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LIFE, SOCIETY AND EVERYTHING
editor - simon carter jones
The winner of the competition is Perdita Stott for her entry - Holiday. Congraulations and very well done to her and to all our fantastic contestants. We have been very impressed by the high quality of the writing and the range of subject covered. If you feel like having a go at our new creative writing competition, which includes travel and adventure, click here. We look forward to hearing from you.
Bed Bugs and Happiness
By
Elizabeth Miller
I travelled alone to Quito, Ecuador, and arrived speaking, in essence, no Spanish. I took a taxi from the airport, showing the driver the information about my hostel. He took me to the intersection I had written down and explained that he didn’t know exactly where it was so I had to get out. It was nearly 10pm by the this point, and did I mention that I don’t speak any Spanish?
The word “lost” cannot begin to explain how I felt. I stood on the corner for several minutes, looked at the information I had and decided to call the hostel, despite the expense. The conversation went something like this:
“Umm, hello… uhh, do you speak any English?”
“Non.”
“Uhhh, OK, umm… gracias.”
I wandered around the intersection, looking and feeling hopelessly lost, trying to locate this elusive hostel without success.. I was spotted by a man who spoke English, who asked if I needed help, which I very obviously did. He called the hostel to get directions and then walked me there, all two minutes away. I was almost ashamed to have been unable to find it, and still annoyed with the taxi driver who had abandoned me on the corner. The man wished me well and told me to stay careful at night in the area.
I was meeting a friend at the hostel, and upon hearing the English being spoken downstairs, he knew that I had arrived. We had come to Ecuador with a common purpose: we were students on a University trip, on which we would study at a field school in the Amazon rainforest for one month..
Upon the arrival of our professor, the group was due to meet at the Sierra Nevada Hotel on Friday, ready for a briefing on the schedule that lay ahead of us. People poured into to the hotel in ones and twos, at different times over the course of the day, some arriving on various flights, others sauntering in after already travelling for a week or two within South America.
As more and more of us amassed within the hostel, we began to chat, and sooner or later, the question that everyone seemed to be asking was as follows: “Does anyone know what the hell we’re doing exactly?”
The answer was a resounding and unanimous “No.”
We had all received emails about this trip months before its onset, and for one reason or another, every member of this group of thirty-something students had found themselves drawn to the idea of a month in the rainforest, totally detached from all that was familiar. Now the time had come for our adventure to begin, and we were realizing that beyond going to the field school, in, as far as we were concerned, the middle of nowhere, none of us had a clue as to what to expect.
We didn’t meet as a group until breakfast the next day, when our professor addressed us and gave us a vague outline of the next few days. On Sunday, we left by bus, heading for our new home: the field school. Within not even thirty minutes of our arrival, some students found a tarantula in the bathroom… this was an accurate indicator of what the next few weeks would be like.
Bugs. Everywhere. Bug bites. Everyday. Bugs for dinner (only once). Bugs. Spiders. Snakes. This was to be our life, and in a strange way, I loved it. This was so intensely different than anything else I had ever experienced, which was exactly what I had gone to Ecuador seeking.
The Heights of Abraham
by
Vanessa Woolf-Hoyle
The Heights of Abraham is a unique attraction; a duet of vertigo and claustrophobia brought together in a mighty sandstone crag. You get up there on a flimsy cable car, dangling high above the trees. At the top, you will find the entrance to a series of caves. My children quickly tired of the educational joys of The Shop, but they were transfixed by the magnificent Punch and Judy show. After Mr. Punch had got the better of the hangman and the devil, we went round the back of the booth to meet the puppeteer. He was a very short burly Londoner with a strong resemblance to Mike from the Young Ones.
“Why do you stand on that little box?” My youngest asked him bluntly.
He winked. “So that I can reach the stage.”
“What’s inside the box?”
The man paused. Then he said “…the wife.”
“Why?” my son demanded at once.
He gave a small smile. “Because that was how she wanted it.”
Holiday
by
Perdita Stott
It begins at the ticket office with a bored looking lady, who stares unsympathetically at us from behind jam jar thick glasses, while the four of us pour over a Spanish phrase book. It’s very hard to construct a useful sentence from one of those books when some of the only examples you’ve got are:
“Have you seen my pencil?”
Or,
“Do you have AIDS?”
We try to pick out the words that we need from several different sentences and get as far as,
“Javeah, billet, pofavor . . .”
Before the lady shakes her head and points to the ticket booth behind us.
We turn in unison and begin to descend upon a young boy in the opposite booth, like four English tourists from hell.
We repeat our, admittedly badly translated question, but this only produces a worried string of stuttering from him and some confused mime, before he glares over our shoulder at the bespectacled ticket officer who sent us to him in the first place.
We seem to have this effect on a lot of people in Spain.
One very long, badly translated conversation with the ticket boy and two coach transfers later, we still have another five hours till we get to Javeah, most of which we sleep through. By the time we wake up though, the landscape has begun to change. Instead of the usual, cosmopolitan buildings that we have been passing on our journey, we find ourselves looking at orange trees, fields of unknown vegetables and lots and lots of brightly colored flowers growing off, around, and on, just about anything that stays still for long enough. Unfortunately, because we’ve spent most of the journey asleep, we’re not really sure whereabouts we are, or how far away from Javeah we are.
Or what it looks like for that matter.
“Do you think it’ll be an obvious stop?” I ask, “I mean, all I know about Javeah is that it’s a pretty, suburban Spanish town, but everywhere we’re passing is a pretty, suburban Spanish town.”
“I guess we could just ask the driver,” suggests Heather.
Harriet draws the short straw, and walks down to the front of the bus to speak to the driver, while the rest of us watch from the safety of our seats.
“Well, what a grumpy man!” she says, flopping back down into her seat after a brief and heavily mime based discussion.
“Was he not very helpful then?” asks Hoda,
“Well, sort of,” says Harriet grudgingly, “he told me that Javeah was a bit further down the line, but he seemed very annoyed that I was asking him questions.”
The driver is actually being very patient with us really but by the fourth time Harriet gets up to speak to him, he seems to have had enough, because before she even gets half way down the bus towards him, he spins around in his seat and yells,
“Nooooo! When. We. Get. To. Javeah. I. Will. Tell. You!”
Harriet stands frozen for a moment while everyone else on the bus turns round to stare at us.
“Oh dear,” says Heather, “I think we’re beginning to annoy him.”
We decide that the safest thing to do is doze for the rest of the journey, until the bus suddenly stops and the driver yells out,
“Jaaaaveeeaaah!”
We all jerk up in our seats and stare around at each other,
“Um, I think that was for our benefit guys,” says Harriet.
Hoda nods, “Let’s all be really nice to the bus driver when we leave,”
“Yeah,” I agree, “otherwise he might try to run us over when he drives off.”
We seem to have this effect on a lot of people in Spain.
Riomaggiore
An account of arrival
by Melina Anahí
"Where is Hugo?" They kept looking at one another and asking, "Where is Hugo?"
I sat just outside the telephone booth watching our bags. I could make out two figures handing the phone back and forth, dialing and redialing, and now and then hollering "Hello" into the microphone, exasperated by what responded. I lost my patience. My pleading, "What is going on?" went unanswered. So I dragged the bags over to them and stuck my shoe in the door.
"What the hell? All they say is 'Pronto,’ ‘Pronto,’ ‘Pronto’! Who's Pronto?"
"Pronto is what they say when they pick up," I answered coolly. I admit my tone was slightly accusatory. Who doesn't know ‘Pronto’ is the Italian phone greeting?
"OK one more time." Gina dialed the number and began speaking.
“Hello, yes, it’s Gina. Sono Gina.” Repeating, “OK,” and looking perturbed, she listened attentively. Then she began, “I am at…” We all jumped to finish her sentence. In front of… By the… We searched for clues as to where we were.
“At the phone, by the station,” I said excitedly into her face. “He’ll know where that is.” After all, there was only one public phone in the whole place.
She said goodbye and waited for the line to drop before hanging up.
"I think he's coming." We asked her what had happened exactly. "I don't know but I think he's coming."
We waited for him on a bench on the main street just below the phone booth. We watched tourists in shorts carrying water bottles walk by. They looked bored with their fanny packs and focaccia. Time passed and we saw no Hugo. We contemplated splitting up, with one of us waiting by the train station exit, another by the booth, and the last remaining on the bench, on a general look out. In the end, Maria thought it best if Gina called him again. After some discussion, we all agreed.
She returned with a trail of a small old man’s tiny footsteps.
"This is Hugo," she said, pink-faced and sweating. We couldn't help smiling all at once, one communal sigh of relief, as we all nodded our hellos. He looked at us with the same monotonous kindness he had showed countless others over the years: girls, boys, families, all escaping the closets of their homes, the boundaries of their languages, and the dullness of their inhibitions. As he gave a slight toss of the head in the right direction, Gina began to tell us what had happened, how she had found Hugo.
Hugo found her.
“We are here, we are here,” she had kept repeating on the line. She had then suddenly felt a tap at her shoulder. Behind her stood the gentle old man, perhaps strong in his day, asking her in a soft voice: “Gina? Gina?”
“Yes, yes!” Certain things in life surprise you with the giddiness of a child.
He led us past the phone booth, up and down stairs, and through alleyways to our door. Here and there I caught glimpses of the Mediterranean peering out from between concrete walls. It was hot and sticky and my bag kept slipping off my hip.
Not five minutes after he had taken us into our Italian home, he was already gone, now having left us with the only thing that can sometimes matter in this short life: a view to the sea.
Cotton, Cotton Everywhere So Not A Drop To drink…
The Aral Sea of Uzbekistan was once heralded as the ‘fish basket of Central Asia’. The now dusty little town of Muynak was formerly the proud focal point of this great epicentre and harboured an active fleet of 300 fishing vessels and supported the employment of around 10,000 workers in one fish canning factory alone. What’s more, the inspirational beauty of Muynak constituted a mecca for many significant
Now, whilst many fishing centres across the world have witnessed a decline or loss in fish, Muynak has witnessed a loss of its sea. The
As well as the dust from the sea-bed, toxic chemicals make their way to Muynak via what’s left of the incoming waterways. Leached agrochemicals, including those banned in most other countries, washes into Muynak every day. The WHO has found significant levels of organochlorines, including PCBs, dioxins and DDT in samples of every day food and a Médecins sans Frontières report highlighted direct links with the environmental pollution and escalating cases of people suffering with hypertension, heart disease, anaemia, various cancers and kidney disease.
Perhaps one of the most poignant facets to this crisis is that it was man-made. The Syr Dar’ya and Amu Dar’ya Rivers feed into the
However, although there is much destruction and disease in the region there is also much hope. I was lucky enough to be invited to the annual Independence Day celebration. My day began with an offering of peace and a handshake from a three year boy who was intrigued by my fair skin and western clothes. The whole community was congregated in the banner bedecked town square. Women dressed in their finest attire with golden thread that glistened in the sun chattered in groups as children flew kites and ate ice-cream. Everyone took their turn to dance in splendid traditional costume. It was a wonderful day completed with a visit to the Nukus Museum of Art, a veritable treasure trove, containing a spectacular assortment of 1920s and 1930s avant-garde Russian and Uzbek art. Wondrous antidotes to the Communist inspired
It was clear to me that the people of Muynak share the fighting spirit of the region and with assistance from the international community they are taking steps to address the environmental problems that have been thrust upon them. One of the most exciting projects is that designed to strategically plant bushes and fodder plants. This dedicated coalition has so far covered 27000 hectares with vegetation. Put simply, these shrubs and trees act as a barrier line of defence against the toxic dust storms and the debilitating diseases they bring with them. Muynak is hoping that man and Mother Nature can work together to prevent Muynak from being consumed by the desert forever.
The Two Rocks of the Matterhorn
Matt Dean
07/10/09
Most come to the Swiss resort to Ski. But there’s also something else.
The Matterhorn is a dominating 4,478metres of mountain looking down over the Swiss village of Zermatt. Responsible for taking several lives each year, it’s the stuff of pure adventure.
A relaxing train along the misty waters of Lake Geneva and then through the mountains, allows plenty of chances to take in the breathtaking countryside before arriving with precision timing. Incredible views await; The Matterhorn.
If noisy cities are your thing then stay away. This town has banned all combustion engines allowing only horse drawn carriages or electro taxis, creating an absolutely delightful lack of traffic noise and pollution amongst the wooden lodges in this dreamland.
The rock of the Matterhorn is of African descent, exposed 90million years ago when the African continental plate was forced up over the European plate. However, there is an altogether different kind of rock in this area; Rock music.
The village hosts 1.2million visitors a year, all here to ski and party. Such large amounts of party-goers need entertaining and a varied live music community has developed.
The dizzy heights of the music industry can be witnessed 2,620 metres up Rothorn Mountain. The underground Sunnegga Express mountain train, a quick chairlift and then a high-speed ski down to this paradise reveals an incredible view from its wooden terrace.
Enjoy a fondue whilst a talented trio create the soundtrack to this heaven with classics like the apt ‘Comfortably Numb’. As you gaze at the majestic Matterhorn, you can be forgiven for thinking you are in a travel advertisement.
If you like your Après ski later, the ‘Papperla Pub’ starts at 5pm. A warm, dark atmosphere welcomes the international crowd who spill to the outside ‘snow bar’ for mulled wine.
A well equipped band holds residency here dealing with a history of modern rock and a truly engaging impromptu element. Most requests are adhered to and chords are heard shouted across the stage as the band learns the tunes to satisfy the audience’s demand.
For a more sophisticated performance visit the exceptional Chez Heini restaurant. Enjoy a rack of lamb and a glass of wine by an open fire while the owner, Dan Daniell, sings a selection of easy listening tracks.
Another venue for those with expensive tastes is the Hotel Post’s exclusive Pink Bar. Offering a blend of jazz, soul, R‘n’B and funk, this club employs a different international band each week. Here you can enjoy the grandest of their five bars/restaurants and the high class musicians that perform.
But make no mistake; the higher class of audience does not mean a subdued reaction. The band will have you dancing and singing like a12 year old at a Sugarbabes concert.
Grampie’s Bar is the Jekyll and Hyde of Zermatt. A peaceful café by day and a raucous bar at night. Performances from local legend, Marco, always entertain as he sings through an endless list of hits from ‘Show me the way to Amarillo’ to ‘Don’t let the sun go down’. Described by locals as a mad midget, Marco’s energetic sets show us just what a man wearing a tie on his head can do with a grand piano. Do not visit Zermatt without seeing this act.
A show for the teen audience is the underground T-Bar; a mismatch of modern neon lighting and ancient skiing memorabilia. The resident band entertains with their brand of energetic hits sure to keep the dance floor busy.
So whether you want to relax 1.6 miles above sea level with some laidback sounds or dance the night away in the village to some rock ‘n’ roll, Zermatt has it all.
Journey into Gujarat
Matt Cohen
07/09/09
“The last time I was here, the bus was stuck for twelve hours.”
I am jolted ut of my daydream by the Indian gentleman sitting next to me. I look out the window and in the deepening gloom, I can just make out a trail of vehicles, all at a standstill as we wait to cross the border into Gujarat.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Gujarat is dry state,” my neighbour explains, “and they are very strict on smugglers.”
“I see,” I nod. Gazing out of the window again, I contemplate the possibility of having to spend the night here, with the temperature dropping and my backpack - with warmer clothes - stuck on the roof.
“Of course, if the driver pays enough baksheesh,” he continues, “maybe not so long...”
He sits back in his seat, then abruptly leans forward again.
“You see India is corrupt. Very corrupt. Even the Prime Minister is corrupt.”
“Really?” I ask, trapped in visions of Hell in the Thar Desert.
“Oh yes,” he says, waggling his head in that peculiar Indian manner which is a cross between a nod and a shake but means something like okay. “India needs a strong leader. Saddam Hussein - he is strong man. Good leader. India needs a Saddam Hussein.”
“But Saddam Hussein is bad. He kills his own countrymen if they don’t agree with him.”
He leans towards me again.
“You are British?” he asks, pointing at my chest. I nod. “Britain kills many people. Many people, and everyone says it’s okay. Britain takes many countries, kills so many people, but its okay. Saddam Hussein takes one small country, and the world says no, no, no, this is wrong!”
He shrugs, and stops pointing. It’s an interesting point, I concede, however uncomfortable it feels.
”Yes,” I agree, “Britain does have a bad history in that respect. But that doesn’t make it right for Saddam to do what he did.”
“But America fights other countries now, they give bombs to Pakistan,” he says, veering off on a tangent. “Every country wants to be like America. Maybe Saddam Hussein wants to also.”
I laugh - more of a snort, really - not knowing quite how to react. It seems a bit of a leap to argue that a dictatorship is the solution to a corrupt nation, but he wants to get this off his chest, and given that it’s my choice to be on this bus, backpacking through this country, whereas he is here living the daily grind, I can only offer my ear to his grievances.
“America, Britain, they say: ‘You must be like us, we are developed,’ but in what way? America has no culture, no history, ‘but the American way of life is the one they say. America, Britain,’ they say, ‘You must be like us, we are developed,’ but in what way? America has no culture, no history, but ‘the American way of life is the one they say is the best.’ And when a country wants to develop, America says to them, ‘This is not our way, so we will not let you.’’”
He stops talking as the bus starts to edge forward and slowly rolls across the border into Gujarat, past a group of border guards looking suspiciously happy.
“You see,” he says, with a heavy sigh, “I think the driver paid plenty of baksheesh.”
As the bus picks up speed and the Hindi pop is turned up once more, I am unable to share in my companion’s regret at this small insight into India’s corruption. Whilst he has a valid point about the hypocrisy of the West, I am not convinced Saddam Hussein is the type of leader any country needs. And as I have just seen, sometimes a little corruption gets you a long way.
Cornwall
By Charli Kirkland
It was utterly breathtaking. I puffed out my cheeks in wonder. A castle stood in the distance, I could see it’s towers and small windows. The sky was the most amazing powder blue and the clouds were sparse and wispy, littering the sky.
“Oiy Charl.”
I turned to Helen and in the process walked into an old woman.
“Sorry.”
We both spoke at once. I walked quickly over to Helen, she was standing next to a statue of a soldier and laughing. She had her phone in her hand and I knew what she meant.
“I am on it.” I giggled and ran over to it. It was standing in a busy street, a coffee shop right next to it made us obvious. I linked my arm into the statue’s and smiled. As soon as the flash went off we ran. We could see mum and dad in the distance and didn’t look back at the people staring at us.
The walk was steep, uphill. I couldn’t believe how tired I was. Helen was far off up the hill and my mum was behind me. I turned to her and pretended to be waiting, really just resting my throbbing feet.
“Alright there.” She nodded and blew out air to show she was tired, I nodded and acted casual about it. I could not bear to look up when I turned around again. The sun beat down on me and I squinted. I didn’t want to know how far up the steps I had left to go. I could see feet and pressed myself against the stone walls and looked out; that was when I regretted not looking sooner.
The cliffs were shaped like a ‘v’ and in the middle was the sea, It was the most beautiful colour, better than the sky. Turquoise like I had only ever seen on programmes in the Caribbean. On the beach the people were just dots and on the cliff adjacent to where I was there were steep steps going up, zig zagging up the lush green grass.
The people went past and I snapped back to what I was doing. I tried to walk quicker up the steps and finally we were at the top. The view on the steps was suddenly nothing, It suddenly felt like I had been looking at the alleyway of the beauty. I could smell the sea strongly, the sea weed. I usually coughed it away but I breathed it in and savoured it. People were scattered along the top. Sitting on the ruins. The ruins of King Arthur’s castle. I could see archways and beams. Helen was sitting in a window, she looked framed, with the frothing sea rushing up on the black rocks beneath us. The rocks cut into the picture, it was truly like an artistic picture. I could feel the slight breeze that brushed Helen’s hair back. Into the air.
I took my phone out and took a picture. All of a sudden everything I had been trying so hard to forget and not being able to, slid out of my mind. I felt like I was watching it fall off the cliffs and down into the raging sea. The pain it had taken to get up there was suddenly insignificant and I just stared out at it, I was baffled that I had found somewhere that looked like that in Cornwall. ‘The sun never shines in Cornwall’ A phrase my dad had continued to repeat through the holiday, well now there was no debating with the fact. I would never doubt the beauty of Britain again.
The Fight
Richard Hartley
For me, a successful international journey in the air is one where the plane doesn’t crash. This low expectation, plus the four or five of those little wine bottles I imbibe mean I’m slightly exhilarated when I arrive anywhere, especially in the tropics.
I was traveling with a friend, and we both were carrying tons of electrical equipment. Like a fool, last time I’d left Brazil I’d asked people if I could bring anything back with me from the US. That’s the last f****** time I do that.
The customs man stopped my friend and unloaded two printers, miles of cables and other items that make custom’s people’s mouths water in countries with huge import duties on electrical goods. My friend protested innocence in English.
“All for personal use,” he declared with a straight face. The customs guy spoke no English and waved him on.
Also stopped, I tried the same tactic, sweating and in Portuguese. The customs guy said straight up that he didn’t believe me, which made me sweat more. But he bade me on with a piteous smile, perhaps realizing that someone involved in contraband would not be such an obvious liar.
It was my friend’s first time in Brazil and even though it was two in the morning, we decided to go out. I knew the perfect place.
Barracas are small wooden or iron kiosks that sell just about everything and dot the streets of Salvador. The kind of establishments that will probably eventually be crushed by the Walmarts of the world.
There was a 24-hour ‘Barraca' close to where we were staying. Beside it some tables had been set up for people to drink. It was extremely clean and organized.
The beer came ice cold. Next to us was a group of prostitutes, their reptilian eyes following any movement, who drank beer and smoked cigarettes. They quickly realized we weren’t to be customers and paid us no further attention.
We chatted but also became increasingly diverted by a very drunk man standing at the counter. All drunk people should be filmed and the next day made to watch themselves to see what complete f****** idiots intoxication makes them.
A VW Beetle with loud Bob Marley music pouring out of it pulled up. Five young men ambled out, their eyes the small slits of those who’d been smoking a ton of weed. They were dark and bleached from the sun and there was a 99% chance they were surfers.
“These f****** pot heads are ruining the country, vagabonds, no-good-for-nothing pot heads.”
This was said by the drunk man as he stared menacingly at the young men as they settled into their table. He was about forty-five and spindly. This didn’t seem the most intelligent thing to do.
I gave an anthropological lecture to my friend about how in Brazil people loved to joust and wail at each other but didn’t fight. Look at how the customs guys let us go, isn’t this country great I said, so relaxed, the people so friendly.
One of young guys quickly attacked the drunk who was immediately flung to the ground and kicked him repeatedly in the head. It was a swift, efficient and brutal beating and the enforcer and his crew were quickly off.
The drunk guy, nose bleeding, shirt torn, head gashed and stumbling somehow made it back to the bar. He was now crying but to his credit still cursing the potheads.
We sat their stupefied but guiltily amused. When we paid, the owner apologized to us with an explanation.
“Put it this way, on a weeknight at 4:00 in the morning there is not much more than whores and drunks around the streets.”
Too right.
Promises to Keep
Sara Ridgley
Sunday 1 February 2009
Bombarding blizzard buries the Chilterns. I shout at the sky.
“Excuse me! I’m due at Gatwick tomorrow. Then Athens. Then Skiathos. I
promised Theo I’d be at his wedding! So sort this out!”
Head for bed thinking:
‘Need a plan.’
Apart from talking to clouds, I don’t
have a plan, so I have a gin.
Monday
Still snowing. I¹ll trade my Peugeot for huskies. Cyprus Airways jet crashes
off the runway at Heathrow. Airports vanishing. Advice from police? Stay
home.
Load suitcase in car, plus chocolate, hot coffee, sandwiches, fur hat,
blanket, Red Bull, big smile. I’ll get there.
Three hours later, feel like I’ve driven round M25 to Switzerland. Twelve
hours to kill at Gatwick, check-in¹s 4am. Athens flight was grounded today,
so at least there’s an aircraft on the tarmac.
Gatwick’s chaos. Flights arriving from Warsaw, Milan, Barcelona turn back.
Runways snowbound. Starting to freeze. People heading for mountains queue up at Easyjet to check in their skis. Or keep them to slalom home.
Every hotel¹s packed. I¹m offered a room at Sofitel. £210 a night. Marble
floor near service lift looks clean enough. And it¹s free.
My mobile buzzes in frenzy. People who barely know me screech:
“You did what?!”
Make friends with big family heading for Bucharest. They’ve been here 26
hours. We share food, hot tea and guard duties over excited children and
bored suitcases, snatching sleep between repeats of:
“This is a security announcement. Any unattended baggage….
Recruit towel, jumper, pashmina and design ‘bed¹. Friendly Dutchman lends me umbrella to block out relentless light. I watch my breath freeze. Minus
eight outside.
Cheerful man born a tribal lifetime from Sussex waltzes his floor polisher
round scattered bodies, singing:
“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”
Tuesday
5.30am. Onboard Athens flight. Pilot says:
“Stow hand luggage, sit down quick, get strapped in, it¹s going to be a
bumpy ride!”
Wake up three hours later over Greek airspace. Sun hot on sleeve. Deep blue sea below. Coat off!
Sun-blessed whistle-stop tour of Athens. Friendly Peri’s Hotel in Loutsa
village, bus, metro, Monastiraki, Acropolis, Plaka, Yiorgos, a teacher, my
guide, doesn’t laugh at my Greek, practices his English.
Night tumbles. Back on bus. Approaching Loutsa from different direction.
Don’t recognize a thing. Arrive at the beach. Pitch dark. Puzzled driver.
Earlier, took picture of distinctive bakery by ‘home’ bus stop. Lucky! Show
photo to driver. He turns bus round. Goes off-piste. Delivers Englishwoman
to hotel door. Five kilometres, gentle smile, no charge.
Peaceful lanes, snowdrift-free. Warm breeze in olive trees. Scents of thyme,
oregano and garlic tug me to friendly taverna. Jug of wine, bread, hot,
herby meat, chunky chips, huge salad 8 Euros. Brandy on balcony. Fall into
bed. Am deeply grateful for Greek hospitality and mattress not smelling of
floor polish.
Wednesday
2pm. Airborne on Olympic flight, Athens to Skiathos. Propellers, a first. A
Greek flag sky. Hot. Yep, hot! Just wondering whether to cut legs off jeans
with nail clippers to make shorts when we descend over Tsougrias island.
Turquoise water resting gratefully on empty February beach.
Walk into deserted arrivals hall at Skiathos airport knowing I have kept my
promise to be here. My great friend Theo, the island’s happiest
nearly-bridegroom, runs towards me, arms out wide, smile even wider, a hug in the air between us. My journey is over. And on Saturday, I’ll be a
witness as he starts out on his life’s adventure. Wouldn’t have missed it
for all the snow in the world.
