Chapter 6
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No, I did not mean to type Paris instead of Paros. I don’t know whether I expected souvalakis, hommus, and feta to be the sole offering at every restaurant I frequented, but I was disappointed with the amount of non-Greek food on offer in Paros. This artificial need for Greek authenticity did not last, as my wont for Mexican food at a later stage will illustrate. But the preeminence of crepes, pasta and pizza irked me. For me, a holiday and holiday food are inextricably linked: mee goreng in Indonesia, burgers in the US, fruit in the tropics, pretzels in Germany, roast lunch in the UK and beer in Belgium.
So I sit down to eat what turns out to be a massive cheese, capsicum (peppers, for you Poms), tomato and mushroom crepe.
As a person who speaks English natively, it is easy to be smug about how other nationals butcher our language. Never mind that I kept saying 'Good Morning' in Greek - phonetically, Kali Mera - well after 6pm because it was the only greeting I could remember. Never mind that I did not know what 'Thank you' was in Greek (phonically, 'Efcharisto' is the answer, should you be wondering).
Nevertheless, I have no problem that I chuckled for a good few days every time I looked up at a menu board to see that there were two types of crepe usually on offer: sweet and salty. To me, sweet crepes made a lot of sense - I mean who doesn't love Nutella, or sugar, or syrup on a crepe. But who wants a salty crepe? Who wants a crepe with a great wad of salt on it? It wasn't until I realised that, to the Greeks, that salty crepes actually referred to savory crepes that things made more sense. Enter the chuckles ...
Anyway, it was a bloody good crepe and it filled in the time waiting for the Blue Star ship 'Naxos' to arrive which would take us to Santorini. We would have hung around this particular cafe for longer, but a group of adolescents - who really were very nice and even a little charming - were conversing at what seemed to be at the top of their lungs. This was not unusual in Greece. In fact Mel, who is not one to make broad and sweeping statements about anything, felt obliged to express to me that she felt the Greeks were a nation of yellers. As in screamers. Certainly, we often heard (again, phonetically) 'Ella, Ella ...' (translated; 'Come, come ...') being shouted throughout the streets with volumes defying the friendly nature in which they were offered. Not that I am one to throw stones. I am often told that my voice is foghorn-like itself. At breakfast in a cafe, though, it made for difficult conversation. And then came the smoke.
Do the Greeks love a smoke. I hadn't seen cigarette advertising on a billboard for about twenty years, most of which was spent in Australia where such advertising has long been illegal. In Greece they were everywhere. And they seemed to be working because many, many Greeks smoked. Many young Greeks. Just like the young Greeks at the table beside ours.
I was genuinely surprised at the amount of smoke that six pre-adults could produce. Especially given the amount and volume of talking going on amongst their group. It might have raised the attention of the local fire department, but I imagine they were all on a smoke break (cue snare drum roll and cymbal).
I'll say this just once: when you are in someone else's country you have to respect what they do. Just because we don't smoke around food in Australia, or in the UK generally, we can't expect Greeks to hold that value. If you want people who have that value then stay home. Nevertheless, all that smoke and all that yelling did not encourage us to stay at this particular cafe. We headed to the port to catch our boat to Santorini.
And that was not the most pleasant experience either. The boat was well over 15 minutes late all those waiting were gathered around the nearby roundabout in the middle of a substantial amount of traffic. When the boat did come we were hurried into the stern of the boat where the transported cars were kept so that the Naxos (remember, that was the name of this boat) could make up some time. If that was not enough, some guy in very close proximity of my left ear started whistling Popcorn. Popcorn, of all things! When the stern closed the boat itself started beeping out a tune ... something classical, but that is all I remember. Then the whistling guy starts whistling that tune!
I don't understand why people are so comfortable about whistling in public. And I am not talking about wolf whistling or whistling for affect, as in "(Descending tone whistle) ... that's a stiff price, Bob". I am talking about whistling a tune. Loudly. And, if the perpetrator is over 50, with vibrato. If I were to start singing ... say, a showtune ... let's pick Cabaret - loudly and with suitable vibrato, which is none as I am well shy of 50 - then I would attract a measure of attention. None of it positive. Most of it along the lines of 'Loony', 'Shutup', and 'Annoying'. Yet people are more than happy to inflict their whistles upon the general public and, more importantly, me. And if I was to say 'Shutup, you loony ... you are annoying me ...' well that would make me a bad person in the eyes of society. Or so I believe. Let me know what you think. In the mean time, I have a story about a boat to return to.
Once Mel and I were out of the stern of the Naxos, we headed up onto the deck to find our seat. We did not reserve any special seating, or at least not knowingly. When we found our seats,though, we found them to be in a separate area of the ship, much like a business lounge. Clearly, the person who sold us the ticket was happy to charge us a pretty penny for this seat. Certainly, no price options were mentioned when we bought them. Nevertheless, we were in a nice part of the ship and I was not too fussed that we might have paid a premium for our seats.
The second strike against the person who sold us the tickets happened when Mel and I also found that our seats were apart. Six rows apart. On opposite sides of the aisle. Of themselves these mistakes were an inconvenience. But for me - who is aware of what might go wrong - occupying the unoccupied seat beside Mel presented its own problem. Or, at least, problems in my mind: Would someone come to claim their seat? Would things get nasty? Would I not be able to get the seat allocated to me - six rows back - and have to stand on the deck ... alone? Silly thoughts of a silly and petty man, you might think. But wouldn't you know it, my worst fears were realised. Though, fortunately, they were realised upon someone else.
I was in the middle of watching a Greek movie of dubious quality. The male actors all had long hair, Fabio style. They did not seem to be great actors, though of course the subtleties might have been lost on me due to my lack of understanding of the Greek language. Still, I feel there are only so many times so many actors can place their hands to their foreheads and throw said foreheads back in anguish, uttering what seemed to be - to my untrained ears - the Greek equivalent of 'Mama Mia!'. They all wore dark suits and sunglasses. They were gangsters, as it turned out. Anyway, it was around this point in the movie when the gangsters blew a hole in the wall of a safe to steal what seemed to me a floppy cucumber (I don't get it either) when the cucumber hit the fan a few rows ahead. Two women - I thought they were French but Mel thought they might be Greek - confronted a couple. 'Come on! Move! We have tickets! Move! Come on!'. I have always thought of the French (and the Greeks) for being a rather charming lot so I can safely say that these two sows were not what I believed to be indicative of either nationality. When they sat down, they continued to inflict the vociferations upon the rest of the cabin. At least the people who originally had their seats were quiet. These two disgusted me.
Anyway, I got down to reading just a little more Bill Bryson and before I knew it we we in the mouth of the caldera of Satorini. Mel was eager to stay in her seat - I don't think she was feeling the best - but I encouraged her to come up top with me. I had seen this site before and knew that should be disappointed if she missed out. Sure enough, we arrived up top just as the Naxos navigated the narrow entry into the caldera. With the volcanic formations, cliff-side residences and clear water, Mel was soon smiling.
Santorini is really a wonderful place, but before we could experience that we had to trudge through yet another hell-ish port. The new port at Santorini reminded me of Pireaus, which is not a good thing. Hordes of people selling accommodation, smelly motorbikes, loads of cars ... and not a clue about what to do or where to go, despite that I had been there previously. What Mel and I did know is that we needed to catch the public bus to Thira, the main Santorini on the caldera. Certainly, the port was full of buses, but all of them seemed to be chartered by tour operators. We walked all the way to the end of the rather large bus depot and then half way back we spotted a very modern green bus with the word 'Thira' emblazoned across the top of the windscreen. We threw our luggage into the storage areas by the bus's side and hopped on the bus. The port is accessed by a very thin and windy road and, as on my previous visit, I am amazed by the dexterity of the bus driver in navigating it.
About 45 minutes on and we arrive at Thira with only one more obstacle to overcome. Over enthused accommodation hawkers surround the bus and get uncomfortably close - physically close - as we gather our luggage by the side of the bus. Like a swarm of blow flies they offer what they feel are words that cannot be denied; 'Cheap, cheap ...'. One woman in particular I found ruthless and she approached me on several occasions, in spite of me using as harsh words as I am comfortable using. No promises of cheap accommodation are going to win my business on this night. On this night, I will sleep by the caldera. The majestic caldera. All that was needed was some suitable accommodation.
Who was to know how difficult it prove to find suitable accommodation.
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