Putt-Putt

The night before their great adventure, the two young Canadians found themselves in the small, back streets of Iraklion, Crete.  After wandering a bit and trying to find the best place to sit and people-watch, they settled on a small taverna with tiny tables and chairs placed decoratively outdoors.  There they sat and proceeded to get smashed on the local raki.  Everything was beautiful to begin with, but after three or four shots each of the extremely potent brew, everything was even lovelier.  The smell of the ocean breeze, the stars a’twinklin’ in the black sky, the sound of the bazouki music, and the fact that they were on the other side of the ocean; all this lent an air of wonder to the night. The following day would however, bring a most unpleasant change to their circumstances.

The next morning, bright and early, they donned their tourist apparel; jeans and hippy blouses, brushed their long hippy-locks, hoisted their excessively heavy backpacks on their not-quite-strong-enough backs, and headed for the highway.  Once there, they joined the queue of other hippies with long hippy-locks, dressed in jeans and hippy blouses or shirts, and stuck out their thumbs.  The passers-by had their choice of many a young hitchhiker that day, but evidently the blond hair of our girls did the trick, and very soon they found themselves comfortably ensconced in a vehicle headed in the direction that they were determined to go.

Now, they had learned by experience that when hitchhiking, the one who sat in the passenger seat was invariably molested, while the lucky one seated in back was relatively safe.  They’d had many a close-call leading up to this moment. In Switzerland, there was the young man who had ‘pleasured’ himself as he was driving them toward Bern.  In Germany, there were the two men who didn’t want to let the girls out of the car to relieve themselves…something they desperately needed to do. The many attempted ‘gropings’ that they’d suffered in Amsterdam, Austria, and mainland Greece had become commonplace. And this particular ride would turn out to be no exception.

The travellers had worked out a fair system…they took turns sitting with the driver, hence the one in the back seat had a respite from the inevitable mauling.  Girl A…let’s call her Angelina…had the good fortune, or so she thought, of being in the back seat of the car.  Girl S…we can call her Sharmaine, was in the hot seat.  Off they went, barrelling down the road.  The driver spoke no English…except for several necessary words, which will go unmentioned.  He obviously liked our maids, looking first at the one seated to his right and then turning full in his seat to stare at the one behind.  Alas for our friend in the rear, he seemed to like her more.  He reached a hairy arm back and tried to cop a feel, but our girl, by now the seasoned traveller, grabbed the proffered appendage, dug the nails of her left hand deeply into it, and threw it away from her with her right hand.  The not so affable driver made as if to strike her, and then said, looking at her in the rear view mirror, “You, me, Agios Nicolaos, sleep.”  With this he put his hands together in the prayer position and placed them beside his ear. “No!” she retorted and indicating her companion said, “She, me, Agios Nicolaos, sleep.” Mimicking him, she placed her hands beside her ear. The two sidekicks had often found it necessary to feign homosexuality to avoid situations similar to the one in which they now found themselves.  With that their chauffeur pulled quickly to the side of the road, slammed on the brakes, and said, “Exo!”  Since he was pointing to the door, they rightly assumed he wanted them to get out.  They did just that and their ride took off.

They looked around at the desolate scene that confronted them.  To the rear, mountains and more mountains, and in front of them, the sea crashing noisily against the rocks…the highway, devoid of cars, stretched endlessly in both directions.  Before you could say ‘Agios Nicolaos’, lightning ripped through the now dark-grey clouds and water gushed from the leaden sky, soaking them completely.  They looked at each other in stunned amazement, and as if of one mind, dove into their backpacks and hastily retrieved their rain-capes.  Angelina picked up Sharmaine’s backpack and helped her put it on, then Sharmaine returned the favour.  On went the capes, large enough to cover our friends and their bags, transforming them into deformed-looking mutants.  And there they stood, in the deluge, on the desolate highway, waiting…..and waiting…and hoping against hope that someone…anyone…would come along to give them a ride.  They waited, and waited some more.  An hour passed…an hour and a half.  Not one car appeared.  They remarked to each other that even if a car were to pass, it would do just that…pass them.  No one would ever stop for the unsightly, androgynous beings stationed at the edge of the road.  Their lovely, blond locks, hidden under the army-green tents, would attract no one.  Their slim bodies, now looking like the Hulk’s, would garner no positive attention.  They were obviously destined to wait there until the rain let up and they could finally remove their charming slickers.

“But wait!  What’s that?  That noise.  Can you hear it?  Shhhh….listen.”  Putt-Putt….Putt-Putt…Putt-Putt.  “Can you see anything?  Look!”  Putt-Putt.  “A speck on the horizon, coming closer…very slowly.  See it?  What is it?”  Ten minutes passed and they could finally make out what it was….a tiny three-wheeled covered motor-scooter tugging a minuscule flatbed.  Afraid that it would pass them by, they walked quickly into the middle of the road, got down on their knees, clasped their hands together as if in prayer, and faced the oncoming saviour.  He stopped.  HE STOPPED!!!!  HALLELUJAH…HE STOPPED!!! Never mind that they could probably have walked faster than the ‘vehicle’, he had stopped.  They jumped up in unison, yelling “Efharisto, Efharisto, Efharisto”, mounted the flatbed, and with the rain pelting them, putt-putted very, very slowly toward Agios Nicolaos.

Exotic

Smaro’s laugh started off deep and throaty, but crescendoed into a lovely high-pitched squeak. Both it and her smile were infectious.  How that woman loved to laugh!  Music was important to her too, and she would burst into song at the drop of a hat.  Her voice was a rich, full-toned contralto, and I was often regaled with her favourite Greek love song of the day.  Separated from her husband for many years, she worked long hours as a nurse to provide for her two children. ‘Hard Work’ was her middle name.

Those were lean days for me.  A stranger in a strange land, I had very little money, very few friends and on occasion, despaired.  If I was feeling at all low, the gloom would lift the moment I was engulfed in one of her great big bear-hugs.  She was wonderful to me and treated me like a daughter.  If I needed a bed, she gave me one; if I was hungry, she fed me.  Even though it was hard at times for her to make ends meet, she gave selflessly. And, oh the food she fed me….so different from what I was used to.  Chorta, pastitsio, dolmades…food as exotic to me as was Smaro.

One of my most vivid memories is of a day when I was invited by Smaro to come for lunch.  I walked into the dining-room and there in the middle of the table was a bony skull surrounded by potatoes.  “Ti einai afto?” (What is that?) I asked, cringing at the sight.  “It’s the head of a sheep.” she answered.  “What’s the matter?  Don’t you eat sheep brain in Canada?”  Bile rose in my throat.  “No!  We don’t eat sheep brain in Canada and I can’t eat it here, either!”  “Why,” she asked, surprised, “It’s delicious!”  “Thank you, but no thank you.  I can’t eat that!  I can’t even look at it,” I gasped, almost gagging at the thought. She relented gracefully.  “Okay then.  Go into the kitchen and make yourself some eggs. You can eat in there.”  I did as I was told, grateful to leave the abhorrent sight behind.  I quickly fried up a couple of eggs, sliced a tomato, grabbed a piece of bread and was sitting at the kitchen table just about to put some egg in my mouth when Smaro, ever-funny Smaro, spoke to me from the other room, her words putting an end to whatever appetite I had. “Oh, Arlene,” she exclaimed in a laughter-filled voice, “This is so delicious. You really should come and have some.  Now, I’m eating the eye!”

Can You Feel It?

“Does the spaghetti have fried onions in it?  I can’t eat onions….they upset my stomach.”

“Me, too!” agreed our very young, Spanish waiter.  We later learned that he was 23. “I can’t eat everything like I used to be able to because I have a hiatal hernia.  They did many, many tests.”  He made a motion that suggested a tube being inserted into his throat, and then did the same indicating his behind.  We were taken aback by his frankness.  “I have a lot of diarrhea and I vomit a lot,” he shared.

Yikes and yikes again!  

J.P. caught my eye and we both tried our best not to laugh. He gathered his wits, cleared his throat and remarked,  “Have you ever been tested for H-Pylori? Sometimes you can have terrible acid and it’s caused by a bacteria called H-Pylori. They can do a blood test and if you have it, it’s easy to get rid of.”

“Yes, I had that.  They tested my kaka for it.”  (This was unfortunately revealed to us as we were contemplating a spaghetti and meatballs [albondigas] dinner.)  “They checked for it but the kaka was negative.”  I almost choked at that comment. Way, way too much information!!

The young camarero candidly admitted that he was a hypochondriac and then left to serve several tables he’d neglected while he had been imparting this fascinating information to us.  We were convulsed with laughter, and desperately tried to stifle our guffaws.

After several minutes our now intimate friend returned to take our order.  Suddenly he raised his left arm and said to J.P., “Touch here…put your hand here.”  He indicated a spot just below his armpit and slightly to the right.  J.P. was caught off guard and couldn’t think of a way out.  He did as commanded.  He gently touched the ‘spot’ but the touch was not to our friend’s liking.  With his own hand covering J.P.’s too tentative hand, he held it firmly in place and shook his upper torso violently from side to side. It might have been my imagination, but I was certain that I heard it!  “Can you feel it?  The water?  I can’t drink water because that’s what happens.”  Sure enough, J.P. felt a pocket of liquid sloshing around under the poor guy’s arm.  The look of shock and alarm on my husband’s face was priceless.  

Tell me…..why is there never a camera when you need one?

Pride Goeth Before A Fall

Angelina was feeling very proud of her knowledge of basic Greek…perhaps a bit too proud.  The fact that she’d been in that country a mere month and a half did nothing to dissuade her of the opinion that she really ‘knew her stuff’!  She was looking forward to taking Sharmaine to the restaurant and showcasing her linguistic abilities. What is that old saying?  Oh yes, “Pride goeth before a fall.”  Poor Angelina was about to become well acquainted with that concept.

The restaurant was crowded, as usual.  She’d been there several times before and had enjoyed not only the food, but the ambiance, as well.  It was a typical Greek restaurant and not at all expensive.  The girls appreciated that fact.  They needed to make every penny (drachma) of their money count since they planned to travel for a minimum of six months.  

It’s common knowledge that when one enters a Greek restaurant of that caliber, the first thing one does is to tell the waiter that they would like to go into the kitchen. “Endaxei,” (okay) is the usual response. Hence, Angelina and Sharmaine found themselves checking out the fragrant contents of the large pots and pans atop the stove and the counter-tops. Having decided what they would eat, they went to their table. 

The waiter approached with the requisite basket of bread and a small bowl of olives. “Ti thelete?” (What do you want?)  This was her moment to shine!  “Pay attention, Sharmaine,” she thought.  “You’re about to hear some great Greek now!” Oh, but she was so full of herself, that Angelina!  She smiled sweetly at the waiter and said confidently and perhaps just a wee bit too loudly,”Theo copella, parakalo.” The people at the tables around her broke into gales of laughter.  The waiter, not able to control himself, joined in the merriment.  What had she said? Theo copella…that means two chickens, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?  Oh, my gosh….it doesn’t.  The word for chicken is kotopoulo…not copella. She should have said “Theo kotopoula”!     Instead of ordering two chickens, clever Angelina had ordered two girls!

Beeeoootifoool Girls

Mid-March found Angelina and Sharmaine in Europe for the first time, searching the side-streets of Rome for a reasonably-priced pension, a base from which to explore the tourist traps that beckoned. Mission accomplished, they decided that after the long plane ride, a quick wash was in order. Angelina left Sharmaine in their quarters and made her way to the communal lavatory to take a shower. To her chagrin, hot showers were not free, and having no lira to feed the hot-water meter, cold was the only game in town. It took a great effort to keep from shrieking at the onslaught of frigid water. She rushed through her ablutions and finished showering in no time flat. Emerging from the icy bath, skin red and lips blue, she dried off hastily, dressed and retraced her steps to the room.

Rounding the corner, she saw him. Dressed in striped pajamas in spite of the fact that it was mid-afternoon, he was on his knees at the door to their room, eye to the keyhole, licking his lips lasciviously, and staring at an oblivious Sharmaine. Unaware of Angelina’s presence, he switched eyes to get an even better view. “What the heck do you think you’re doing, you pervert???” Red in the face, the culprit sprang to his feet, and muttering under his breath in Italian he scuttled off down the hall. Entering the room, Angelina snatched several tissues and stuffed them into the keyhole.

It was Sharmaine’s turn to hurry through the torturous douche and once dressed she joined her sister to commence their explorations. The Trevi Fountain was first on the list of things to see. Excitedly, they exited the pension and started toward the desired destination.

At once, they were accosted by two members of the opposite sex. “Hey, beeeoootifoool girls.Hello, Beeeoootifoools! Ciao dolcezza. Where you go? Hello??” They tried their best to ignore the two young men who were intent on getting their attention, but the annoying one-sided dialogue continued. “Pssst. Pssst. Girls? Bella regazze. Hello?? Pssst. You are very beeeoootifoool!” Angelina felt the blood rise to her face. “Let’s cross the street,” she whispered to Sharmaine. “I’m getting pissed off!” So, cross they did. Regrettably, the young romeos followed. “Pssst. Hello? Beeeoootifoools?? Hello?” The incessant chatter didn’t cease. Angelina grabbed Sharmaine by the arm and dragged her back across the street. “Girls, hey girls? You take our hearts. Girls?” Angelina had had the biscuit. She dug in her bag, brought out her small fruit knife and turning to face their stalkers, waved it in their faces. “Go away! Go away NOW!!! We don’t want you to follow us. Get lost. We’re not interested in men.” Sharmaine added, “We don’t want company. We want you to leave us alone. GO AWAY!!!” They laughed! The two young men laughed at them!! Blood now boiling, Angelina spotted a police officer a short distance away. That was it! She’d had enough! Pay-back time! “Come on, Sharmaine!”

The two girls stormed up to the officer. “Do you speak English?” “Yes, I do.” “Oh, good. You see these two men here?” Angelina indicated the two who had once again pursued them and now, astonishingly, stood not two metres away. “They won’t stop following us! We’ve told them that we’re not interested in men!” This last statement was directed angrily at the two wanna-be beaus. “Please, tell them to go away! We’re not interested in men. We want them to leave us alone!” The officer spoke sternly to the two and they slunk away. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much,” the sisters said of one accord. They both heaved sighs of relief. “Thanks again! Goodbye,” said Sharmaine. “Gracie! Bye!” said a smiling Angelina.

“One moment, please,” said the poliziotto. The girls stopped in their tracks and turned back. “There is a party tonight. Do you beeeoootifoool girls like to go with me?”