have been like for some innocent primitive being, travelling in isolation, calmly unaware yet completely enlightened. I wondered about the peace of mind that comes from scant imagination. I wondered if our unquenchable desire was perhaps the source of all our unhappiness. The final few days grew softer as Spring approached and everywhere, as I walked, I saw myself. ······
It has been in light so now it stretches and rests. It is warmer. With the gentle darkness comes refuge, an image of the sky overhead and the horizon, with desert in between.
And the end of this part·.·for now
I wait in my room for your visit I pick my nose It's exquisite.
Friday, April 11, 2003
I was in Hawaii. Not only that, but I was in Hawaii and at a party. Yes, yes, as usual I was loafing on an optimistic one-way ticket but this time Iād fixed myself up with a German-owned company called English Pubs who'd been looking for a clerk. At the interview Iād insisted it was pronounced "CLARK! Listen, my very first job after leaving school was as a shipping CLERK!" "Youāre kidding. The Brits do that?" "Do what?" "You were employed as a clock??"
I was the only Englishman working there. The company was owned by Kurt Waldheim and his best friend was throwing a house-warming party. Anyway thatās how I got the invite - I was the token Englishman. Well, the party was zipping along with oceans of free cocktails and a myriad of extraordinary stimulants but it wasn't long before my shoulder was hi-jacked by the tearful tipsy hostess. She proceeded to whisper in thinly-veiled confidence all the tedious details of her husbandās infidelities with Kurt's wife whilst simultaneously blaming the affair on the ugly lump on the end of her nose. "Itās my personal suspicion that I am suffering from cancer of the nose" she sniffed knowingly. I studied my jolly cocktail to stop myself from staring at her nose whilst doing my best to appear interested in her problems.
I must have succeeded because several Rum Daiquiris and a throbbing earache later, she suddenly changed tack, grabbed my arm and, peering over the said purple protuberance, asked, "Tell me, what did you major at in college?" " Well, we have a different system in England," and thereby proceeded to double-glaze and confuse her with the mystifying and puzzling details of our Private and Public schooling systems until she impatiently shook her head. " Oh come on, I mean you're a psychiatrist, right?" I was flabbergasted. "Well actually, Iām a barman and sometimes I cook." She took a step back, gave a knowing smile, tapped the side of her nose and whispered, "No, no. Itās hot. I get it. Once the wordās out that one of my guests is a Cornish psychiatrist, as far as you're concerned, the party's over. Well don`t worry, your secretās safe with me." She gave me a wink and melted into the throng. Within minutes, I felt a gentle squeeze on my damp shoulder. "Hi. Iām Margaret. I hear you've been talking to Rachael, and donāt worry, your secretās safe with me. It's just that my son's got a problem and he's coming over from "Ellay" Thursday and I kinda hoped you'd have a chat. Please say you will, he's getting kinda desperate." The following Thursday, when he was still only ten minutes late, I was so into being the psychiatrist by then that I even phoned Margaret to ask what the hell had happened to her son. "His plane was delayed but he should be there within minutes. So very sorry." The knock on the door absolved all my guilt and I opened it to reveal a very troubled-looking mouse about my own age.
Down in the corner bar he ordered two CC7`s and I took the seat directly opposite his. I made myself comfortable, looked him in the eyes and said nothing. He grew fidgety. " I want you to understand that I'm only here to keep my mother quiet and, by the way, she's told me your little secret." "I'm a barman." The whisky clarified my brain. "Yeah, right. Whatever. Anyway, it's not me with the problem, it's her. My folks are staunch Catholics and now they're demanding their expected grandchild to be christened and brought up a Catholic. It's this Īhorning inā that's caused the rift in the family." I nodded knowingly. "I'm sure your mother means no harm, as a Catholic she's naturally concerned for the spiritual welfare of the whole family but just doesn't know when to 'horn out'." I was warming to the phrase. "I think the simplest way to repair the rift would be to let her arrange a formal family Christening ceremony and let the future take care of itself." I said all this whilst stroking my chin and keeping my face straight. "My God you're right." "Donāt call me God in public" "Why that's so simple. She need never know, even if the kid decides to be agnostic." When he stood up to leave he shoved a something in my shirt pocket. "I hope a fifty will cover it?" He smiled, "By the way, your secret's safe with me", and before I could protest he was gone. If ever you find yourself in the US, be a reverse-psychologist. It's all in the mind. Ibid.
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Yesterday afternoon, the trainee English teacher was been examined Īon the jobā by an external examiner. When her class had more or less sat down, she began with a friendly, "Good Morning everyone. Can you all take your hoodies off and put your bags on the floor." The Brain mumbles, "Christ and thereās me thinking itās afternoon". Pimples, The Mouth, The Prima Donna, The Hamster and The Wannabe TV Presenter all ignore her. Every girl in the back row is chewing. "I need you all to listen, please!" Manchester glugs from a bottle of mineral water and Miss Teacher is wearing an unnatural, skeletal-like grin that is even scarier than her usual phased expression. Her examiner looks like his best friend has just died. Thereās the drone of conversation welling up behind the teacherās lesson. "Can you stop chatting please?" No one does. Someone criticises the teachers spelling. "Form clusters and discuss the poems weāve been reading." The group of girls nearest to the examiner have started a low, constant hum. The Mouth is throwing dice. Conversations break out like bush fires. Someone pipes up, "Here she goes". Itās the Prima Donna on seeing the teacher write down some names. The Mouth is showing the elasticity of her navel by tugging on her navel ring. She blurts into comment a couple of times when she wants to empty her mind. The Sullen Sisters in the back row prepare for the end of lesson by putting on their make-up. The Mouth seems to be conducting her own lecture. The siren screams freedom and thereās an unstoppable swell toward the door.
This morning, one of the younger kids was stopped by the assistant head as he came crashing through the main entrance. "Stop right there" he called to the kid. "Why are you late for assembly?" The boy thought for a moment then I swear he looked the teacher in the eyes and tried, "Be...cause...the... bell... had already gone when I got here...?" I enter the staff room and I see the trainee English teacher being comforted after her examination ordeal the day before. Buckets of rain, buckets of tears.
English lesson. One of the Sullen Sisters stomps into the classroom, "Iām really pissed off". No one, least of all me, wants to know why. I close my eyes and the scene opens with me about to cross the road to my little Greek Hotel when a bar catches my curiosity. The ĪEl Grecoā looks inviting in a sleazy sort of way so I walk right in and place some late-night shopping on the bar. I just have to know if they sold such a thing as a Raki night-cap. My silent and innocent bed will have to wait a little longer. Raki is an odd thing to pour into your mouth because itās a drink with all the flavour and bouquet of lighter fuel. I developed a taste for it on the island of Crete when I was backpacking on my first visit to Greece. Raki was born in home stills and is therefore not regulated and so no two sources have the same effect. Iāve had some that just made my breath smell of sour almonds and another that I swear was hallucinogenic. Itās a clear, electric liquid made from whatever is left over in the filters and was traditionally the perk of the distillery workers in the Ouzo factories. It definitely has that Īthrough the looking-glass qualitiesā. Iād been warned that it can also induce blindness. The Madame pours some of the magic fire into a long glass with a heavy hand and charges me a heavy price. Stunned into silence at the amount, I cough up and take my drink to a table outside, squeezing past three excessively made-up ladies standing in the doorway. My eyes are stinging from the dense cloud of scented mist theyāre sharing. Some secret joke has them in fits of giggles and thatās when it occurres to me that I might have wandered into a bordello or porneon. Suddenly, as I sip my drink propping up the bar, I have the undeniable sense of deja vu. El Greco seems familiar. I realise that I have definitely been there before. Itās more of a feeling than a memory although there is also something familiar about the way the cheap perfume neutralised the taste buds. In a flash I know why Iāve been charged so much for my drink. I have a vague recollection of me standing at the bar and drinking at least two long Rakis before staggering out again without paying. It had been on the previous night. Had this made me a regular? No wonder they were all giggling. I was the private joke. Me! So with the problem solved, I relax and watch the street. From my seat beneath the old pepper tree I can see right down the street and apart from the El Greco, all is still and peaceful. Not many people about except for a few still adding last minute adjustments to their businesses and hoping to be ready for the coming seasonal panic. Then as I watch, a wonderful tableau of an older, more romantic Greece opens before my eyes. Three workmen are packing up for the night after a hard dayās slog. Caked in cement dust and grime, theyāve loaded a truck with ladders, spades and planks and turned off the cement mixer. Totally unobserved, being partly hidden by the tree, Iām comforting the dregs of my nightcap when I see one of the men produce a bazouki from a little sack and begin to play. Without even breaking their conversation the other two link arms across shoulders and begin a beautiful, thoughtful dance for no one but themselves. It doesnāt last long but when they slow to a standstill they just stand and laugh and cough before disappearing with their truck along the road in a cloud of cement dust and exhaust fumes. I sit on my balcony before turning in, finally listening to Lenny Cohen and watching a sky full of jewellery dance before my eyes.
The Prima Donna is smearing medication on her navel burn. Kirsty and Zara continue the conversation they started in September. The Mouth has found herself a seat next but one to The Prima Donna. The teacher gains some attention then states that she felt "ashamed at the conduct and behaviour of most of the girls during yesterdayās assessment by the external examiner". There is a roar of protest from the girls that demands equal criticism of the boys. Black Eyes is passively listening to her personal stereo. The teacher suggests that everyone arrange their chairs in a circle and we have a discussion based on pass the bottle. Everyone agrees not to speak unless they are holding the bottle. The Mouth looks flummoxed. The Lip states, "I think we should have a row!". Some chew gum, The Sullen Sisters throw dice. The Mouth is first to speak, "I think The Brain gets away with too much!" Suddenly everyone is shouting at once and the discussion degenerates into open warfare. The Brain and Big S start sniggering every time one of the girls holds the bottle and this infuriates whoever is holding the bottle. The Mouth gets the bottle but before she can speak The Lip interrupts with "Sheās a Michael Jackson look-alike!" referring unkindly to her rather angular nose. The Lip gets the laugh from the boys and follows up with "I wanna talk about having a w**k. You canāt use the toilets. They stink of urine and shit." The Prima Donna accuses me of giving her dirty looks. The Mouth defends me by saying that that could have two meanings and she wasnāt being fair but The Mouth she wants to regain the friendship of The Prima Donna. Pimples canāt sit still or resist punching Crisp in the arm. After a whirlwind of females pouring scorn on the boys and the boys leaving it all to The Brain to defend them. The Wannabe TV Presenter thinks we should have a monthly open forum to clear the air. The Mouth thinks that everyone should keep their opinions to themselves. To my complete astonishment, The Prima Donna suggests everyone call a truce and that we start from fresh. I suggest that we all thank her for being the most constructive. Itās the Easter Holidays for the next two weeks. Everyone cheers and we all go home. Buckets of moonbeams in our hands.
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Through the laboratory window thereās a beautiful spring day. Science Lesson 1 A mobile phone trills through the teacherās lesson and the mouth jumps up and shouts "Hang On" at him before running out of the door into the corridor. The boy behind me whines to the teacher, "Is it food time yet, Sir? Itās twenty past nine." Two girls have wandered over to the white screen and popped a CD into the computer. The teacher half-heartedly calls out "Hair, take your hat off please" Hair pulls his hat off then after a reasonable ten minutes puts it back on. Music seeps around the room "I think weāre alone now·" "Itās beyond a joke now. Hair take your hat off." The boy behind me is now eating crisps. Around the classroom, various foil bags are having their contents shoved into student mouths. Drinks are on parade. Iām actually asked if I have any mints by someone whoās just finished her sandwiches. Surprisingly, most students are getting through their tasks. I swear thereās a boy with fangs eating the remnants of a pizza.
Next Lesson is History. Ham baps, Twisters and bottled water. Much more healthy than Science. The teachers almost apologises to the class for interrupting them. "I donāt want to be picky here so please ask me for things you need at the beginning. I lose my train of thought when you constantly shout out." One of the girls is trying to catch up on some sleep. A packet of Whoopers is flung from one to the other··.. The Afghan in the back row tries her hand at slam dunking a screwed up ball of used food bags into the paper bin that sits at the front of the room. She misses. Another ball is lobbed in a beautiful arc through the air. I recognise the punch line from a joke and "the heavy knot" of five students explode in a crash of laughter. The teacher could not have made it any worse when he pleaded, "Oh, come on. Donāt start laughing you lot." Two girls have made paper aeroplanes. One crashes. One flies. The teacher compliments the Afghan, "Thatās coming along nicely". She has a Barbie Doll on her desk and she sucks her thumb. She starts criticising a paper aeroplane that has just landed on her desk, "What is that? Itās a piece of crap". The teacher gives advice on the current game of solitaire and then throws a paper dart across the room himself. The Afghan is showing off her new scissors by trimming her neighbourās pink mohair pencil case. Bored, she picks up her mobile to check for texts. She screeches at each message trying to gain attention. Braces is listening to her personal stereo as she shuffles the cards.
English The boy in front of me is plugged into his personal stereo. I ask, "What are you doing?" "Listening to Metallica, actually." Then he takes out his Mobile but changes his mind when he sees me taking notes. Orange Cap strolls into the room. "Take your hat off, please" asks the teacher. The boy in front of me is doing his best to look cool in his black baggy jeans. They have metal spikes down the outside seam. Unfortunately for him, he doesnāt quite make it due to his cute baby face and his carefully spiked hairstyle. "Seamus Heaney is a contemporary writer and this is about the death of his baby brother." One of the girls is studiously brushing her hair. This poem is called ĪMid-Term Breakā. Nine girls and seven boys sigh in unison. One of the lads still wears his coat. "Can anyone tell me what a "hard blow" means?" there are giggles all round. Very Pretty Girl is grinning and she stands and puts a hand on her hip, "Well·" "Stop talking, please" and they stop - all except Orange Cap. Heās coughing and yapping and trying to look unconcerned. A young lady yelps, "Oh, F**k!" "Can you not use language like that in my classroom, please?" Very Pretty Girl turns round, "Orange Cap, youāre a freak" He gives the finger. "Is that all youāve got?" He looks away, embarrassed. In answer to "Has anyone ever seen a dead person?" Big Girl offers, "Iāve even kissed something dead, Miss". "What? No! Wait! Donāt answer that!" interrupts the teacher. Five minutes to go and mirrors and make-up come out.
Tuesday, April 08, 2003
2.4.4. English I have just walked out of the first lesson. Itās five past nine. The boy Iām supposed to be helping refused to move away from his chum. These two kids sitting next to each other are combustible. He told me I was his biggest problem. I agree so I removed myself. He was given a pink slip. These slips are completed in triplicate by the teacher and one copy is sent to his home. He must have so many that someone will have to weigh them one day. Iāve noticed The Prima Donna has been avoiding The Mouth for the last few days. The Mouth is always late for class. Now they sit at different desks. As The Mouth drops into her seat, she picks up her English notebook and screams in the direction of the teacher, ćSomeoneās been drawing on my f*****g book!ä She drones on and on until The Brain says, ćItās only a book for Christās sake!ä ćShut your face or Iāll shut it for you. Iām sick of hearing your voice.ä He laughs, ćLike we all love the sound of yoursä. She explodes again, ć·and wash yerrairä All this time sheās directing her gaze across the desks to The Prima Donna looking for approval. The Prima Donna is doing her best to look cool by kneeling on the floor whilst writing on her desk. Sheās still avoiding The Mouth. Teacher, "No Knees! Stop punching Ratty!" No Knees, "He keeps telling me to F**k Off, Miss! Miss, my brother`s just come home from the Gulf and found out his best friend was cremated last Saturday.ä Miss, ćOh dear. He must have been crushed.ä No Knees, ćNo Miss. I said he was cremated.ä
I think one of my favorite memories of being lost is of being in Crete and sitting on the side of a mountain in the south, near Aghi Gallini. I remember just gaping in awe at a million wild flowers. The air was full of their perfume and just like now, it was the beginning of April and the weather was fine. Where have all the flowers gone?
Monday, April 07, 2003
Aaaagh! When I woke up this morning I thought I was in Greece. But it's School again·Monday· Top of the Bill Last lesson: English Literature Co-Starring ĪThe Prima Donnaā and ĪThe Mouthā. "Please open your Anthologies at page 64." Someone near me is sending a text message. The teacher spots her, "Give me that" "No" "Now donāt get cross. I just donāt want to see that in my class." The mobile phone user refuses to hand over her phone then protests at being told to put it away. "Iām NOT getting cross!" The Mouth is brushing her new cut whilst The Prima Donna liberally sprays scent over her new top and anyone sitting behind her - including me. The teacher sniffs. "You need to be listening. Mouth! Put that away. You should all come to this lesson in a business-like manner." Almost all the girls in the classroom are talking. There are three girls to every boy and in general the boys are much better behaved - all except for ĪPimplesā and ĪThe Lipā. "Prima Donna! Mouth! Put your bag on the floor please." "But itās such a cute little bag, Miss" she sulks. "Lip! Put it away." The Lip sparks up his lighter once more in defiance before putting it in his jeans. He was head-butted at a rugby game the day before and is wearing a split lip like a trophy. "Pimples! Once again no pen and no book?" He looks proud, "No, Miss". Pimples never has a pen but is full of confidence. The talking continues. The Prima Donna takes her usual position, knowing full well the teacher will ask her not to. "Prima Donna please take both your feet off your chair." Very slowly Prima Donna complies then turns to whisper something that causes great mirth amongst her coven. As the teacher persists with the lesson the talking gets louder. At this stage, there must be four or five knots of talkers. The Prima Donna and The Mouth discuss their favourite perfume. They have one year until their GCSEs. The mobile user is being softly paged. The teacherās tone strained. The Mouth desperately wants to please The Prima Donna who is trying to turn the pages of her book by blowing. The teacher once again tells The Mouth to be quiet. The Mouth moos a loud, defiant "H·e·y h·o!" Pimples calls out "Miss, am I defiant?" Any significant discipline is evaporating. Thereās a definite teacher versus students thing going on. The teacher is being as friendly as possible now but The Mouth canāt stop emptying her mind in short outbursts. The teacher threatens a seating plan for next lesson. The Lip groans, "I refuse to sit next to The Mouth" The Mouth tries a little sarcasm, "Oh, I really want to sit next to The Lip" The Lip replies, loud and clear, "Well, I donāt want to sit next to you, you f******g slut" The Mouth tries to retaliate but can only manage a lame, "Your lips about as big as your ass" Somewhere someone yelps, "Where are we up to, Miss?" For some reason, The Prima Donna finds this intolerable "For f**k sugar sake" The teacher notices Pimples is looking out of the window at the workmen. "Pimples, turn round and concentrate." But she might as well as ask him to explain the theory of relativity. "Mouth, stop talking." Ten minutes to the end now. The teacher overlooks an unusually talkative girl and admonishes one of the usual suspects. Some protest. Three minutes...The teacher is determined to finish reading from the Anthology. Last line... The class actually falls silent when they realise she has almost finished reading and they havenāt enough notes...the siren indicates school is over for another day. Aaaagh... Ibid
Sunday, April 06, 2003
By the time I sat down at the Olympian feast, I was famished and gratefully stuffed myself with barbecued goat, rice and vegetables liberally washed down with several gallons of Retsina. Before long I was enthusiastically applauding speeches I could barely understand. Aristethes and his son Patroclus, played Bazouki and everybody danced. To my surprise, from amongst the swirling throng, someone call my name. It was a grinning Vasilis, the taxi driver from Athens. It was too noisy to talk for long but before we parted, I asked him if heād always been a taxi driver. Modestly he admitted, "Remember, I used to be the history teacher." "Vasilis, you always will be." At sunset, I found myself sitting in the company of the Bishop and several visiting politicians at a ceremonial table in front of the basilica. Bottled whisky was produced. My head was a stinging tomato. How did I get there? We were surrounded by attentive townsfolk and my friendly neighbour told me "It is almost time for the Īmathinadaā. I went cold. This is the custom of everyone taking a verse in turn and singing something spontaneous in answer to the previous singer. I wanted to jump into the ravine. As we drank and my turn to sing approached, the imperceptibly slow dancing began. I think it was its menacing snail-like pace that changed the mood and made me realise that this was a very sacred moment and that some of the men with furrowed brows were beginning to wonder just who was the grinning fool slumped next to the Bishop. My neighbour stood and sang. I was completely freaked. The dance was due to continue for twelve hours and I wanted to wake up. Thatās when I noticed the frail old man standing behind me. I offered him my seat. Then just as the sun dipped behind the mountain, I asked where the toilet was and dipped into obscurity before they threw me into the ravine themselves. Through the crack in a doorway, I watched the old man take his turn and sing. When he finished, the whole village broke into a frenzied applause and roared "Long live the Mayor" over and over again. Being full of respect, I decided it was time to leg it. Ibid.
By the time I sat down at the Olympian feast, I was famished and gratefully stuffed myself with barbecued goat, rice and vegetables liberally washed down with several gallons of Retsina. Before long I was enthusiastically applauding speeches I could barely understand. Aristethes and his son Patroclus, played Bazouki and everybody danced. To my surprise, from amongst the swirling throng, someone call my name. It was a grinning Vasilis, the taxi driver from Athens. It was too noisy to talk for long but before we parted, I asked him if heād always been a taxi driver. Modestly he admitted, "Remember, I used to be the history teacher." "Vasilis, you always will be." At sunset, I found myself sitting in the company of the Bishop and several visiting politicians at a ceremonial table in front of the basilica. Bottled whisky was produced. My head was a stinging tomato. How did I get there? We were surrounded by attentive townsfolk and my friendly neighbour told me "It is almost time for the Īmathinadaā. I went cold. This is the custom of everyone taking a verse in turn and singing something spontaneous in answer to the previous singer. I wanted to jump into the ravine. As we drank and my turn to sing approached, the imperceptibly slow dancing began. I think it was its menacing snail-like pace that changed the mood and made me realise that this was a very sacred moment and that some of the men with furrowed brows were beginning to wonder just who was the grinning fool slumped next to the Bishop. My neighbour stood and sang. I was completely freaked. The dance was due to continue for twelve hours and I wanted to wake up. Thatās when I noticed the frail old man standing behind me. I offered him my seat. Then just as the sun dipped behind the mountain, I asked where the toilet was and dipped into obscurity before they threw me into the ravine themselves. Through the crack in a doorway, I watched the old man take his turn and sing. When he finished, the whole village broke into a frenzied applause and roared "Long live the Mayor" over and over again. Being full of respect, I decided it was time to leg it. Ibid.
Saturday, April 05, 2003
So there I was, sitting on top of the world. I loved Olympos. Itās completely illogical. Itās a time warp into the past. I loved its remoteness and its simplicity. It was the eve of the annual Festival of the Virgin, as important as Christmas to the local Karpathians. I sat in a taverna as big as someoneās kitchen in the easy company of shepherds and stone-faced women. As he refilled my glass, one of them solemnly told me, "You can travel anywhere as long as you go with respect". His skin was the colour and texture of chamois leather, and his music filled me up. It is called Rembetika. Never before had I felt so utterly complete. Rembetika is the music of thieves and pickpockets, the Mangas - those vagabonds who lived on the edge of society and in the hashish dens of Piraeus. It is the music of the underworld with its drugs and dealers and daggers. I surrendered to its plaintive melodies and angry clashes of Arabic, Turkish and Slavic themes, until it twisted itself into my skeleton, further and deeper than anything Iād heard before. The shepherds shared their drink, the illegal Raki. I felt unsteady but safe. They say this drink can induce blindness but I saw only sparkling eyes. This was heavy Greece and I wanted to eat it.
A couple of hours before sunlight, I fell into my sleeping bag on the floor of the tiny chapel of Santa Phillipa. And a couple of hours later, I crawled out again and tried to freshen up with my mineral water. I squinted at the dazzling blue Karpathian Sea far below. A goat bleated somewhere in my head. I felt protected, surrounded and blessed, if not a little hung-over. I looked down at my feet. They were the same colour as the sandy mountain. I felt reassured and part of everything. There was nothing on my mind but natural sweet awareness.
Already the bells and the tannoyed chanting of the priests at mass were annoying those still in bed or those on their way home from the night before. In front of the basilica, women of all ages in their traditional multi-coloured costumes flocked onto the square to wait for the festivities to begin. Virgins wore white satin and heavy brocades staggering under family heirlooms of heavy gold medallions. I felt sorry for these young girls, hardly able to breathe, let alone move, under all the finery and ornamentation. All mothers wore black and spoke in reverent whispers until it was time to enter the church. Onlookers gathered on rooftops, window ledges and every available vantage point and strained for a better view. Several times during the three-hour service, huge baskets of freshly baked communion bread, hot and spicy, were ferried in on the heads of the sturdier women. After the closing prayers, the congregation enthusiastically lined up to kiss a large silver plaque of the Virgin before being solemnly blessed in the square by the Bishop. Then they made an orderly stampede to the town hall to take part in the annual village feast like they were being offered buckets of free Euros. (to be continued) Ibid
Thursday, April 03, 2003
The US and UK Coalition Forces Bomb the hell out of the Garden of Eden in ćThe Battle of Babylonä
Back to taking our little darlings:
First Lesson: Science ćPlease take your outdoor coats offä requests the supply teacher - no one takes any notice. ćWhereās the Doctor, Miss?ä asks one of the ĪCunningā. ćI donāt know.ä ćYou donāt know? Why thatās disgraceful, Miss. Him treating you like that.ä ćNever mind that. Now answer this question, itās one of four you have to answer. (Groan) What type of instrument measures tectonic plates?ä ćA drum, miss.ä And so the lesson begins, firmly in the hands of the students. Two students refuse to remove their Īhoodiesā. They listen to their music on personal stereos. As usual Ratty is chatting. Well, most are chatting. Except Twitcher. He likes to sit alone - and do no work. Two of the ĪCunningā chat to Ratty. Ratty asks the supply for a pencil to do some light sketching. Gradually, all work grinds to a halt again. Thereās some giggling then laughter around one of the sinks. ćMiss, Miss thereās a fucking frog in the sink. A frog in the sink.ä The supply teacher looks into the sink. ćHa! Ha! April Fool!ä Thereās a little baiting going on and some horseplay. Ratty complains to the supply teacher that sheās nagging him. One of the ĪCunningā packs up ten minutes before the end of lesson but is told to resume. He squeezes out another five minutes then finishes putting his stuff away. The supply teacher rewards all his hard work with a sweet. Last week postcards were sent to the parents of those who did the best work. One of the ĪCunningā asked me to do it for him because he didnāt think his mother would believe him. Eventually, he did it himself and was rewarded with extra pocket money by his mother. Today he is trying to pocket a few of the cards upon which he believes he can forge the good Doctorās signature and thereby increase his weekly fortune.
Top of the Bill Last lesson: English Literature Co-Starring the Īprima donnaā and the Īmouthā. ćPlease open your Anthologies at page 64.ä Someone near me is sending a text message. She is spotted by the teacher, ćGive me thatä ćNoä she refuses. ćNow donāt get cross. I donāt want to see that in my class.ä The mobile phone user refuses to hand over her phone then protests at being told to put it away. ćIām NOT getting cross!ä The Īmouthā is brushing her new cut whilst the Īprima donnaā liberally sprays scent over her new top. Those of us who are sitting behind are saturated whether we like it or not. The teacher sniffs, ćYou need to be listening. Mouth! Put that away. You should all come to this lesson in a business-like manner.ä Almost all the girls in the classroom are talking. There are three girls to every boy and in general the boys are much better behaved - all except for Īpimplesā and the Īlipā. ćPrima donna! Mouth! Put your bag on the floor please.ä ćBut itās such a cute little bag Missä she sulks. ćLip! Put it away.ä Lip sparks up his lighter once more in defiance before putting it in his jeans. He was head-butted at a rugby game the day before and is wearing a split lip like a trophy. ćPimples! Once again no pen and no book?ä He looks proud, ćNo, Missä. Pimples never has a pen but is full of confidence. The talking continues. The prima donna takes her usual position, knowing full well the teacher will ask her not to. ćPrima donna please take both your feet off your chair.ä Very slowly prima donna complies then turns to whisper something that causes great mirth amongst her coven. As the teacher persists with the lesson the talking gets louder. At this stage, there must be four or five knots of talkers. The prima donna and the mouth discuss their favourite perfume. They have one year until their GCSEs. The mobile user is being softly paged. The teacherās tone is approaching stress levels. The mouth desperately wants to please the prima donna who is trying to turn the pages of her book by blowing. The teacher once again tells the mouth to be quiet. The mouth moos a loud, defiant ćH·e·y h·o!ä Pimples calls out ćMiss, am I defiant?ä Any sign of discipline is slipping. Thereās a definite teacher versus students thing going on. The teacher is being as friendly as possible now but the mouth canāt stop emptying her mind in short outbursts. The teacher threatens a seating plan for next lesson. The lip groans, ćI refuse to sit next to the mouthä The mouth tries a little sarcasm, ćI really want to sit next to the lipä The lip replies, loud and clear, ćWell, I donāt want to sit next to you, you f******g slutä The mouth tries to retaliate but can only manage a lame, ćYour lips about as big as your assä Somewhere someone yelps, ćWhere are we up to, Miss?ä For some reason, the prima donna finds this intolerable ćFor f**k sugar sakeä The teacher notices the pimple is looking out of the window at the workmen. ćPimple, turn round and concentrate.ä But she might as well as ask him to explain the theory of life. ćMouth, stop talking.ä Ten minutes to the end now. The teacher overlooks an unusually talkative girl and admonishes one of the usual suspects. Some protest. Three minutes...The teacher is determined to finish reading from the Anthology. Last line... The class actually falls silent when they realise she has almost finished reading and they havenāt enough notes...the siren indicates school is over for another day. A wonderful example of modern youth in school preparing for their GCSE exam next summer. Ibid
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
KEVIN`S WHINES of the MONTH
Swig and Gut 2003 "Greedy Bastard" Vin de Pays pHWOA Shakira (34D10.99) From floor-level this unsteady, very darkish-purplish wine shows garnetty highlights against neon light. Grapey and warm aromas add a whiff of firelighters, carpet fluff and bleach. Overbearing fruit flavours and lemon-squirt acidity on the palate, snappy and bright, come together to make a simple and easily expendable red wine that's good with farty hair and an arsey attitude. U.S. importer: Thanks Amillion, Chicago. (Mar. 5, 2003) FOOD MATCH: Crossing international boundaries, this French table wine went well with a world domination hotdog and buckets of oily Texanised hypocrisy. VALUE: A waste of grape.
u Bastardo 2003 Vincenti Riosso di Tosser (GBP10.99) Darkish rubbery colour, its blackish-cherryish aroma is typical of a Vincenti Riosso di Tosser Angiovese, but a distinct vinegary note evokes memories of Tuscan alleyways. There's a bit of unnecessary roughness around the edges of its grapey and rather simple fruity flavour, too. An old-fashioned barnyard Italian quaffing red, it brings back memories of toilet pans, threats and indigestion ... but a retail price over GBP10 gives new meaning to the term "u Bastardo." U.S. importer: Nappy Hilltops Family Wine Merchants, NYC. (Mar. 14, 2003) FOOD MATCH: Wouldn`t even put it on chips but taken to a sit-down, it was acceptable enough to wash down all the usual meatballs, sausages and so-called buffet fare that you wouldn`t otherwise feed to a starving hyena. VALUE: Excellent value. Ibid
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
An Athenian taxi driver once told me, ćMy friend, you think you have visited Greece, but there is a village in the Karpathian mountains that has resisted all influence from the outside world to this day. The village is called Olympos and I should know, I was born there.ä
I couldnāt resist. The next morning found me on the island of Karpathos being shaken like a cocktail, in the back of a much abused Nissan van bouncing up the hazardous mountain road from the tiny port of Diafani through dense mist to mountaintop Olympos. During our journey, the driver never said a word but hummed faintly to himself until, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the mist lifted, and revealed, as if by magic, beautiful, serene Olympos. ćMy friend, we are here. The holiday home of the Gods!ä
No description could have prepared me for that breath-taking first impression; a sprinkling of intricately decorated houses and chapels that seemed to graze upon the mountain. I dared not blink. Here was a sense of lost innocence, of delicious isolation precariously clinging to the warm air itself. Toward the end of the village, sat a grove of windmills, their blades slowly turning against a deep blue sky but the highest point I could see was the tower of a basilica.
Eventually the van gasped to a stop and the driver began unloading packages and provisions from the boot. I coughed and stood before him. ćMorning. How are you doing? My name is Tony.ä Without looking up, he held up a hand implying I should stop talking. ćOne moment, pleaseä, and after heād organised what was going where, he continued, ćIām sorry. Good Morning. How arrre you! My name is `Arry. I am the postman.ä ćHarry? Really? That`s an English name.ä I smiled, hoping to make a friend. He raised his head slowly and stared over the rim of his glasses as though I was a particularly dense pupil. ćAri·stethes.ä ćOh. Right. Of course. Aristethes.ä I coughed again hoping to imply only temporary blockage. ćI was wondering about the fare. In England we have to pay before we even sit on the bus. I mean, I could have disappeared just then while you were busy.ä His glance was enough to put me squarely in my place. ćLook Sirrr, if you are a thief, that is your problem not mine. But if you want, you can buy me a beer.ä He nodded towards the balcony of a taverna along a passageway overlooking the deep gorge we had just climbed. He grinned. There are no roads in the village just a labrynth of narrow passageways between the buildings that all seemed to wind their way to the square in front of the basilica. On either side of the steep steps at the approach to the village, a few young scallywags had positioned themselves so they could get a good view up the skirts and dresses of the passing female tourists. Shamelessly, they giggled when they realised I knew what they were doing and shamelessly, I giggled back. Everyone I met nodded and passed the time of day, with a bemused ćKalimeraä. The men`s dress is comparatively sober compared to that of the women who wear the full traditional costume. From beneath two headscarves, hang three long plaits that swing down below their waist over white linen blouses. Yellow and red roses pattern the typical long black skirts and necklaces of beads and coins colour their black woollen jackets. On their feet, long embroidered boots help them walk the hills.
Two and a half thousand feet below lay the sea. Aristethes sat in silence for along time letting his gaze travel between blue and blue. There was no horizon. He ordered two more glasses of a bright yellow liqueur that had been concocted on the premises. ćNot too strong for you, my friend? Itās beautiful, yes? We call it Nerantzaki. It is made from the bitter oranges that grown on the mountain. Plenty shoogar! Ha!ä With a stumpy finger that had lost its tip, he pointed up, ćWe make drink from the sun! Once you have this fire inside you, they say it will never leave. Olympos will be in your blood!ä
I climbed the slope to the basilica and wandered round the back, and stood overlooking the sea a few thousand feet below. The scent of freshly milled flour wafted on the warm breeze. In the silent shadows behind me, sat a man deep in thought. On his knee he held the little instrument they call the lira. After watching me with intense curiosity as I took some pictures, he introduced himself as Nikos Vasilarakis and shook my hand. He was very nervous but eager to tell of how he came close to death on two separate occasions. Once he was trapped in a fire in the belly of a tanker and was sure he was going to die. The other time was when he was fishing far below the village and fell from the rocks where he lay with a broken leg for four days before he was found. ćOne more day and I would have perished, but the village family protects itself.ä He gave me coffee and grapes, placed a chair facing him then humbly offered to play ćfor five minutes onlyä. After about half an hour of patient tuning, (ćIt is the weatherä), he began sawing his jingle-belled bow across this deceptively innocent looking triolin. Then, from somewhere down the days, came a long and wonderful lament, giving me goose bumps and filling the crispy air with echoes from the bleak and grand massif looming up behind. His eyes closed in intimate harmony with hands, heart and soul. His emotion was almost too personal to witness. When it was over, he sat with a shy but satisfied smile listening to the final echoes fade across the valley. He sighed and nodded to me as he returned to the shadows indicating the recital was over. (cont.) Ibid
12:57 PM
