Chapter 13

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There are men and then there are manly men. One of the traits of manly men, as I see it, are that they are largely unflappable. I am so flappable. Take, for instance, my phobia of moths.

Wikipedia defines a phobia as '... a strong, persistent fear of situations, objects, activities, or persons. The main symptom of this disorder is the excessive, unreasonable desire to avoid the feared subject. It is the unreasonable part that stands out for me. Moths can't hurt you. A person can squash a moth with but a fraction of their strength.

I know all of this, yet still I hate moths. They are fluttery and knock into things - including humans. I know this sounds stupid but this is my phobia. Most of us, if we dig deep enough, will have a phobia. Mel has a phobia common to many - snakes. I have a friend who was certain she had no phobias at all, but after digging around over a meal one night we discovered hers: being in deep, open water. She can swim just fine, but the fear of not knowing what was beneath her was the cause of this irrational fear. I have another friend who often teases me for my bug phobia, or Entomophobia, but she is scared of birds. That is to say that she suffers Ornithophobia. So we all have them - heights (Acrophobia), planes (Aerophobia), spiders (Arachnophobia), enclosed spaces (Claustrophobia) ... we each have our poison.

All of this leads me to my point, on the wall of the entrance into the courtyard of our hotel was the biggest, fattest moth I had seen in some years and I was so flapped. Every time I walked passed it I kept my eye on it and I lengthened my gait. Poor Mel, to be going out with such a fool ...

There are several ways that I like to wake up in the morning. One, is to the sound of magpies singing. I don't know why I like this, I just do. Another is to the smell of bacon and eggs being cooked by someone other than me. Another is by the sound of children playing. I can say that one way I do not like to wake up in the morning is to hear a man in the throws of passion. Despite my wont, at 7:15am Mel and I were woken by just such a thing. I can't remember ever hearing such a thing. The lack of self-control was really quite disconcerting. This guy really had a pair of lungs on him, too. Mel and I wanted to get a look at him, but we couldn't isolate the source of the yelling. A shame, that. I would really liked to have tried to have made him a little uncomfortable about it. Lord know he deserved at least that.

Anyway, that morning we walked past my 'friend', the moth, and looked for breakfast. As is norm, Mel picked our eating spot and, again, according to one of my two criteria she had failed because she had picked a spot that was rather less frequented than those I could see around us. As is the norm, I acquiesced rather than entertain her fourteen criteria. As was becoming the norm on Folegandros, our waiter was not presented as well as I have come to expect in my everyday life. He was shoddily dressed and his hair was a mess. His presentation was not helped my his largesse. In short, our waiter looked like a slob. He was forgetful, too. I ordered yoghurt with fruit and nuts and it came without nuts. Our drinks did not come at all, until we pointed this out to him. However, not for the first time on Folegandros, there was sense in overlooking these things because our waiter was a good guy. He liked to chat. He asked where we came from and, to him, Australia was an exotic place he aspired to visit. He had plans to go to the Whitsundays and cruise from island to island and bask in the sun. And after each conversation we had, he would squeeze my shoulder (in a heterosexual manner, I assure you ... not that there is anything wrong with that!) like a long-time friend might do. I liked him. Which made things all the worse when the Ugly Americans turned up.

Every nation has its ugly travelers. Ugly Australian travelers are loud and sometimes drunk. Ugly English travelers are loud and invariably drunk. Ugly Americans think things should be just like they are in America, no matter where they travel to. Take the two Americans who were dining not too far from Mel and me. The male of the two was trying to order eggs over easy. No matter how loudly he said it, or how slowly he said it, he could not understand why the person taking the order - my good friend Slobosaurus Rex - couldn't understand what he wanted.

I knew what eggs over easy meant. So did Mel. But this is more of a result of the overt Americanisation of Australia (and displacement of local culture, I am afraid to admit) that is taking place rather than the ubiquitousness of the term worldwide. Indeed, I have tested this out on many colleagues in the UK and I can tell you that not many Brits at all know what eggs over easy means, either. Nor do they know what sunny side up means.

So at the American's third loud and slow attempt at asking the waiter for eggs over easy, I interjected, 'Excuse me ... he means that he wants you to fry the egg, and then flip it over and quickly cook the other side'. With that, the American's simultaneously said 'Thank YOU!' to me and made the eyes at me like it was a relief that not everybody at this restaurant was a moron. Slobosaurus looked at me and said 'Thank YOU!' and looked at me like it was a relief that not everybody at this restaurant was a moron. Mel and I looked at each other like we knew exactly who the morons were.

Cultural exchanges complete, we finished our breakfasts (which were OK, but nothing to write home about), asked for the bill, waited (and waited) for the bill and then headed off. We saw Red T-shirt from the night before, setting up the Melissa restaurant for the day, and he gave us a wave. I thought that was a nice touch.

One thing I could not get over was hoy many times we saw Orthodox Priests out and about socialising. We had seen them at dinner the night before and again this morning at breakfast. I am not a religious man by any measure, but I imagine that having priests among the people in such a way gave them more credibility and made the religion more accessible. Coming from a Catholic background, I had never seen this before. I cannot ever remember seeing a Catholic priest hanging out with his posse on Chapel Street. In London, I have never seen likewise in SOHO. I think the Catholic church are missing a trick. It is not like the Catholic church does not need a few recruits around about now ...

By now we had formed some opinions about Folegandros and several of these differed from what we read in the Greek Island Hopping book we were packing. The book told us that the island did not have an ATM. Because of this, Mel and I tool plenty of cash to Folegandros - something in the area of €400. Well, I can tell you that Folegandros does have an ATM. The book also stated the island was expensive. To us, the €75 for our room was a steal and the restaurants were affordable too. The book might also have mentioned there was a lack of good, modern hotels on the island. Again, we Mel and I thought the Anemomilos was a fine example. We walked around the town again and found it to be more lively than when we had first arrived. It was not what I would call vibrant, but it had its charm. Shops were open, we could look inside and the people we found in them were generally obliging and friendly. Mel almost bought an snorkelling set, but thought better of it. This turned out to be her biggest mistake of the entire trip. More on that later.

Over breakfast, Mel and I had contemplated a lazy day by the pool at the hotel, but on the way back to the hotel after breakfast decided that we should check the bus timetable and, if the timing was convenient, that we would head down to the beach. Sure enough, the timetable was conducive to such an excursion and we went back to our room to grab our beach essentials - a towel and a book. On the way back to the bus stop we ducked into a cafe-come-milk bar by the bus depot. I did my best to charm up the rather attractive attendant there with me best 'Tikanis ... Kala ...' but I did not get the effect I was looking for. Certainly, she did not respond in Greek. I looked closer. If I did not know any better, I would have guessed that she was not Greek. Eastern European, maybe? With the expansion of the EU, finding an Eastern European in Greece would not be unusual. But Folegandros? What would bring her here? We would eventually find out, but that would not be until the next day.

On this day, though, fifteen minutes after buying some drinks for the beach at the cafe-come-milk bar staffed by the (maybe) non-Greek we were on the bus to Agathi beach.

On the bus, I could not help but reflect. If I had come to Folegandros as a younger, single man I would have been disappointed as there is not a lot to do, in younger, single man terms. But contrasting Folegandros with the busy time we had in Santorini, it all made sense. The people are friendly and not relentlessly selling. There seemed to be more locals here than tourists. On the plus side, this lent a homely feeling to the island. The slight downside is that, on occasion, we felt like we were intruding on their lives. Certainly, we felt that way at the bar, after the wedding, the night before. I was warming slightly to Folegandros, but at that point I could not see myself returning.

Introspective complete, the bus arrived at Agathi. What a nice beach it turned out to be. The sand was OK and the water, again, was crystal clear with those same little fish coming right up to the landline. The water was quite warm. We were sheltered from the wind - Mel's pet hate at the beach. Like a duck to water - pun intended - Mel jumped into the water and looked at me to do the same. My old swimming chestnut raised its head again. The water got very deep, very quickly at Agathi and I was concerned about being able to keep afloat, so my water activities were restricted to a gentle and shallow wade. At this point, the penny had finally dropped and Mel fully accepted that I can't really swim. Unperturbed, she used some nearby rocks as a diving platform. She was having a ball. It was at this point that Mel caught site of some fellow swimmers who had brought along their snorkelling gear and were having a great time. As I said, biggest mistake of the entire trip.

I, on the other hand, was baring witness to a remarkable spectacle. A man who was about 55 who had been doing some snorkelling came out of the water and onto the beach. He then reached for his groin. I thought he was just doing a little 'adjusting', which men need to do from time to time, especially in a beach environment. Then he reached into his swimming trunks, which I thought was a bit much. He might have needed to adjust himself, but a little subtlety might be required in this public, family environment. It was then that we pulled an octopus out from his swimmers. Amazing. He must have come across this one while he was snorkelling, killed it (or at least, I hope he killed it, for both of their sakes) and then stored it down his trunks for the swim back to shore. I do not think I haver been so impressed - and disturbed at the same time - by what another man has done with his swimming trunks. This, I reasoned, is what manly men do.

But he had another surprise in store for me. He started fiddling around his trunks again ... and pulled out another octopus! How could I ever look at myself in the mirror again.

What a great couple of hours at the beach this had turned out to be. And according to the locals, this was not even the nicest beach on the island. Depending on how windy the day was, there were several other options.

That is when my own penny dropped and I started to understand what Folegandros was all about. Nice beaches, easy to get around, not much to worry about ... this was a great place to relax.

We headed back to our hotel on the bus we arrived on. I decided that having been to the beach I really ought to get my hair wet and took a dip in the pool. It was here that I experienced the first rule of Australian international travel: you will almost always come into contact with another Australian. Australians travel. It is what we do. I would like to tell you why, but to be frank I am not certain. Perhaps it has something to do with the geographic isolation of Australia itself. Perhaps we need reminding that we are part of the world at large. Regardless, the first rule of Australian international travel took the form of Betty and Roy from Hawthorn, from my home city of Melbourne. They were cycling tourists who had been cycling their way through Europe before meeting up with some friends on Folegandros. They did not like Santorini. They were watching their pennies and on Santorini, that meant having accommodation right beside a nightclub that stayed open until 4am. I understood that though, of course, did not share their experience. They went on to tell me about all the little towns they rode through in Europe, most of which drew blanks from me. Still, they were both very nice and it was nice to touch base with some countrymen.

If there was one thing that was certain on this night it was that I was going to choose where we were going to eat. My two criteria were going to reign over Mel's fourteen. Not that Mel did not try to enforce her will upon me, lobbying for an admittedly cute and romantic restaurant just outside of the Chora. But at up to €25 for a main meal - close to top notch London prises and about four times what we were seeing at the other restaurants on the island - I put my foot down. Instead, I chose a place that was in the centre of the Chora and elevated, so that we could see into and over the Chora. On the previous night it was full to the brim and on this night it was not much less so. It must be good, I presumed. I presumed correctly. Dinner was great. We opened up with a mixed entrée, I had grilled aubergine for a main while Mel had a chicken dish. Yum. The woman serving us - tall and reasonably fair haired - did not look Greek to us at all. She looked rather more Germanic or Dutch. What would bring a German or Dutch woman to the island of Folegandros to serve to expat Australians? We would eventually find out but that, too, would not be until the next day.

We could see Red T-shirt's restaurant, Melissa. They started of quiet. Then a group of eight came in and things got rolling for them. They were full of patrons in no time. I could not help but think that all was right in the world. Or at least my part.

Contented, we headed to the bar from the night before. Devoid of inebriated post-wedding goers, it was a great place to be. The owner was clearly a gadget freak - Yamaha amp, Bose speakers and a very expensive mixing desk indicated that. There were a wide range of beverages. The girl working the bar - the same from the night before - was very friendly and made whatever we asked, even if she had not made it before. She was keen to learn. To that end, if you should ever find yourself in this bar you should find that ordering a lemon, lime and bitters or a Kahlua and milk is not a problem. They only played Greek music in the bar, but unlike on Santorini it seemed apt and I would not have had anything else. Speaking to the bar-girl, she told us that the wedding last night was not of locals, but of mainland Greeks who often came to Folegandros every year. Or every other year. The day before, I would not have understood that. On this day, however, I understood that just fine.

We headed back home to retire for the evening. Falling to sleep was different than the night before. Last night I could not help but think, 'What are we doing here? There is nothing here ...'. These thoughts were replace by the satisfaction of looking for something - a quiet, restful, enjoyable, out of the way spot that not so many other people have been to - and finding it. I slept rather well that night.