One of the pleasures of living on a small Greek island for as much time as possible is the idea of having guests. Now Waldo and I have never been social animals in the sense of going out with other people every week; we have much more preferred our own company. Over the decades of our relationship we have found it deeply satisfying to go out for a nice meal with a bottle of wine and talk to each other. Over the years that mutual support has helped us stop personal problems before they occur, enabled each of us to see work and business problems with clarity, find solutions and be motivated to put them into action. The great strength of our relationship is that ability to talk, the comfortable companionship we have evolved and the knowledge that we are both completely free, because we know each other so well, we have nothing to hide.
Despite that rather isolated lifestyle, we do have friends; we are even friends with a great many relatives, which not all people can say! We do enjoy having people to stay, although we don’t always believe that in the few days before their arrival! Now I have never been prone to housework; never really seen the point of it, nor found any satisfaction in it. As we have both always been in full-time, well mostly over-time work, I have always said that we should share all of our other responsibilities. Our first priority has always been to make time for each other. Our second is work. Our living places have always been bought with their selling potential in mind. Hence, in our houses, we have always lived in moderate to utter chaos and untidiness, sprinkled with a modicum of dust. As we age, so the clutter increases for I am getting to the point that anything which is ‘out of sight, is out of mind’ and need to have things placed in strategic locations to remind me to do something or other. Waldo is much tidier, except for a long-term uncomfortable relationship with keys, glasses, pens and reminder notes: life has been a constant ‘where’s my ...’ as he wanders from room to room searching for the keys in his pocket, the glasses on his head and such! I have never bought any clothes that do not drip dry and have never seen the value of ironed towels, underclothes or sheets. My only stipulation for any house that we have bought is to have a space large enough to hang up washing. Of course out in Kythera we have the whole outdoor space with ‘the big heater in the sky’ to dry anything in minutes.
When friends are coming to stay, about two days beforehand it is ‘work stations everyone’ and we decide what has to be done. Usually it follows the same pattern, unclutter the lounge, clean and make-up the spare bedroom, clean the bathrooms, prepare food and then clean up the kitchen. Apart from, tidying away my clutter, which I must admit is about 99.5% of the clutter, finding the clean sheets and helping make up the beds, the rest of my preparation involves shopping and preparing food. Poor Waldo in the meantime flies around the place like a whirling dervish with the mop, vacuum cleaner, dusters and various plastic bottles of cleaning fluids. No surface is missed whether it be floor, table, shelves, the lot, and of course the bathroom. I always find it mildly amusing that when friends make any comment about dust, untidiness and such is always directed at me; nobody ever considers that the state of the house is either Waldo’s responsibility or at least a joint effort; no it is still ‘the lady of the house’! Whilst some friends have got used to us now, others find it quite incredible that whether in UK or Greece if they need the vacuum cleaner, iron and ironing board, a hair dryer or accessories such as a damp cloth, duster or the like, it is Waldo they must ask for I do not have a clue where they are kept. Ever since I can remember two sounds make my teeth on edge: the sound of a vacuum cleaner and a baby crying. Both cut deeply into me as effectively as a nail drawn over a blackboard offends most other people.
My famed lack of understanding of what goes on in the house amuses and concerns many friends. Some years ago whilst I was away in Greece on business for about three weeks, Waldo decided to redecorate the lounge. A friend called round to check that he was surviving OK. She was somewhat surprised to find most of the lounge furniture stacked up in the hall and dining room. Waldo was busy preparing everything to be painted: walls, ceiling, and doors. Judy felt sure that I would have told her if we were decorating the lounge. Waldo told her with glee that he had just decided to get it done whilst I was away.
“It’ll be a surprise for her when she gets back.” He told Judy enthusiastically.
“You mean Liz doesn’t know?” asked Judy, vaguely perturbed.
“No. I thought it would be good to do it now. She won’t have the chaos.” explained Waldo.
“But she’s agreed the colours beforehand? You have spoken to her about it?” Judy was really concerned now.
“Oh no, I know what Liz likes. It’ll be a nice surprise for her.” Waldo was adamant.
“I bet it will!” said Judy.
She was even more surprised and confused when she telephoned me a day or so after my return. Her curiosity couldn’t be contained any longer and she asked me how I liked the lounge. To this day she still cannot get over my lack of awareness of my surroundings, for I had to ask ‘what lounge’ and she explained that Waldo had redecorated. When I looked I did recognise that something had changed: the walls had changed from magnolia to pale pink, the ceiling from magnolia to white with a hint of pink, and there was a new rug in front of the fireplace over the old worn carpet!
It was not many months after that when I answered a knock at the door of the same house. It was a couple of men ready to deliver and fit a new carpet. Of course they insisted that the householder confirms that the carpet is what they ordered before it is brought into the house. These men could not believe what they were hearing when I had to telephone Waldo, ask him whether he had ordered a new carpet. When he admitted that he had done so, I passed the telephone over to one of the men whilst Waldo described the colour and pattern, AND told them which room it was to go in. I must say that the new lounge carpet looked great with the new decor. But the men just could not believe they were fitting a carpet in a lounge when the ‘lady of the house’ knew nothing about it. Friends feel the same and cannot believe that I hate shopping, just don’t understand these things and am quite happy to rely on Waldo, whose favourite pastime is shopping and for whom his home surroundings mean a lot. Hence, apart from the decorated lounge and new carpet, I have come home from hospital to a completely redecorated bedroom and new bed, and just home from work to find a new cooker, refrigerator, washing machine, car, TV, microwave, music centre, computer and all manner of brown or white goods, technical or otherwise installed in the house.
Most women find this hard to believe. But to me it is just the equality of our relationship. I am not wedded to my surroundings in the way that Waldo is. He enjoys looking around and feeling great satisfaction or sense of achievement in what has been created. I am more likely to have my head in a book, and my sense of creative achievement comes from the items I knit or crochet or things that I write. He enjoys shopping and choosing things and I hate all that fuss. Also Waldo has a much better eye for colour than I. Whilst I would spend ages going round shops with all sorts of colour swatches, he can carry a colour in his head, even the most subtle of shades, and match, tone or contrast as desired. So, it makes sense for him to do as he chooses, to take pleasure from it and to gain satisfaction for his activities leaving me free to spend my time doing other things.
But that division of labour was all before Kalithea Villa, for since we have been here we have both been like children ‘playing house’. Although the house contained all of the furniture, crockery, cutlery, linen and accessories that were needed to live, like animals marking their territory we both felt the need to make it ours. The previous owners had used it as a holiday house with the children’s bedrooms and a large lounge for entertainment. Apart from its minimalist style, the place had been decorated in the mid-seventies; the colour schemes throughout touched every shade of orange, ochre and brown known to paint and fabric manufacturers. No doubt much of the paint colour variations resulted in the method of visual matching used in the days before computer controlled colour match systems. I think the curtains were a result of buying up four ends of rolls of canvas each having some combination of any of the four colours; brown, ochre, orange or stone. We wanted the children’s bedrooms as guest rooms and the rest of the house for living and following our various hobbies and interests.
Filled with the enthusiasm of the ignorant I decided that I would make the curtains. The first curtains I made were to cover the opening to storage spaces in the hall. I measured up and allowed what I thought would be enough for fixings at the top and hems at the bottom. I chose the material in our one-in-seven haberdashery shop. The woman who served me seemed so adept at cutting across the curtain material in a straight line that I had a flash on inspiration – I asked her to cut the material into the lengths I required, two pairs or different length. Quickly and proficiently she did so. She also kindly asked me if I would want matching cotton and heading tape, both of which I had totally forgotten about! Lesson number one! It was only when I got home and held the material in the spaces the curtains would fill that I realised that I had not made any allowance for matching the big pattern of the green and cream weave. Lesson number two! Amazingly I managed to make both pairs of curtains match; the hems are minute and nobody can see the bit sewn onto the top of one. Having struggled to match the material and then spend time pinning everything I then started to sew the curtains and realised that I had a long road ahead! I have no sewing machine! Lesson number three!
Three years later, 32 yards of material have been hand sewn into curtains by me. A further 9 metres of extremely difficult voile have been sewn by my friend Wendy - it’s strange, but Wendy has never since accepted an invitation for a return visit! I’ve only got 9 more metres of voiles to do Wendy! I promise to sew that myself; it’s safe for you to come! Some 5 metres of roman blinds and their linings were sewn by another friend Jan, who also trod the bath washing about 19 metres of existing curtains. Jan is an expert seamstress who makes her own clothes and has helped me enormously with my sewing, but she draws the line at hand sewing. Thus my roman blinds were made in Cardiff and brought out in suitcases. Waldo then improvised and we bought lengths of bamboo cane as the cross pieces and I hand sewed the rings for the thread to run through. They work well in the AcropoLiz. I still have a two metre curtain length with lining to make, about 12 metres of voile to make up and 6 metre of heavy, thermally lined curtain to make! My enthusiasm for sewing is now such that I have progressed to making two pairs of cotton trousers for myself, and have material waiting for my return to Cardiff when I will make even more curtains.
As I have developed my sewing skills, so Waldo has discovered all manner of skills. Painting is perhaps the one he has had most practice with. Our bedroom and en suite was fairly straight forward, as was the small spare bedroom, except that it was done in a day just two days before a friend from Athens declared she was coming to visit! The two guest bedrooms expanded his skill as he used rollers on them, each with different patterns giving a mottled affect. The lounge has been done over a year, with different sections painted at a time. Then there is the outside of the house and the roofs which have been major jobs, repeated a few times. He has also emptied the swimming pool, set visitors to the job of scraping off the paint, and then he resealed it, waterproofed it and painted the great space.
Whilst Waldo has been doing the real painting I have been pottering or ‘potching’ as he calls it. I have repainted an old wooden coffee table, revived a couple of old chairs, painted shelves, pots, metal tables and chairs, bathroom shelves and even a stone moulding of a Greek lady holding an urn. I have developed my own style using spray paints, brushes of varying thickness to create antique aged affects, colour burst clusters and whatever takes my fancy. Four patios, our bathroom and the kitchen are scattered with the results of my efforts. I even inspired Waldo to be creative and in the AcropoLiz he painted four murals each taken from one of the square designs in the curtains. His design was created using square edges, plumb lines and masking tape rather than the freeform sleight of hand that I use.
Waldo had hung pictures, put up shelves and mended all manner of things which just need a few minutes work. He has lined the inside of the roof in the AcropoLiz with plywood panels and he has made a false ceiling with six inset lights which he fitted over our his’n’hers shower units. Flushed with success and disturbed by the ever increasing costs charged for cutting up wood, Waldo has recently purchased a circular saw sitting in a portable saw bench. He has also bought me a sewing machine – thank you, thank you, thank you! We decided to convert one of our storage cupboards into a purpose made space with chest of drawers to store material and wool, shelves for further storage and a hinged table top for the sewing machine. None of the walls in our house are actually perpendicular to each other, and this storage space has added complications because it literally has one wall which is the rock face of the mountain! It took a number of days before we had finally decided upon requirements, measured up and worked out how many sheets of wood we needed. We then hitched up our trailer to the car and travelled to Karvounades to buy our wood from Vassilis - and have our doses of tsipouro and preserved fruit from his mother! I measured up for the shelves and we pencilled out the cutting lines on the 2.5m x 1.25m timber plywood panels. The first cut was the most difficult as we needed to cut through the whole length of the panel which was heavy and the weight would shift as it moved through the saw. It clearly was a two person job, and as I was not strong enough to hold the weight for a long time I needed to be at the front end, guiding the wood to the saw. I had not anticipated the extent of wood dust that would be created and Waldo had the difficulty of holding two heavy pieces of timber and moving backwards as they were cut. We were both in a mess at the end of that first cut; coughing and sneezing whilst trying to breath, hot and bothered with exhausted arms. We called a halt to our endeavours.
The next day we were better prepared. I had a mask and hat to keep the dust away. We both knew what to expect in terms of the shifting weights of timber, and we now had smaller pieces to work with anyway. We learnt quickly and by the end of a few hours we both became proficient circular saw operatives! Five shelves cut to perfection, well almost if you don’t count the first cut! Plenty of shelf brackets, almost all the same size. And just a few small off cuts. Flushed with success we then cut up a thinner piece of timber to be placed under the marble worktops in the kitchen. These needed to be lifted slightly as the marble provided was the wrong depth and thus did not butt up properly to the other worktops and cooker. Now we have one even surface! Our A-team’s next project will be more difficult as we have much thicker and heavier panels to work with. But they will be used for rebuilding Waldo’s sagging workbench, thus they should not require the more complex cutting and shaping our work to date has required.
Whereas we used to sit and enjoy the view, our new found skills have changed our lives. We cannot ignore the fantastic view whenever we sit outside. But now we plan pergolas, bench seats, more shelves and a host of things that can be cut, painted and fixed.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Friday, 16 July 2010
Gosh It’s Hot!
Yesterday it was 47’ on our kitchen patio. We have been unable to reduce the temperature in our lounge below 31’ for the past two weeks now. I will never get used to living constantly with a thin layer of sweat all over my body and being in wet clothes all the time. And as for the amount of water we drink in a day ... !
When we sit in cool lounges watching the world weather on television, we tend to marvel at warm places; the Mediterranean climate within a range. Beyond a certain level it is too hot for comfort and in some parts of the world humidity if also an issue. For those thinking of moving abroad it is worth remembering that in most cases the weather temperatures are a given average from weather stations in an area. Most weather stations are located at airports, because of the obvious need to know. How many airports do you know that are not windy? The wind chill factor tends to underplay the real temperature of living in the nearby town or city where air-conditioners pump out hot air into the streets and all manner of vehicles, refrigerators, cookers and just people add a few degrees to the reported temperatures. We do not suffer from that sort of neighbourliness, but living tucked into an exposed piece of rock half way up a mountain means we have a direct line to the unrelentless sun!
After being used to living in a green land where primarily rain is a possibility I had not realised how much that shapes one’s lifestyle, attitudes and even health. Thus coming to spend time on an island which has about the greatest hours of sunshine of all Greek islands, where for the most part it doesn’t rain between mid-April to the end of September, we have had to learn a new way of life and develop new habits to retain our sanity.
At Kalithea Villa we are not on mains water or sewage and thus have to rely on water we collect during the winter months. The house has seven roofs at different levels where water runs down the levels from one to the other and finally through pipes into one of two large underground sternas. It was not long before Waldo realised that the flat roofs allowed water to stand and subsequently evaporate when the sun returned. Thus he devised a clever means of connecting pipes which means that now all water from the top levels is collected in pipes rather than just splashing to the next level; this way we have increased our collection levels by about one-third. Water is precious and we cannot be without it; thus conservation is essential. We restrict visitors to no more than one shower per day – and even then to ask beforehand ‘do you really need it’? Gone are the days when things are swilled under running water. Washing up is a once a day affair, by hand. When drawing hot water, the first run of about one litre of cold water is put into a plastic bottle and later used for making tea, or put into the ‘fridge for cold drinking water. Used water is poured over plants. Toilets are flushed only when necessary, and the cisterns are much smaller than in the UK; the equivalent of putting a brick into the tank. By these measures, which have now become habits, we manage to eak out our water until September and the first torrential thunder storm. What is amazing is that we have, as far as possible carried over these personal water saving habits, put in a water meter and our water bills in South Wales are now one-fifth of the charges given us as an unmetered property. That saving alone pays for both of us to have two return trips to Greece, including any accommodation needed en route.
The house is not a traditional island house with small windows and balconies with side walls and tiled roofs. It is not built to keep out the light and to provide maximum shade. It is a modern property built in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright’s beach houses. This means it has stark lines, lots of big windows, open patios all around and facilities to let in as much light as possible. The lounge alone has two large windows, two sets of double patio doors and two sets of windows the equivalent of unopening double patio doors. Above all of these runs a series of four large oblong windows, meaning that we have a run of about 12 metres of floor to ceiling glass edged by two large windows. The room juts out of the house and the outer glass walls are jointed together like the sides of an old thruppeny piece; designed to catch light and sun from every angle! Thanks Frank!
The previous owners had tried to limit the amount of sunlight coming into the top windows, for sunlight = heat, by covering the glass with a reflective film. We had added blackout blinds which we keep opened for most of the time between May and September. In the morning the nets and thermally lined curtains are kept closed, until about 2pm when the sun is behind the house. It has taken a lot to turn our British attitude of ‘it’s a shame to keep the sun out’ into ‘please, please put as many barriers between it and us as possible’.
Kitchen doors are open all day to enable some breeze to come through, but must be closed before dusk to ensure mosquitoes and inquisitive, hungry or just lost little creatures don’t come in. Apparently it is only the female mosquito that bites. This is the only time when I don’t say ‘go for it girls’! On the whole Waldo and I are not much bothered by mosquitoes, but then just a single mosquito can wreak havoc in one night! We do not apply mosquito repellent and rarely get bitten. Friends who come to stay slap on this foul smelling stuff and we then spend breakfast times counting the bites! The best repellent we have found is a solar-battery powered little device which I bought on board a BA flight to Athens. The clip can be left on a side table, attached to a belt or handbag and emits a tiny high pitched sound, only audible if you place it right next to your ear. Apparently this sound emulates that of a male mosquito, I’m not sure whether ‘he’ is angry or rampant but either way the biting female flees at the sound!
The only way to really combat the heat is to live at night. How many tourists hit the clubs and bars in the evenings so busy they do not realise there are few Greeks around. Then after a long lie in they eventually rise and wander down to the beach to top up the tan, commenting how it is that Greek men particularly just sit around all day drinking coffee. What they do not realise is that if they would be up between 4 – 5am and mid-day they would see fields being ploughed, undergrowth being cut, walls painted, canopies fitted, anything that requires manual labour is done at this time. From mid-day to around 8pm is time for sitting, eating, sleeping, and watching TV, all in the shade or inside an air-conditioned room. Then, after a shower and a coffee it is time once more for work, maybe catching up with paperwork, business meetings and then an evening meal any time after 9pm, but more likely about 11pm until about 1am. In fact I read somewhere in a European Commission that Greek people work, on average, the longest hours in the European Union. Now they do work long hours, but then there are ‘lies, damn lies and statistics’ to which we might tag on ‘and Greek government statistics’!
Nevertheless, I fall into this lifestyle quite happily. When I had a business base in Athens my working day would start with an appointment anytime between 7am and 8am. I would work through to perhaps an early working lunch. I would sleep from about 2-3pm until about 7.30 – 8.00. After that is was time for business meetings in a cafe bar somewhere rather than an office and then I would meet up with friends around 10-11pm until anything from midnight to 2am. Waldo finds this split day difficult and spends grumpy hours unable to work because of the heat and often tired but unable to sleep. As the summer progresses so we eat later and later as I am unable to even boil an egg as the excess heat is too much. So we live on salads from an overworked 30-year old Kelvinator (any non-American under 60 ‘Google it’ to find details of this gem of a machine).
Coming from a land of warm beer and hot bacon butties we have had to adapt a lot. First one bottle of water is kept in the ‘fridge, then as our consumption increases two are needed. Cold fizzy drinks or alcohol just cannot be consumed in the quantities that our dehydrated bodies demand, thus water is the order of the day. Cooked breakfasts have never been a part of our diets, except for special treats. But as the temperature rises so does our taste for fresh fruit and so peaches, apples, pears, oranges with muesli and yoghurt replace our hot toast for breakfast. Lunch is usually more water. In the evening our meals get later and later as I am unable to even prepare a sliced tomato without salt sweat dripping down my forehead and blinding me. So it’s salads or something that can be quickly prepared and put in the oven and left to its own devices until ready, or a meal such as a risotto which can be prepared on one pan. Gone are the meat and three veg, all requiring a separate hotplate plus gravy which requires me to stand near the cooker and stir! And then as they say, ‘if you can’t stand the heat’ yes, I ‘get out of the kitchen’ and it’s off to a taverna or a friends’ house.
I’m sure that the Greek gregariousness stems from the heat. Where houses are close together in narrow streets to provide shade in the summer and warmth in the winter, when windows are kept open to catch the slightest welcoming breeze even though curtains may be closed to keep out the hot light, sound still travels. It is not possible to not hear the sounds of neighbours’ lives; parental rows, mothers scolding children, grandparents talking to themselves, lovemaking even, all sounds carry. When it is such an effort to prepare and even cook a meal it might as well be for 4 as 2, for 8 as 4. And, if we know from eavesdropping or the rumours that spread from eavesdropping that some friends are going through a hard time, why not invite them round for a meal? Or simply why not invite someone round, knowing that sometimes in the future you will have a preparation free evening as they reciprocate the invitation. Yes the heat has its compensations.
A friend of mine in Athens says that just the simple act of inviting friends around for a meal in British summer is fraught with stress in a way that is unimaginable in Greece. At first I didn’t understand what he was talking about until he recounted staying with friends in the south of England and being part of the lead up to the event. A simple decision was made: we’ll have a barbecue a week next Saturday. The head count goes up – we don’t have enough chairs and tables outside. So invitations are made and certain people asked to bring some of their own garden furniture. The host and hostess started working out what food would be provided; then it dawned on them ‘what if it rains’? Nikos could not believe the permutations and combinations of possibilities: raining so hard everything had to be inside, raining just enough to require sitting down inside but some of the food could be cooked on the barbecue under the umbrella, fine weather and all could be outside. Within these possibilities were discussions on cooker capacity, cutlery, china and glasses to use for we Brits tend to use china inside and picnic style products outside. Last minute telephone calls are made as to whether or not the furniture is needed; it’s not raining with you, well it’s pouring down over hear, we’ll not need the chairs. He could not believe what he perceived as the stress. Realising that this was something that was played out as the norm in thousands of households throughout the British summer, the pressure of what Waldo calls ‘the big heater’ paled into insignificance. The Greek housewife will say to people ‘come round for a meal tomorrow’ (a week next Saturday is far too distant to comprehend). She knows that if she decides on a barbecue it will be outside, doesn’t even consider an alternative. Because the outdoor lifestyle is the norm the family will have enough tables and chairs already located in a shady spot; the china, cutlery and glasses are the same and the only choice is what to prepare and cook. Easy!
‘The big heater’ has its other uses too. I can put in a load of washing in the machine in the morning and by mid afternoon everything is dry. We have had a few occasions with visitors when we have had ‘change-over days’. With just one flight a day from Athens, we have taken one lot of visitors to the airport and waved them into the departure lounge, rushed to the arrivals lounge to welcome newcomers. The sheets have been washed, dried and put back on the beds before going to the airport. I recall a friend of mine telling me of watching Indian women working in pairs, washing their saris and then with each one holding a corner, to stretch the material out flat, by the time they had walked round in three circles, the sari was dry. I’m sure that one day I’ll need to get Waldo to help with that drying technique!
One thing I have to be careful of with ‘the big heater’ is sunburn. I have to wear a scarf or wet towel around my neck every time I put clothes out to dry. In the past I have actually had a sunburned neck just in the time it takes me to peg out one washing machine load! Neither of us sunbathes now or in the past. It was of great concern at the back end of last year to discover than I had a small skin cancer – fortunately now all taken out and clear. But given the extent of time some people spend in the sun I was a bit peeved; why me? But I find it extremely sad that whereas the older generation of Greeks will never present their skin to the sun, choose to live in the shade, nearly always cover their heads, and revere pale skin; now a younger generation are following the commercialised fashion for a suntan. What are they storing up for themselves? My skin cancer specialist explained to me that my cancer could have resulted from being exposed to too much sun just on one occasion as a child – and yes I do remember getting burnt on a beach on a south coast holiday when I was about 8 years of age. He asked me if I had ever seen a baby with freckles. Now I’m the last person on earth to ask about babies, having a morbid fear of them! (I have only ever held two in my life. The first was a friend’s child who was thrust into my arms when I went to visit her a few days after the birth. I was so shocked I came out in a cold sweat, nearly dropped the child and handed him back immediately. The second was my sister’s daughter Amelia. Whether it was because she was family or what, but when I met her first, again in hospital, I did feel an immediate bond with her and willingly allowed my sister to put her in my arms. But even though I held her many more times the feeling of fear nearly outweighed the love. I was so glad when she grew up, at least to toddling stage, and became like a mini-adult!)
The skin cancer specialist explained that babies do not have freckles until exposed to the sun. Each freckle is an indication that the skin has been damaged – seared by ‘the big heater in the sky’. I was always led to believe that because my hair was red/auburn and my skin pale that it was natural that I would have freckles. What I didn’t realise was that actually my fair skin has been regularly damaged over the years and the freckles, a thing of beauty to some, are actually the scars of ignorance in the fight against the sun’s rays. So now I wear a floppy hat whenever I go out in the day, where trousers, socks even, and long sleeved tops or use a cotton pashmina whenever I am out.
But living in the heat is a challenge and there are plenty of compensations in the lifestyle. However, it does fascinate me how the grass is always greener ... . In the grey days of British weather we cheer ourselves up with calendars, pictures, postcards and even ornaments decorated with scenes of sunny climes, palm trees, golden sand, azure seas and shining suns. In our minds we can refresh our psyche with a momentary glance and imaginary visit. But the trip is in our minds, it is not within the physicality of the heat, and thus we enjoy it and are renewed with a mere warm glow. Here in Greece the scenes are quite different; alpine slopes, snow covered forests, green pastures and lakeside landscapes dressed in autumn colours. In the sweltering heat we dare to imagine to cool feel of snow, feast on the sight of green, and drink the fresh waters.
When we sit in cool lounges watching the world weather on television, we tend to marvel at warm places; the Mediterranean climate within a range. Beyond a certain level it is too hot for comfort and in some parts of the world humidity if also an issue. For those thinking of moving abroad it is worth remembering that in most cases the weather temperatures are a given average from weather stations in an area. Most weather stations are located at airports, because of the obvious need to know. How many airports do you know that are not windy? The wind chill factor tends to underplay the real temperature of living in the nearby town or city where air-conditioners pump out hot air into the streets and all manner of vehicles, refrigerators, cookers and just people add a few degrees to the reported temperatures. We do not suffer from that sort of neighbourliness, but living tucked into an exposed piece of rock half way up a mountain means we have a direct line to the unrelentless sun!
After being used to living in a green land where primarily rain is a possibility I had not realised how much that shapes one’s lifestyle, attitudes and even health. Thus coming to spend time on an island which has about the greatest hours of sunshine of all Greek islands, where for the most part it doesn’t rain between mid-April to the end of September, we have had to learn a new way of life and develop new habits to retain our sanity.
At Kalithea Villa we are not on mains water or sewage and thus have to rely on water we collect during the winter months. The house has seven roofs at different levels where water runs down the levels from one to the other and finally through pipes into one of two large underground sternas. It was not long before Waldo realised that the flat roofs allowed water to stand and subsequently evaporate when the sun returned. Thus he devised a clever means of connecting pipes which means that now all water from the top levels is collected in pipes rather than just splashing to the next level; this way we have increased our collection levels by about one-third. Water is precious and we cannot be without it; thus conservation is essential. We restrict visitors to no more than one shower per day – and even then to ask beforehand ‘do you really need it’? Gone are the days when things are swilled under running water. Washing up is a once a day affair, by hand. When drawing hot water, the first run of about one litre of cold water is put into a plastic bottle and later used for making tea, or put into the ‘fridge for cold drinking water. Used water is poured over plants. Toilets are flushed only when necessary, and the cisterns are much smaller than in the UK; the equivalent of putting a brick into the tank. By these measures, which have now become habits, we manage to eak out our water until September and the first torrential thunder storm. What is amazing is that we have, as far as possible carried over these personal water saving habits, put in a water meter and our water bills in South Wales are now one-fifth of the charges given us as an unmetered property. That saving alone pays for both of us to have two return trips to Greece, including any accommodation needed en route.
The house is not a traditional island house with small windows and balconies with side walls and tiled roofs. It is not built to keep out the light and to provide maximum shade. It is a modern property built in the style of Frank Lloyd Wright’s beach houses. This means it has stark lines, lots of big windows, open patios all around and facilities to let in as much light as possible. The lounge alone has two large windows, two sets of double patio doors and two sets of windows the equivalent of unopening double patio doors. Above all of these runs a series of four large oblong windows, meaning that we have a run of about 12 metres of floor to ceiling glass edged by two large windows. The room juts out of the house and the outer glass walls are jointed together like the sides of an old thruppeny piece; designed to catch light and sun from every angle! Thanks Frank!
The previous owners had tried to limit the amount of sunlight coming into the top windows, for sunlight = heat, by covering the glass with a reflective film. We had added blackout blinds which we keep opened for most of the time between May and September. In the morning the nets and thermally lined curtains are kept closed, until about 2pm when the sun is behind the house. It has taken a lot to turn our British attitude of ‘it’s a shame to keep the sun out’ into ‘please, please put as many barriers between it and us as possible’.
Kitchen doors are open all day to enable some breeze to come through, but must be closed before dusk to ensure mosquitoes and inquisitive, hungry or just lost little creatures don’t come in. Apparently it is only the female mosquito that bites. This is the only time when I don’t say ‘go for it girls’! On the whole Waldo and I are not much bothered by mosquitoes, but then just a single mosquito can wreak havoc in one night! We do not apply mosquito repellent and rarely get bitten. Friends who come to stay slap on this foul smelling stuff and we then spend breakfast times counting the bites! The best repellent we have found is a solar-battery powered little device which I bought on board a BA flight to Athens. The clip can be left on a side table, attached to a belt or handbag and emits a tiny high pitched sound, only audible if you place it right next to your ear. Apparently this sound emulates that of a male mosquito, I’m not sure whether ‘he’ is angry or rampant but either way the biting female flees at the sound!
The only way to really combat the heat is to live at night. How many tourists hit the clubs and bars in the evenings so busy they do not realise there are few Greeks around. Then after a long lie in they eventually rise and wander down to the beach to top up the tan, commenting how it is that Greek men particularly just sit around all day drinking coffee. What they do not realise is that if they would be up between 4 – 5am and mid-day they would see fields being ploughed, undergrowth being cut, walls painted, canopies fitted, anything that requires manual labour is done at this time. From mid-day to around 8pm is time for sitting, eating, sleeping, and watching TV, all in the shade or inside an air-conditioned room. Then, after a shower and a coffee it is time once more for work, maybe catching up with paperwork, business meetings and then an evening meal any time after 9pm, but more likely about 11pm until about 1am. In fact I read somewhere in a European Commission that Greek people work, on average, the longest hours in the European Union. Now they do work long hours, but then there are ‘lies, damn lies and statistics’ to which we might tag on ‘and Greek government statistics’!
Nevertheless, I fall into this lifestyle quite happily. When I had a business base in Athens my working day would start with an appointment anytime between 7am and 8am. I would work through to perhaps an early working lunch. I would sleep from about 2-3pm until about 7.30 – 8.00. After that is was time for business meetings in a cafe bar somewhere rather than an office and then I would meet up with friends around 10-11pm until anything from midnight to 2am. Waldo finds this split day difficult and spends grumpy hours unable to work because of the heat and often tired but unable to sleep. As the summer progresses so we eat later and later as I am unable to even boil an egg as the excess heat is too much. So we live on salads from an overworked 30-year old Kelvinator (any non-American under 60 ‘Google it’ to find details of this gem of a machine).
Coming from a land of warm beer and hot bacon butties we have had to adapt a lot. First one bottle of water is kept in the ‘fridge, then as our consumption increases two are needed. Cold fizzy drinks or alcohol just cannot be consumed in the quantities that our dehydrated bodies demand, thus water is the order of the day. Cooked breakfasts have never been a part of our diets, except for special treats. But as the temperature rises so does our taste for fresh fruit and so peaches, apples, pears, oranges with muesli and yoghurt replace our hot toast for breakfast. Lunch is usually more water. In the evening our meals get later and later as I am unable to even prepare a sliced tomato without salt sweat dripping down my forehead and blinding me. So it’s salads or something that can be quickly prepared and put in the oven and left to its own devices until ready, or a meal such as a risotto which can be prepared on one pan. Gone are the meat and three veg, all requiring a separate hotplate plus gravy which requires me to stand near the cooker and stir! And then as they say, ‘if you can’t stand the heat’ yes, I ‘get out of the kitchen’ and it’s off to a taverna or a friends’ house.
I’m sure that the Greek gregariousness stems from the heat. Where houses are close together in narrow streets to provide shade in the summer and warmth in the winter, when windows are kept open to catch the slightest welcoming breeze even though curtains may be closed to keep out the hot light, sound still travels. It is not possible to not hear the sounds of neighbours’ lives; parental rows, mothers scolding children, grandparents talking to themselves, lovemaking even, all sounds carry. When it is such an effort to prepare and even cook a meal it might as well be for 4 as 2, for 8 as 4. And, if we know from eavesdropping or the rumours that spread from eavesdropping that some friends are going through a hard time, why not invite them round for a meal? Or simply why not invite someone round, knowing that sometimes in the future you will have a preparation free evening as they reciprocate the invitation. Yes the heat has its compensations.
A friend of mine in Athens says that just the simple act of inviting friends around for a meal in British summer is fraught with stress in a way that is unimaginable in Greece. At first I didn’t understand what he was talking about until he recounted staying with friends in the south of England and being part of the lead up to the event. A simple decision was made: we’ll have a barbecue a week next Saturday. The head count goes up – we don’t have enough chairs and tables outside. So invitations are made and certain people asked to bring some of their own garden furniture. The host and hostess started working out what food would be provided; then it dawned on them ‘what if it rains’? Nikos could not believe the permutations and combinations of possibilities: raining so hard everything had to be inside, raining just enough to require sitting down inside but some of the food could be cooked on the barbecue under the umbrella, fine weather and all could be outside. Within these possibilities were discussions on cooker capacity, cutlery, china and glasses to use for we Brits tend to use china inside and picnic style products outside. Last minute telephone calls are made as to whether or not the furniture is needed; it’s not raining with you, well it’s pouring down over hear, we’ll not need the chairs. He could not believe what he perceived as the stress. Realising that this was something that was played out as the norm in thousands of households throughout the British summer, the pressure of what Waldo calls ‘the big heater’ paled into insignificance. The Greek housewife will say to people ‘come round for a meal tomorrow’ (a week next Saturday is far too distant to comprehend). She knows that if she decides on a barbecue it will be outside, doesn’t even consider an alternative. Because the outdoor lifestyle is the norm the family will have enough tables and chairs already located in a shady spot; the china, cutlery and glasses are the same and the only choice is what to prepare and cook. Easy!
‘The big heater’ has its other uses too. I can put in a load of washing in the machine in the morning and by mid afternoon everything is dry. We have had a few occasions with visitors when we have had ‘change-over days’. With just one flight a day from Athens, we have taken one lot of visitors to the airport and waved them into the departure lounge, rushed to the arrivals lounge to welcome newcomers. The sheets have been washed, dried and put back on the beds before going to the airport. I recall a friend of mine telling me of watching Indian women working in pairs, washing their saris and then with each one holding a corner, to stretch the material out flat, by the time they had walked round in three circles, the sari was dry. I’m sure that one day I’ll need to get Waldo to help with that drying technique!
One thing I have to be careful of with ‘the big heater’ is sunburn. I have to wear a scarf or wet towel around my neck every time I put clothes out to dry. In the past I have actually had a sunburned neck just in the time it takes me to peg out one washing machine load! Neither of us sunbathes now or in the past. It was of great concern at the back end of last year to discover than I had a small skin cancer – fortunately now all taken out and clear. But given the extent of time some people spend in the sun I was a bit peeved; why me? But I find it extremely sad that whereas the older generation of Greeks will never present their skin to the sun, choose to live in the shade, nearly always cover their heads, and revere pale skin; now a younger generation are following the commercialised fashion for a suntan. What are they storing up for themselves? My skin cancer specialist explained to me that my cancer could have resulted from being exposed to too much sun just on one occasion as a child – and yes I do remember getting burnt on a beach on a south coast holiday when I was about 8 years of age. He asked me if I had ever seen a baby with freckles. Now I’m the last person on earth to ask about babies, having a morbid fear of them! (I have only ever held two in my life. The first was a friend’s child who was thrust into my arms when I went to visit her a few days after the birth. I was so shocked I came out in a cold sweat, nearly dropped the child and handed him back immediately. The second was my sister’s daughter Amelia. Whether it was because she was family or what, but when I met her first, again in hospital, I did feel an immediate bond with her and willingly allowed my sister to put her in my arms. But even though I held her many more times the feeling of fear nearly outweighed the love. I was so glad when she grew up, at least to toddling stage, and became like a mini-adult!)
The skin cancer specialist explained that babies do not have freckles until exposed to the sun. Each freckle is an indication that the skin has been damaged – seared by ‘the big heater in the sky’. I was always led to believe that because my hair was red/auburn and my skin pale that it was natural that I would have freckles. What I didn’t realise was that actually my fair skin has been regularly damaged over the years and the freckles, a thing of beauty to some, are actually the scars of ignorance in the fight against the sun’s rays. So now I wear a floppy hat whenever I go out in the day, where trousers, socks even, and long sleeved tops or use a cotton pashmina whenever I am out.
But living in the heat is a challenge and there are plenty of compensations in the lifestyle. However, it does fascinate me how the grass is always greener ... . In the grey days of British weather we cheer ourselves up with calendars, pictures, postcards and even ornaments decorated with scenes of sunny climes, palm trees, golden sand, azure seas and shining suns. In our minds we can refresh our psyche with a momentary glance and imaginary visit. But the trip is in our minds, it is not within the physicality of the heat, and thus we enjoy it and are renewed with a mere warm glow. Here in Greece the scenes are quite different; alpine slopes, snow covered forests, green pastures and lakeside landscapes dressed in autumn colours. In the sweltering heat we dare to imagine to cool feel of snow, feast on the sight of green, and drink the fresh waters.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Changing Cultures
Where else in the world would we be taken from the airport in a taxi, when half way the taxi driver shouts 'look' as he points to something in the sky. He then stops, much to the consternation of the driver in the car behind who was no more than half a metre away from the taxi's back bumper. Taki gets out of the car and encourages us to do the same and we all spend a pleasant five minutes or so watching a huge eagle and child soaring in the sky, playing in the air currents as the parent gives encouraging caws to the young one. They are sea-eagles and the parent has a wing span of about 4 foot. No attention is given to open doors, or the fact that we are standing in the middle of the road. By the time the birds fly out of sight there are three cars behind us, also stopped with their drivers and passengers out on the road in awe of the majestic birds.
'They are not from Kythera' Taki tells us, 'they are visitors'.
'Tourists' I comment but he is not amused, his concentration is fixed on the birds. Then we get back in the taxi where I have a tiny space in the back as most of the space is taken up with our 'package' of foam rubber aka 'Orthopaedic Bed' when described to the check in clerks who believed Waldo and thus did not charge us for having three sets of luggage instead of two and a total weight of 62Kgs (16Kg over) for the hold and 30Kg of 'hand luggage'! And despite all that when we unpacked Waldo discovered that when packing the chrome pipe for my shower unit he had packed the smaller length instead of the larger one! So that will be a job for me when I come back in October! But new computer modem, stronger internet receiver, sewing machine transformer, 2Kg wool, glass jug, 6 drill pieces, purple mouse mat (can't do without that!), 10 books, 12 DVDs, maps for our northern Greece trip, tablecloth and napkins, table runner, 1 Kg tea-bags, 500gm coffee, 3 bottles of Certo for setting my marmalade, and Waldo's jar of mint sauce all arrived safely!
Our road is now fine as the sun has dried it to a hard surface. Taki is pleased but his car still rubs one back wheel as it makes every left hand turn. But he is concerned for as we approach the house, what should come to greet us but the birds again and Taki just stands and watches them, seemingly oblivious of any future passengers who may be waiting for him. We need no time to come to terms with being back, already our priorities have changed and our attitude to life more relaxed.
At first, when I was working full-time, coming to Kythera was more like a holiday. Thus we had the travellers’ view of the island. Gradually as I was able to spend more time on the island, I still had half my head at least in the UK as I read and commented upon students work sent to me electronically, attended board meetings via conference calls and mentored students via Skype. But as I have reduced my work commitments in the UK and we have developed friends and interests on the island so our balance of time has changed, and now we live here part of the time, rather than holiday. This has meant going out far less; now we live a fairly normal life eating in most nights, visiting friends, meeting for meals out or just a drink. The only difference is of course the climate. But there are other things which make us sit up and think.
Shopping is so different. In the summer, particularly food, fresh fruit and vegetables have a relatively short shelf-life and so shopping is done at least every second day. That basic necessary shopping requires a minimum of two shops; both are in our local village. But it is an event as I chat to the shopkeepers George in the supermarket and Dimitra in the vegetable shop. George is a fount of information and has amazing skills with languages, shown as he greets people in their own language. So far I have heard him speak Greek, English, French, German, Dutch, Albanian and I know that he can add Spanish and Japanese to that and maybe more. George has an unshakeable belief that his role is to provide a service to the community. As such he is open every day of the year including Christmas morning and Easter time. When there are local festivals he remains open but refuses to sell drinks so as not to be in competition with the tavernas and bars which provide the seats and space for the festivities. Not only is George an informal information centre for tourists he takes special care of young children who are sent to his shop on errands for their parents or shop come in to spend their pocket money. Like most Greek shops there is little space to walk around in and the counter is a chaotic mix of people just wanting cigarettes or beer and expecting to pay immediately without any consideration of a queue. Well queue is not really a concept that Greeks understand in the way that the British stiff upper lip conformity decries. A woman shopping is as likely to use a basket or just wander up and down the aisles returning to the counter as her arms are full and just piling up her goods there, with no consideration to the fact that she has now rendered the counter unusable. A waiter from a local tavern may rush in for something and shout to George as he goes out the door to add the price of whatever it is to the tavernas running ticket. Dutch tourists are politely waiting their turn to ask what cheap white wine George can recommend to go with their cheese, crackers and tomato lunch they will have on their apartment balcony. These tall people mostly stand by the wine shelves and can call to George over the heads of everyone else. I have been stood, resting my heavy basket on top of the piles of bottled water in front of the counter whilst all this goes on. And, in the middle of the hurrying and scurrying a little child will be stood nervously in front of George.
‘Now you have two items, one is 1 Euro 40 cents and the other is 50 cents. How much is that?’ George asks patiently.
The child usually goes red, aware of being watched. They may screw up their face as children do when thinking. As quietly as possible they might say ‘One Euro, 90 cents’, afraid to be heard to be wrong in front of the whole audience of shoppers.
‘Bravo, that’s correct’ says George, adding ‘Now you have given me 2 Euros, how much should I give you?’
By this time everyone around is dying to shout ’10 cents’, particularly if it has taken a few extra questions to get the answers so far correct. Cheers and shouts of ‘Bravo’ come from all corners of the shop when the child gets it right. The poor little mite will grab their melting ice lolly or whatever they have and run out of the shop. Occasionally one, emboldened by success will turn and almost bow to the audience with a big grin on their face, but this is a dangerous thing to do for a quick exit is far safer given the surge forward that occurs as people scramble to be served next.
Dimitra’s vegetable shop is no less crowded but she has the politeness to spend the time of day with everyone and the patience to teach me the names of the various fruit and vegetables. Bit by bit my Greek vocabulary has improved, I have learnt and now tasted some new varieties, and Dimitra has given me excellent tips for cooking.
Just in the space of 100 metres where I park the car and visit the two shops I can rarely move unless I meet at least two people I know well enough to spend time with. Thus the sociability of shopping means I shop, collect recipes, improve my language skills, get up to date on local gossip, news and ferry or aeroplane timetable changes (in Britain we talk about the weather, in Greece it is transport that is so variable). I come back feeling happy and it is the same for Waldo when he goes shopping. Whether we have been out together or separately we always make a point of sitting down and having a drink and time together when we return. We share the news and enjoy a companionable break. How different this is to a quick dash to large UK supermarket or DIY superstore, self selection on the shelves, payment to a cashier who rarely smiles or is too busy talking to the person on the next counter to even acknowledge that you exist. Returning home is about feeling stressed, worn out and grumpy. Then Waldo and I think of George, we think of him standing there at his counter, having a few words to say to everyone and making their day better.
As we travel around by car we are constantly waving or parping the horn to people we know. Frequently we need to speak with this person. It may be paying their bill, which we have in the car for just such an eventuality. It may be to ask them to call at the house to sort out something with our computer, plumbing, electricity, or building. And sometimes it is to decide when they are coming to visit or us to them. Or it is just to have a chat. We have now fallen into the local habit, when this occurs, just to stop, sometimes back up slightly, and then lean out of the car windows and chat. Kytherians are extremely tolerant and will not mind if we block both sides of the road in this way. Only rarely, if it is a cement mixer lorry behind us, will they parp their horn to make us aware of their slowly setting load. Similarly if the other person is walking, we will stop the car, and often the passenger will get out and we will talk whilst cars move around us, usually waving to one or other of us or stopping to join the conversation.
It must be said that we are hardly driving along motorways or through the streets of large cities where such activity would be impossible. Kythera has no traffic lights, no roundabouts and few pavements. Armco is a recent addition to road safety but for the most part it is hammered in by hand; thus its ability to stop or even slow down a speeding car is questionable. We did have a man who walked the length of the island putting a white line on one side of the asphalted road, when he got to the top he turned round and repeated the activity on the other side of the road. But most of the line has now either faded, been covered with roadside plants or has been dug up as super broadband cable has been laid.
Perhaps our biggest cultural divide and need for active changing of habits comes in the form of safety and security. Here is Kythera we rarely lock our car; we can leave things visibly in the car and know that they will be there where we return; we can even leave the keys in the car. Two years ago the first ‘car theft’ on the island occurred – a young man felt too tired to walk up the hill home after a night out and so ‘borrowed’ a tourist hire car. Such was the public outrage at him, his family and all who knew him and a strict ‘discussion’ with the police means that he will never even think of the possibility again. There has been one robbery on the island; this happened some nine years ago. Strangers from the mainland came over with a view to stealing money from a local business safe. Apparently they discovered that they could not open the safe and hence devised a means whereby they came to our house, as it happens. This was before we owned it and it was empty with a 4x4 in the garage. Thus this vehicle was ‘borrowed’ in order to collect the safe. The thieves laid low in our isolated spot, broke open the safe and then drove to the nearby small boatyard where they ‘borrowed’ a boat to take them to the mainland. Suffice to say that these thieves were caught; the police on the mainland had been informed and simply watched the boat until it landed! In fact their court case was heard just last year; the time spent in jail awaiting their case will surely act as a deterrent for further crime?
In an environment where it is so hot, where open windows can mean the difference between sleeping or not sleeping, where people regularly sleep on their balconies to catch the merest of night breezes; a culture of stealing would be totally intolerable. Sadly I do not feel this free when in the UK and do not leave a window open when I go out and only have tiny windows open if I am in the house.
We have noticed a great difference in behaviour of people when they are out for a meal. Firstly it is rare for locals to go out just to drink. Going out is all about conversation, eating and enjoying oneself; hence they are more likely to do that. Greeks are gregarious people and Kytherians particularly so and they tend to go out in large, multigenerational groups. I can honestly say in all our years of travelling Greece and now spending a lot of time here, neither Waldo nor I have ever seen any local person drunk – tourists yes, visitors even! Now the Greeks will give the Italians a run for their money when it comes to noise; but the noise that echoes through tavernas is that of conversation, laughter, warmth and shared joy, as well as that of political discussion which is a main topic of all Greek conversation! And they do have a lot to talk about! Whatever time of day or night people are out and about we can feel free to walk without fear; even when on my own I do not feel uncomfortable. How different it is in Cardiff, particularly on a Friday or Saturday night, walking from St Mary Street to the car park or railway station and having to put up with abuse, threats, and drunks weeing, being sick or just lying on the pavement, running almost afraid to make eye contact with anyone. Ugh!
I find it fascinating, living amongst such gregarious people. So many times we have been in a taverna on our own (Northern Europeans tend to eat much earlier than our Mediterranean cousins) and if some Dutch tourists enter they will look around, maybe nod to us and then choose a seat as far away as possible. Greeks will come in and automatically sit at the next table. It is the same on the beach; wherever we, or our friends might set up with towels, umbrellas and such, we can be the only people on a long stretch of sand and as Dutch tourists dot themselves, well spaced along the beach, Greeks will come and almost sit on our towels. I’ve often thought this amazing and that it would be more likely that some sort of race memory would ensure Northern Europeans huddled together for warmth. But the Greek concept of ‘alone’ has only negative connotations as we would use the words ‘lonely’ or ‘without company’. To the Greek, life is lived in company; family, friends, neighbours, community are what is important and nobody should be left out whatever their abilities or disabilities. We have a lot to learn here and I spend hours of ‘people watching’ trying to flesh out the attitudes and actions that confirm this attitude.
It is perhaps interesting to realise that there is no real translation in the Greek language of ‘privacy’; it is an unknown concept. Waldo and I have become used to meeting people in business or public office and finding that we might be honoured with our meeting at, or around, our agreed time. But it has taken considerable reflection and discussion for us to come to terms with the fact that there might be anything up to ten people (or even 20 in a public office) in the same room, often vying for the same person’s attention or casually visiting them and chatting in between their meetings. What is even more disconcerting is the fact that these people will openly listen to our discussion and take part in the conversation, often offering advice or even criticism of what one party is saying. Sometimes this can be helpful, particularly where language skills on either side are failing, but for the most part it is confusing. It is reminiscent of the days when rulers or anyone in authority gave viewings to underlings who might wait days for an audience. But it is also a cultural notion that whilst many people are in a room there can be little chance of a ‘private deal’ being struck, and the ‘envelope under the table’ activity is lessoned.
But for all this seeming crowdedness and chaos we have learnt that things do happen eventually; last minute maybe, but they do unravel and happen. On the whole Greek people want to please, they want to be helpful and they want you to enjoy the shopping or business experience you have with them. It brings me to mind an experience some 25 years ago when I was travelling alone on business in northern Greece. This was in the days when Greece still had its own currency; the drachma. Credit cards are still rarely used outside of some big cities and cash is king. I walked into a bank in a medium sized town, as ever the marble floors and walls a welcome relief from the heat outside. There was just one person in the bank, standing behind the counter. As soon as he saw me he smiled and assuming he was the cashier I handed him £100 sterling and asked for him to change it into drachmas for me. I had my passport ready but the man ignored that and came round to the front of the counter. As is customary still in some rural areas where the pace of life is somewhat slower, such a business transaction needs to be taken in a civilised manner, over coffee. Hence the man asked if I would like a coffee. I drank the gritty Greek coffee in those days and so answered that I would and asked for it ‘metrio’; the middle range between ‘sketo’ without sugar and ‘glyko’ which is so sweet it would give you a sugar hyper for hours! With that the man walked out of the door of the bank and I heard him shouting to the cafe bar across the street. I thought nothing of this as I have experienced such activity before. I sat down at one of three chairs located around a small coffee table. I put my passport down and got out my cigarettes (those were the days when you could smoke inside buildings and I smoked!).
After a few puffs at my cigarette it dawned on me that the man had not returned. I realised that he still had my £100 in his hand. Doubts started to creep in. 'He was the cashier, wasn’t he?' 'He was the other side of the counter, wasn’t he?' I stood up and looked around; there was nobody else in the bank. I started to get an uncomfortable feeling. Then the coffee arrived; in the round brass tray linked by struts to a handle above the centre of the tray. I noted that there were two tiny cups of steaming coffee. Mine, with just a little sugar, placed with the handle parallel with the side of the tray and the other one placed with the handle sticking straight out from the tray indicating it was sticky sweet. If it had been without sugar the handle would have been pointing inwards. This crafty simplicity had evolved over years by Greek waiters ensuring that everyone had their correct strength of sugar. I took some comfort from the fact that there were two cups that had been ordered, but then what was a few coins for coffee against one hundred pounds? I sipped my coffee and waited. I was half-way down my second cigarette before the door to the bank opened and I heard the man’s voice as he apologised profusely for taking so long. He sat beside me and reached for his coffee, taking quite a gulp. Then he put down a pile of drachmas in front of me.
‘This is all correct. I’m sorry but I didn’t have enough money to give you this many drachmas. I didn’t want to disappoint you and so I have been to the other bank and changed it for you.’ He smiled in triumph.
What could I say in the face of such service ‘Why thank you so much and the coffee is great’?
'They are not from Kythera' Taki tells us, 'they are visitors'.
'Tourists' I comment but he is not amused, his concentration is fixed on the birds. Then we get back in the taxi where I have a tiny space in the back as most of the space is taken up with our 'package' of foam rubber aka 'Orthopaedic Bed' when described to the check in clerks who believed Waldo and thus did not charge us for having three sets of luggage instead of two and a total weight of 62Kgs (16Kg over) for the hold and 30Kg of 'hand luggage'! And despite all that when we unpacked Waldo discovered that when packing the chrome pipe for my shower unit he had packed the smaller length instead of the larger one! So that will be a job for me when I come back in October! But new computer modem, stronger internet receiver, sewing machine transformer, 2Kg wool, glass jug, 6 drill pieces, purple mouse mat (can't do without that!), 10 books, 12 DVDs, maps for our northern Greece trip, tablecloth and napkins, table runner, 1 Kg tea-bags, 500gm coffee, 3 bottles of Certo for setting my marmalade, and Waldo's jar of mint sauce all arrived safely!
Our road is now fine as the sun has dried it to a hard surface. Taki is pleased but his car still rubs one back wheel as it makes every left hand turn. But he is concerned for as we approach the house, what should come to greet us but the birds again and Taki just stands and watches them, seemingly oblivious of any future passengers who may be waiting for him. We need no time to come to terms with being back, already our priorities have changed and our attitude to life more relaxed.
At first, when I was working full-time, coming to Kythera was more like a holiday. Thus we had the travellers’ view of the island. Gradually as I was able to spend more time on the island, I still had half my head at least in the UK as I read and commented upon students work sent to me electronically, attended board meetings via conference calls and mentored students via Skype. But as I have reduced my work commitments in the UK and we have developed friends and interests on the island so our balance of time has changed, and now we live here part of the time, rather than holiday. This has meant going out far less; now we live a fairly normal life eating in most nights, visiting friends, meeting for meals out or just a drink. The only difference is of course the climate. But there are other things which make us sit up and think.
Shopping is so different. In the summer, particularly food, fresh fruit and vegetables have a relatively short shelf-life and so shopping is done at least every second day. That basic necessary shopping requires a minimum of two shops; both are in our local village. But it is an event as I chat to the shopkeepers George in the supermarket and Dimitra in the vegetable shop. George is a fount of information and has amazing skills with languages, shown as he greets people in their own language. So far I have heard him speak Greek, English, French, German, Dutch, Albanian and I know that he can add Spanish and Japanese to that and maybe more. George has an unshakeable belief that his role is to provide a service to the community. As such he is open every day of the year including Christmas morning and Easter time. When there are local festivals he remains open but refuses to sell drinks so as not to be in competition with the tavernas and bars which provide the seats and space for the festivities. Not only is George an informal information centre for tourists he takes special care of young children who are sent to his shop on errands for their parents or shop come in to spend their pocket money. Like most Greek shops there is little space to walk around in and the counter is a chaotic mix of people just wanting cigarettes or beer and expecting to pay immediately without any consideration of a queue. Well queue is not really a concept that Greeks understand in the way that the British stiff upper lip conformity decries. A woman shopping is as likely to use a basket or just wander up and down the aisles returning to the counter as her arms are full and just piling up her goods there, with no consideration to the fact that she has now rendered the counter unusable. A waiter from a local tavern may rush in for something and shout to George as he goes out the door to add the price of whatever it is to the tavernas running ticket. Dutch tourists are politely waiting their turn to ask what cheap white wine George can recommend to go with their cheese, crackers and tomato lunch they will have on their apartment balcony. These tall people mostly stand by the wine shelves and can call to George over the heads of everyone else. I have been stood, resting my heavy basket on top of the piles of bottled water in front of the counter whilst all this goes on. And, in the middle of the hurrying and scurrying a little child will be stood nervously in front of George.
‘Now you have two items, one is 1 Euro 40 cents and the other is 50 cents. How much is that?’ George asks patiently.
The child usually goes red, aware of being watched. They may screw up their face as children do when thinking. As quietly as possible they might say ‘One Euro, 90 cents’, afraid to be heard to be wrong in front of the whole audience of shoppers.
‘Bravo, that’s correct’ says George, adding ‘Now you have given me 2 Euros, how much should I give you?’
By this time everyone around is dying to shout ’10 cents’, particularly if it has taken a few extra questions to get the answers so far correct. Cheers and shouts of ‘Bravo’ come from all corners of the shop when the child gets it right. The poor little mite will grab their melting ice lolly or whatever they have and run out of the shop. Occasionally one, emboldened by success will turn and almost bow to the audience with a big grin on their face, but this is a dangerous thing to do for a quick exit is far safer given the surge forward that occurs as people scramble to be served next.
Dimitra’s vegetable shop is no less crowded but she has the politeness to spend the time of day with everyone and the patience to teach me the names of the various fruit and vegetables. Bit by bit my Greek vocabulary has improved, I have learnt and now tasted some new varieties, and Dimitra has given me excellent tips for cooking.
Just in the space of 100 metres where I park the car and visit the two shops I can rarely move unless I meet at least two people I know well enough to spend time with. Thus the sociability of shopping means I shop, collect recipes, improve my language skills, get up to date on local gossip, news and ferry or aeroplane timetable changes (in Britain we talk about the weather, in Greece it is transport that is so variable). I come back feeling happy and it is the same for Waldo when he goes shopping. Whether we have been out together or separately we always make a point of sitting down and having a drink and time together when we return. We share the news and enjoy a companionable break. How different this is to a quick dash to large UK supermarket or DIY superstore, self selection on the shelves, payment to a cashier who rarely smiles or is too busy talking to the person on the next counter to even acknowledge that you exist. Returning home is about feeling stressed, worn out and grumpy. Then Waldo and I think of George, we think of him standing there at his counter, having a few words to say to everyone and making their day better.
As we travel around by car we are constantly waving or parping the horn to people we know. Frequently we need to speak with this person. It may be paying their bill, which we have in the car for just such an eventuality. It may be to ask them to call at the house to sort out something with our computer, plumbing, electricity, or building. And sometimes it is to decide when they are coming to visit or us to them. Or it is just to have a chat. We have now fallen into the local habit, when this occurs, just to stop, sometimes back up slightly, and then lean out of the car windows and chat. Kytherians are extremely tolerant and will not mind if we block both sides of the road in this way. Only rarely, if it is a cement mixer lorry behind us, will they parp their horn to make us aware of their slowly setting load. Similarly if the other person is walking, we will stop the car, and often the passenger will get out and we will talk whilst cars move around us, usually waving to one or other of us or stopping to join the conversation.
It must be said that we are hardly driving along motorways or through the streets of large cities where such activity would be impossible. Kythera has no traffic lights, no roundabouts and few pavements. Armco is a recent addition to road safety but for the most part it is hammered in by hand; thus its ability to stop or even slow down a speeding car is questionable. We did have a man who walked the length of the island putting a white line on one side of the asphalted road, when he got to the top he turned round and repeated the activity on the other side of the road. But most of the line has now either faded, been covered with roadside plants or has been dug up as super broadband cable has been laid.
Perhaps our biggest cultural divide and need for active changing of habits comes in the form of safety and security. Here is Kythera we rarely lock our car; we can leave things visibly in the car and know that they will be there where we return; we can even leave the keys in the car. Two years ago the first ‘car theft’ on the island occurred – a young man felt too tired to walk up the hill home after a night out and so ‘borrowed’ a tourist hire car. Such was the public outrage at him, his family and all who knew him and a strict ‘discussion’ with the police means that he will never even think of the possibility again. There has been one robbery on the island; this happened some nine years ago. Strangers from the mainland came over with a view to stealing money from a local business safe. Apparently they discovered that they could not open the safe and hence devised a means whereby they came to our house, as it happens. This was before we owned it and it was empty with a 4x4 in the garage. Thus this vehicle was ‘borrowed’ in order to collect the safe. The thieves laid low in our isolated spot, broke open the safe and then drove to the nearby small boatyard where they ‘borrowed’ a boat to take them to the mainland. Suffice to say that these thieves were caught; the police on the mainland had been informed and simply watched the boat until it landed! In fact their court case was heard just last year; the time spent in jail awaiting their case will surely act as a deterrent for further crime?
In an environment where it is so hot, where open windows can mean the difference between sleeping or not sleeping, where people regularly sleep on their balconies to catch the merest of night breezes; a culture of stealing would be totally intolerable. Sadly I do not feel this free when in the UK and do not leave a window open when I go out and only have tiny windows open if I am in the house.
We have noticed a great difference in behaviour of people when they are out for a meal. Firstly it is rare for locals to go out just to drink. Going out is all about conversation, eating and enjoying oneself; hence they are more likely to do that. Greeks are gregarious people and Kytherians particularly so and they tend to go out in large, multigenerational groups. I can honestly say in all our years of travelling Greece and now spending a lot of time here, neither Waldo nor I have ever seen any local person drunk – tourists yes, visitors even! Now the Greeks will give the Italians a run for their money when it comes to noise; but the noise that echoes through tavernas is that of conversation, laughter, warmth and shared joy, as well as that of political discussion which is a main topic of all Greek conversation! And they do have a lot to talk about! Whatever time of day or night people are out and about we can feel free to walk without fear; even when on my own I do not feel uncomfortable. How different it is in Cardiff, particularly on a Friday or Saturday night, walking from St Mary Street to the car park or railway station and having to put up with abuse, threats, and drunks weeing, being sick or just lying on the pavement, running almost afraid to make eye contact with anyone. Ugh!
I find it fascinating, living amongst such gregarious people. So many times we have been in a taverna on our own (Northern Europeans tend to eat much earlier than our Mediterranean cousins) and if some Dutch tourists enter they will look around, maybe nod to us and then choose a seat as far away as possible. Greeks will come in and automatically sit at the next table. It is the same on the beach; wherever we, or our friends might set up with towels, umbrellas and such, we can be the only people on a long stretch of sand and as Dutch tourists dot themselves, well spaced along the beach, Greeks will come and almost sit on our towels. I’ve often thought this amazing and that it would be more likely that some sort of race memory would ensure Northern Europeans huddled together for warmth. But the Greek concept of ‘alone’ has only negative connotations as we would use the words ‘lonely’ or ‘without company’. To the Greek, life is lived in company; family, friends, neighbours, community are what is important and nobody should be left out whatever their abilities or disabilities. We have a lot to learn here and I spend hours of ‘people watching’ trying to flesh out the attitudes and actions that confirm this attitude.
It is perhaps interesting to realise that there is no real translation in the Greek language of ‘privacy’; it is an unknown concept. Waldo and I have become used to meeting people in business or public office and finding that we might be honoured with our meeting at, or around, our agreed time. But it has taken considerable reflection and discussion for us to come to terms with the fact that there might be anything up to ten people (or even 20 in a public office) in the same room, often vying for the same person’s attention or casually visiting them and chatting in between their meetings. What is even more disconcerting is the fact that these people will openly listen to our discussion and take part in the conversation, often offering advice or even criticism of what one party is saying. Sometimes this can be helpful, particularly where language skills on either side are failing, but for the most part it is confusing. It is reminiscent of the days when rulers or anyone in authority gave viewings to underlings who might wait days for an audience. But it is also a cultural notion that whilst many people are in a room there can be little chance of a ‘private deal’ being struck, and the ‘envelope under the table’ activity is lessoned.
But for all this seeming crowdedness and chaos we have learnt that things do happen eventually; last minute maybe, but they do unravel and happen. On the whole Greek people want to please, they want to be helpful and they want you to enjoy the shopping or business experience you have with them. It brings me to mind an experience some 25 years ago when I was travelling alone on business in northern Greece. This was in the days when Greece still had its own currency; the drachma. Credit cards are still rarely used outside of some big cities and cash is king. I walked into a bank in a medium sized town, as ever the marble floors and walls a welcome relief from the heat outside. There was just one person in the bank, standing behind the counter. As soon as he saw me he smiled and assuming he was the cashier I handed him £100 sterling and asked for him to change it into drachmas for me. I had my passport ready but the man ignored that and came round to the front of the counter. As is customary still in some rural areas where the pace of life is somewhat slower, such a business transaction needs to be taken in a civilised manner, over coffee. Hence the man asked if I would like a coffee. I drank the gritty Greek coffee in those days and so answered that I would and asked for it ‘metrio’; the middle range between ‘sketo’ without sugar and ‘glyko’ which is so sweet it would give you a sugar hyper for hours! With that the man walked out of the door of the bank and I heard him shouting to the cafe bar across the street. I thought nothing of this as I have experienced such activity before. I sat down at one of three chairs located around a small coffee table. I put my passport down and got out my cigarettes (those were the days when you could smoke inside buildings and I smoked!).
After a few puffs at my cigarette it dawned on me that the man had not returned. I realised that he still had my £100 in his hand. Doubts started to creep in. 'He was the cashier, wasn’t he?' 'He was the other side of the counter, wasn’t he?' I stood up and looked around; there was nobody else in the bank. I started to get an uncomfortable feeling. Then the coffee arrived; in the round brass tray linked by struts to a handle above the centre of the tray. I noted that there were two tiny cups of steaming coffee. Mine, with just a little sugar, placed with the handle parallel with the side of the tray and the other one placed with the handle sticking straight out from the tray indicating it was sticky sweet. If it had been without sugar the handle would have been pointing inwards. This crafty simplicity had evolved over years by Greek waiters ensuring that everyone had their correct strength of sugar. I took some comfort from the fact that there were two cups that had been ordered, but then what was a few coins for coffee against one hundred pounds? I sipped my coffee and waited. I was half-way down my second cigarette before the door to the bank opened and I heard the man’s voice as he apologised profusely for taking so long. He sat beside me and reached for his coffee, taking quite a gulp. Then he put down a pile of drachmas in front of me.
‘This is all correct. I’m sorry but I didn’t have enough money to give you this many drachmas. I didn’t want to disappoint you and so I have been to the other bank and changed it for you.’ He smiled in triumph.
What could I say in the face of such service ‘Why thank you so much and the coffee is great’?
Saturday, 10 July 2010
Don’t you just love a man who is kind to animals!
Living in a house set in about ten acres of terraced land on the side of a hillside is not everyone’s cup of tea. When we first came the road was an unmade agricultural track which in the winter became striped with small ravines some 2 ft deep and up to a foot wide. In parts there was barely a tyre’s width of surface to aim for. After petitioning the mayor we eventually had the road concreted; in part and with such a poor mix that potholes are already appearing. Near the bottom of the road, in front of a row of houses where influential people must live, the most amazing strip of road has been built; the motorway of Kythera. This 100 yard stretch not only had good quality asphalt but concrete haunches and kerbstones on either side – the only road on the island with such luxury.
At the end of this homage to road building it is a different scene. A sharp 240’ left hand corner, followed by 150 yards of steep incline to a 90’ right hand corner followed by some 250 yards of further incline eventual reach the concrete. No amount of petitioning the current mayor can bring forth anything more than promises and the occasional grader to smooth the surface when the road is almost impassable. In the summer this is dust pitted with rocks suitable only for the experienced rally drivers. It takes gallons of water to keep the car clean, and we have required two new tyres this year. In the winter it is a quagmire at the bottom as the ravines reappear; we sometimes go for days when we cannot come up the road which means a 5 mile detour to come down the mountain.
But, it is just this phenomenon which means that on the occasion that we do hear a vehicle – about once or twice a day - we rush to the window to see who it is. Our rarely interrupted access combined with our location on the mountainside in a hot climate means we share our home and garden with all manner of creatures. Now both Waldo and I were brought up in the countryside and thus find most of the inhabitants interesting or endearing. No so some of our visitors who have the ‘townies’ squeamishness over things that wiggle, crawl and creep.
The main full-time residents of home and garden are the little geckos who are everywhere. One large family lives in the stone pillar in the corner of the kitchen patio. These little fellows don’t do much in the heat of the summer’s days but in the evening scurry around the patio chasing each other and tiny flies which they eat with relish. In the cooler days of Spring and Autumn They bask on their favourite stones and I can usually gauge how warm the day will be by the number of geckos in view. Two geckos and I will need a cardigan; seven and it will be a beautiful day requiring a no sleeved cotton top. When we take a break and sit quietly on the patio we can hear these little chaps bark to each other. I can almost imitate this noise, but Waldo’s looser false teeth enable him to really talk to the geckos; yes they do reply! Sometimes one might even creep towards us, tail held high and as if waving. Now according to David Attenborough this is a sign of sexual readiness; I can’t remember whether it is by the male or female or both. I suspect from our observations that it is the male. Last year Waldo thwarted one little chap’s chances in the sexual marketplace by inadvertently stepping on his tail; the gecko wriggled and wriggled until he came free and scurried off leaving his tail alone and wriggling on the floor. He is still around and we see ‘Tony Tailless’ quite regularly around the rose garden or on the chess patio. We have a few house geckos. Two live in Waldo’s office and spend most of their time on the curtains. ‘Tom’ and ‘Jerry’ in the lounge squabble daily and every now and then have a good old fight arching their bodies, sizing each other up and then rushing at each other like some prehistoric animals in a movie scene. ‘Fatso’ lives at the back of the fireplace and pops out to see us most evening, usually chewing something. We leave these harmless creatures to get on with their lives and eat up the tiny flies, baby spiders and all manner of little things we do not want in the house.
One day Waldo had been working in the AcropoLiz. Quite a few families of geckos live there and can be seen on the tiled roof basking in the sun. Waldo was using a polystyrene spray which expanded and sealed up holes; I wanted my office space to be absolutely spider proof! He came in for a break. I made coffee and my friend Jan and I were sitting with him in the kitchen chatting. Now Waldo has quite a long white beard and does have a tendency to spill drinks and food down it. People must think that I have a strange affliction for I am frequently seen to rub down some mythical beard of my own, which is a signal to Waldo to rub or comb his. So whenever we had people around and we are eating I am constantly watching Waldo’s beard. Amazingly I could see a small part of it moving. Before I could move forward to check this out a little gecko, front legs parting the hairs as though moving through a jungle, suddenly broke free and popped his head out from Waldo’s beard. The poor little thing looked so exhausted and shocked. I burst into laughter, Jan groaned as she wasn’t too sure about these things and Waldo just sat there saying ‘What? What are you laughing at?’ I put my hand in front of the gecko for him to walk onto it, but he turned back into the jungle and emerged on Waldo’s neck, climbed over his collar and onto his shoulder. Eventually he ran down Waldo’s arm and onto my hand, his tiny suction padded feet clamping to my skin as he walked. I took him outside and let him down gently. He barked and scuttled away. When I went back inside Waldo was just recovering from his close encounters of the gecko kind.
The green lizards here are beautiful. Young they are a sort of olive green gradually turning to a luminous limey emerald. They are quite shy but do scamper around the patio beside the swimming pool. In the heat of the summer these beautiful creatures are drawn to the swimming pool for water. They drop down the steps and slake their thirst. Occasionally one falls in or finds the steps too big to climb up and Waldo then uses the big net that he has for cleaning leaves off the surface of the pool; he had become quite adept at some sort of lizard language telling these creatures to climb onto the net. Waldo then gives them an equivalent of a fairground ride as he swishes the net up and over the edge of the pool to dry land. It is fascinating how many lizards do not immediately scurry away but turn and look at Waldo as if to say ‘what happened there’? A few weeks ago Waldo had been so busy rescuing lizards that he became concerned as to what would happen if he wasn’t here or I didn’t hear the splashing in the water. I saw him gathering small stones and oddments of smooth marble which can be found all around the garden. The next thing I know Waldo came and asked me to see his triumph of building ingenuity. To one side of the steps to the pool was an array of stones and marble making easily climbable slopes and smaller steps; this ‘lizard ladder’ reaches right from a few inches below the water’s surface to the top edge of the pool. All Waldo has to do now is either train ‘the emeralds’ to use this ladder or perhaps put up a little sign ‘green lizards this way please’.
We have one larger lizard that we rarely see. Just occasionally ‘Thunderthighs’ can be found basking in a sunny patch on the path between the kitchen patio and the AcropoLiz. Waldo has only heard the rustle of a large creature in the oleander hedge but I have seen the creature. He is not quite 2 foot long, but has massively strong thighs and claws, a short neck and stubby tail. We let him get on with his life and he is far more likely to move away from us than bother us in any way.
Freddy did become a pet. Now, whether it is our increasing time spent in isolation or whether we were both mad in the first place, we do spend a lot of time observing those around us and getting involved in their lives. Freddy just appeared one day, a very small greenish frog sitting on a pipe leading to the filter unit of our swimming pool. Freddy did little more than sit. Very occasionally we would see him in the water at the edge of the swimming pool, but more of the time he spent behind the filter unit. Every morning after I opened the kitchen door I would say good morning to Freddy, ask him how he was, and what he was going to do today. At first there was no discernable response. But as the days, weeks, months passed I became convinced that Freddy recognised my voice. Every now and then he would humour me by turning towards me: Waldo reckons it was just coincidence, but then I just think he was jealous because Freddy never turned to him! As the summer became hotter and hotter we realised that the water level of the pool was dropping and Freddy was finding it more and more difficult to get back up onto the pipe after a swim. Waldo solved Freddy’s problem by floating a short length of wood in the pool. At first the piece of wood moved around as the wind took it, thus Waldo tied the wood so that it stayed in the shaded corner that Freddy preferred. After about a week this intelligent frog learned how to climb up onto the wood. For some reason he only sat at one end so that he looked as though he was on some form of water ski. Freddy would sit for hours on the wood, just turning slightly every now and then. As some unsuspecting fly settled on the wood, Freddy’s tongue would dart out and the fly would disappear. This lazy life meant that Freddy was visibly growing, no longer a young greenish frog he was turning into a dumpy spotted adult leopard frog. He could look quite intimidating as he squatted Buddha-like on his plank. Gradually the plank started to sink under Freddy’s increasing weight. Not to be outdone, Waldo cut a short plank from a thicker piece of wood. It still floated and Waldo tied it near Freddy’s corner. Seeing Freddy was such a pleasure, but we were concerned that he might be lonely. Friend’s playing along with our strange obsession started to give us green frog gifts; a green rhinestone encrusted brass frog, a pottery green frog sitting on a stone, a green glass frog. As summer melted into Autumn we started to have some rain and the pool started to fill up again. Freddy could now reach his pipe again, but the fat old frog could no longer squeeze himself into the space he had enjoyed in his youth. One morning, after a particularly strong thunder storm Freddy was not there to greet me in the morning. We pined and fretted wondering what had happened. I ‘Googled’ ‘frogs’ and learnt that sometimes they do dive under water and can stay there for quite a long time. It was days before Freddy reappeared, much to our relief. We had seen him grow into adulthood and were keen to see what happened next. Sadly a few nights later we had an even stronger thunder storm and we have not seen Freddy since. I hope he’s hopped off to join other frogs somewhere.
Anyone who has ever been to Greece knows that there are cats everywhere. Our garden is no exception. In the beginning we would catch glimpses of two large feral cats, but they never came near the house. Then one day we could hear kittenish mewing and out from behind our two palm trees came two kittens. One was a marmalade colour and the other identically marked but in grey. They were clearly hungry and wary of humans. Now came the dilemma. We didn’t want to encourage them, feed them, befriend them and then just leave them to their own devices throughout the winter. On the other hand, we rationalised that it was good to have cats around as they would keep down mice, rats and unwanted vermin. We compromised and decided that we would not let them in the house nor touch them at all. We would put out some milk, just enough to keep them alive but not so much that they would not have to learn to hunt and feed themselves. It was a difficult time for all of us, they were just weaned and not big enough to tackle much to catch and eat. At night, if we had the curtains open and the lights on, the kittens would jump up and down by the glass of the patio doors catching moths that were drawn to the light. I desperately wanted to scoop them up and open a tin of tuna, but consoled myself with the fact that they were at least eating. One day the smells from my kitchen were obviously overpowering and ‘Marmalade’ came inside the house. When I went to scoot her away, instead of going out she ran through the lounge into the hall. With Waldo and me in hot pursuit she went into the spare bedroom and leapt onto the top of the wardrobe. Years ago when I worked for a pharmaceutical company and won an award with an advertisement entitled ‘When Pussy Smith becomes Tiger Tim’ with a picture showing what veterinary surgeons all over the world are only too familiar with, a cuddly family cat sees a vet with a needle and turns into a snarling, clawing tiger. Small as she was, Marmalade did a pretty good imitation of a tiger. She crouched, snarling at the top of the wardrobe. Waldo warned me to get out of the way, for fear she would leap straight at my face as I tried to smoothly talk her down. I opened the bedroom door and Waldo crept up behind Marmalade with a broom. He thwacked it on the wardrobe and Marmalade flew across the room, all four legs sticking out, until she reached the floor, sided on the marble, then regained some sort of purchase on the slippery surface. I had stood to one side hoping to shoo her towards the lounge and then eventually out through the kitchen. But no, she ran past me and then, seeing Waldo come out of the bedroom, eyes wide and broom aloft, Marmalade scrambled up the stone wall behind me. Now our hall is two stories high and how she managed to get up this height I don’t know, but she did, eventually getting to the mezzanine floor, running down the corridor and out through the front door which thankfully was open.
We didn’t see Marmalade for days, but Bobby Grey came to visit. He would just stand at the edge of the patio, Marmalade had clearly told him not to go in the house, where he would mew and look pitiful until I put out some milk. Marmalade and Bobby Grey grew into fine young cats, strong and clearly managing their territory. They would show themselves every now and again, and sniff as they lifted their heads in the air as if to say ‘see, we don’t need you’. It is over a year since I have seen Marmalade, but Bobby Grey is still around, still hunting and he considers it his right now to sleep the hot afternoons away on a sun lounger in the shade of our bougainvillea cascade on the back patio. Recently I had seen a new young cat around the place. Absolutely jet back, ‘Blackie’ is lean and mean. He takes no notice of us, doesn’t even look at the house, but swaggers around our patios as though it is clearly his territory. I do know whether he is a relation of Bobby Grey or not.
Perhaps the most endearing of our garden neighbours are our pair of pine martins. Friends on the island say that they are actually stone martins, but ours live in a collection of pine trees at the back of the swimming pool we call the ‘Muir Glen’; thus, to us, they are pine martins. I first saw Brenda and Jim when they were quite young. It was about six o’clock one morning and they were playing a sort of rough and tumble game on the patio beside the swimming pool. I felt so privileged to watch them, completely unaware of my presence. It’s worth getting up early in the morning to watch them and I frequently do. About half an hour after the sun has gone down Brenda and Jim take their evening stroll; our of the Muir Glen, around the swimming pool, up the steps to the kitchen patio, keep close to the wall, jump up and squeeze behind the big earthenware pot, do a little circus balancing act along the wall of the walkway running around the house, jump down to the back patio, down the steps and into the undergrowth by the eating olive trees. Jim leads and Brenda follows. All the time they are sniffing out new smells and searching for possibilities for food. To Brenda and Jim our garden is their territory and as such it had been well marked. When we have been away for some time, they take it upon themselves to remind us of this fact. Any door that we open and walk through, any garden furniture we sit in, any cushion on a wall we sit on, will be sniffed out that night and then Brenda or Jim mark their territory with a little poo. Every new piece of garden furniture is treated to Brenda and Jim’s welcome. We have learnt the ways of our pine martins. If we clear up their poo the day we find it, they remark it the next night. If we leave it at least overnight, by which time it is dry and presumably has little value as a scent mark, then when we remove it they do not remark. It is a small consequence to pay for such pleasure watching them and we believe they keep unwanted furry animals away in return.
Waldo has always been the sort of person to be going round the house muttering ‘where’s my ....’? Glasses and keys are the favourite. My mother has bought us at least four decorative key hooks to encourage him to hang them somewhere specific each time he comes in, but it is a discipline which completely evades him. Now of course as we have both aged the list is longer and I have joined the ranks of 'Have you seen my ...?; the piece of paper I had in my hand a minute ago, stapler, my pen - I had it just a second ago, the telephone, my wallet, indeed anything that isn’t a fixture! As Waldo's frustration mounts and after I have been cross questioned and found not guilty there can be no other solution in his mind; Brenda and Jim have got them. Over the years Brenda and Jim have apparently been walking around our side of the island wearing a fancy navy pair of shorts, a wonderful orange and black striped set of pyjamas, a pair of Ferrari sunglasses and the little devils have even had Waldo’s mobile telephone. So far they’ve returned everything except the ‘phone!
At the end of this homage to road building it is a different scene. A sharp 240’ left hand corner, followed by 150 yards of steep incline to a 90’ right hand corner followed by some 250 yards of further incline eventual reach the concrete. No amount of petitioning the current mayor can bring forth anything more than promises and the occasional grader to smooth the surface when the road is almost impassable. In the summer this is dust pitted with rocks suitable only for the experienced rally drivers. It takes gallons of water to keep the car clean, and we have required two new tyres this year. In the winter it is a quagmire at the bottom as the ravines reappear; we sometimes go for days when we cannot come up the road which means a 5 mile detour to come down the mountain.
But, it is just this phenomenon which means that on the occasion that we do hear a vehicle – about once or twice a day - we rush to the window to see who it is. Our rarely interrupted access combined with our location on the mountainside in a hot climate means we share our home and garden with all manner of creatures. Now both Waldo and I were brought up in the countryside and thus find most of the inhabitants interesting or endearing. No so some of our visitors who have the ‘townies’ squeamishness over things that wiggle, crawl and creep.
The main full-time residents of home and garden are the little geckos who are everywhere. One large family lives in the stone pillar in the corner of the kitchen patio. These little fellows don’t do much in the heat of the summer’s days but in the evening scurry around the patio chasing each other and tiny flies which they eat with relish. In the cooler days of Spring and Autumn They bask on their favourite stones and I can usually gauge how warm the day will be by the number of geckos in view. Two geckos and I will need a cardigan; seven and it will be a beautiful day requiring a no sleeved cotton top. When we take a break and sit quietly on the patio we can hear these little chaps bark to each other. I can almost imitate this noise, but Waldo’s looser false teeth enable him to really talk to the geckos; yes they do reply! Sometimes one might even creep towards us, tail held high and as if waving. Now according to David Attenborough this is a sign of sexual readiness; I can’t remember whether it is by the male or female or both. I suspect from our observations that it is the male. Last year Waldo thwarted one little chap’s chances in the sexual marketplace by inadvertently stepping on his tail; the gecko wriggled and wriggled until he came free and scurried off leaving his tail alone and wriggling on the floor. He is still around and we see ‘Tony Tailless’ quite regularly around the rose garden or on the chess patio. We have a few house geckos. Two live in Waldo’s office and spend most of their time on the curtains. ‘Tom’ and ‘Jerry’ in the lounge squabble daily and every now and then have a good old fight arching their bodies, sizing each other up and then rushing at each other like some prehistoric animals in a movie scene. ‘Fatso’ lives at the back of the fireplace and pops out to see us most evening, usually chewing something. We leave these harmless creatures to get on with their lives and eat up the tiny flies, baby spiders and all manner of little things we do not want in the house.
One day Waldo had been working in the AcropoLiz. Quite a few families of geckos live there and can be seen on the tiled roof basking in the sun. Waldo was using a polystyrene spray which expanded and sealed up holes; I wanted my office space to be absolutely spider proof! He came in for a break. I made coffee and my friend Jan and I were sitting with him in the kitchen chatting. Now Waldo has quite a long white beard and does have a tendency to spill drinks and food down it. People must think that I have a strange affliction for I am frequently seen to rub down some mythical beard of my own, which is a signal to Waldo to rub or comb his. So whenever we had people around and we are eating I am constantly watching Waldo’s beard. Amazingly I could see a small part of it moving. Before I could move forward to check this out a little gecko, front legs parting the hairs as though moving through a jungle, suddenly broke free and popped his head out from Waldo’s beard. The poor little thing looked so exhausted and shocked. I burst into laughter, Jan groaned as she wasn’t too sure about these things and Waldo just sat there saying ‘What? What are you laughing at?’ I put my hand in front of the gecko for him to walk onto it, but he turned back into the jungle and emerged on Waldo’s neck, climbed over his collar and onto his shoulder. Eventually he ran down Waldo’s arm and onto my hand, his tiny suction padded feet clamping to my skin as he walked. I took him outside and let him down gently. He barked and scuttled away. When I went back inside Waldo was just recovering from his close encounters of the gecko kind.
The green lizards here are beautiful. Young they are a sort of olive green gradually turning to a luminous limey emerald. They are quite shy but do scamper around the patio beside the swimming pool. In the heat of the summer these beautiful creatures are drawn to the swimming pool for water. They drop down the steps and slake their thirst. Occasionally one falls in or finds the steps too big to climb up and Waldo then uses the big net that he has for cleaning leaves off the surface of the pool; he had become quite adept at some sort of lizard language telling these creatures to climb onto the net. Waldo then gives them an equivalent of a fairground ride as he swishes the net up and over the edge of the pool to dry land. It is fascinating how many lizards do not immediately scurry away but turn and look at Waldo as if to say ‘what happened there’? A few weeks ago Waldo had been so busy rescuing lizards that he became concerned as to what would happen if he wasn’t here or I didn’t hear the splashing in the water. I saw him gathering small stones and oddments of smooth marble which can be found all around the garden. The next thing I know Waldo came and asked me to see his triumph of building ingenuity. To one side of the steps to the pool was an array of stones and marble making easily climbable slopes and smaller steps; this ‘lizard ladder’ reaches right from a few inches below the water’s surface to the top edge of the pool. All Waldo has to do now is either train ‘the emeralds’ to use this ladder or perhaps put up a little sign ‘green lizards this way please’.
We have one larger lizard that we rarely see. Just occasionally ‘Thunderthighs’ can be found basking in a sunny patch on the path between the kitchen patio and the AcropoLiz. Waldo has only heard the rustle of a large creature in the oleander hedge but I have seen the creature. He is not quite 2 foot long, but has massively strong thighs and claws, a short neck and stubby tail. We let him get on with his life and he is far more likely to move away from us than bother us in any way.
Freddy did become a pet. Now, whether it is our increasing time spent in isolation or whether we were both mad in the first place, we do spend a lot of time observing those around us and getting involved in their lives. Freddy just appeared one day, a very small greenish frog sitting on a pipe leading to the filter unit of our swimming pool. Freddy did little more than sit. Very occasionally we would see him in the water at the edge of the swimming pool, but more of the time he spent behind the filter unit. Every morning after I opened the kitchen door I would say good morning to Freddy, ask him how he was, and what he was going to do today. At first there was no discernable response. But as the days, weeks, months passed I became convinced that Freddy recognised my voice. Every now and then he would humour me by turning towards me: Waldo reckons it was just coincidence, but then I just think he was jealous because Freddy never turned to him! As the summer became hotter and hotter we realised that the water level of the pool was dropping and Freddy was finding it more and more difficult to get back up onto the pipe after a swim. Waldo solved Freddy’s problem by floating a short length of wood in the pool. At first the piece of wood moved around as the wind took it, thus Waldo tied the wood so that it stayed in the shaded corner that Freddy preferred. After about a week this intelligent frog learned how to climb up onto the wood. For some reason he only sat at one end so that he looked as though he was on some form of water ski. Freddy would sit for hours on the wood, just turning slightly every now and then. As some unsuspecting fly settled on the wood, Freddy’s tongue would dart out and the fly would disappear. This lazy life meant that Freddy was visibly growing, no longer a young greenish frog he was turning into a dumpy spotted adult leopard frog. He could look quite intimidating as he squatted Buddha-like on his plank. Gradually the plank started to sink under Freddy’s increasing weight. Not to be outdone, Waldo cut a short plank from a thicker piece of wood. It still floated and Waldo tied it near Freddy’s corner. Seeing Freddy was such a pleasure, but we were concerned that he might be lonely. Friend’s playing along with our strange obsession started to give us green frog gifts; a green rhinestone encrusted brass frog, a pottery green frog sitting on a stone, a green glass frog. As summer melted into Autumn we started to have some rain and the pool started to fill up again. Freddy could now reach his pipe again, but the fat old frog could no longer squeeze himself into the space he had enjoyed in his youth. One morning, after a particularly strong thunder storm Freddy was not there to greet me in the morning. We pined and fretted wondering what had happened. I ‘Googled’ ‘frogs’ and learnt that sometimes they do dive under water and can stay there for quite a long time. It was days before Freddy reappeared, much to our relief. We had seen him grow into adulthood and were keen to see what happened next. Sadly a few nights later we had an even stronger thunder storm and we have not seen Freddy since. I hope he’s hopped off to join other frogs somewhere.
Anyone who has ever been to Greece knows that there are cats everywhere. Our garden is no exception. In the beginning we would catch glimpses of two large feral cats, but they never came near the house. Then one day we could hear kittenish mewing and out from behind our two palm trees came two kittens. One was a marmalade colour and the other identically marked but in grey. They were clearly hungry and wary of humans. Now came the dilemma. We didn’t want to encourage them, feed them, befriend them and then just leave them to their own devices throughout the winter. On the other hand, we rationalised that it was good to have cats around as they would keep down mice, rats and unwanted vermin. We compromised and decided that we would not let them in the house nor touch them at all. We would put out some milk, just enough to keep them alive but not so much that they would not have to learn to hunt and feed themselves. It was a difficult time for all of us, they were just weaned and not big enough to tackle much to catch and eat. At night, if we had the curtains open and the lights on, the kittens would jump up and down by the glass of the patio doors catching moths that were drawn to the light. I desperately wanted to scoop them up and open a tin of tuna, but consoled myself with the fact that they were at least eating. One day the smells from my kitchen were obviously overpowering and ‘Marmalade’ came inside the house. When I went to scoot her away, instead of going out she ran through the lounge into the hall. With Waldo and me in hot pursuit she went into the spare bedroom and leapt onto the top of the wardrobe. Years ago when I worked for a pharmaceutical company and won an award with an advertisement entitled ‘When Pussy Smith becomes Tiger Tim’ with a picture showing what veterinary surgeons all over the world are only too familiar with, a cuddly family cat sees a vet with a needle and turns into a snarling, clawing tiger. Small as she was, Marmalade did a pretty good imitation of a tiger. She crouched, snarling at the top of the wardrobe. Waldo warned me to get out of the way, for fear she would leap straight at my face as I tried to smoothly talk her down. I opened the bedroom door and Waldo crept up behind Marmalade with a broom. He thwacked it on the wardrobe and Marmalade flew across the room, all four legs sticking out, until she reached the floor, sided on the marble, then regained some sort of purchase on the slippery surface. I had stood to one side hoping to shoo her towards the lounge and then eventually out through the kitchen. But no, she ran past me and then, seeing Waldo come out of the bedroom, eyes wide and broom aloft, Marmalade scrambled up the stone wall behind me. Now our hall is two stories high and how she managed to get up this height I don’t know, but she did, eventually getting to the mezzanine floor, running down the corridor and out through the front door which thankfully was open.
We didn’t see Marmalade for days, but Bobby Grey came to visit. He would just stand at the edge of the patio, Marmalade had clearly told him not to go in the house, where he would mew and look pitiful until I put out some milk. Marmalade and Bobby Grey grew into fine young cats, strong and clearly managing their territory. They would show themselves every now and again, and sniff as they lifted their heads in the air as if to say ‘see, we don’t need you’. It is over a year since I have seen Marmalade, but Bobby Grey is still around, still hunting and he considers it his right now to sleep the hot afternoons away on a sun lounger in the shade of our bougainvillea cascade on the back patio. Recently I had seen a new young cat around the place. Absolutely jet back, ‘Blackie’ is lean and mean. He takes no notice of us, doesn’t even look at the house, but swaggers around our patios as though it is clearly his territory. I do know whether he is a relation of Bobby Grey or not.
Perhaps the most endearing of our garden neighbours are our pair of pine martins. Friends on the island say that they are actually stone martins, but ours live in a collection of pine trees at the back of the swimming pool we call the ‘Muir Glen’; thus, to us, they are pine martins. I first saw Brenda and Jim when they were quite young. It was about six o’clock one morning and they were playing a sort of rough and tumble game on the patio beside the swimming pool. I felt so privileged to watch them, completely unaware of my presence. It’s worth getting up early in the morning to watch them and I frequently do. About half an hour after the sun has gone down Brenda and Jim take their evening stroll; our of the Muir Glen, around the swimming pool, up the steps to the kitchen patio, keep close to the wall, jump up and squeeze behind the big earthenware pot, do a little circus balancing act along the wall of the walkway running around the house, jump down to the back patio, down the steps and into the undergrowth by the eating olive trees. Jim leads and Brenda follows. All the time they are sniffing out new smells and searching for possibilities for food. To Brenda and Jim our garden is their territory and as such it had been well marked. When we have been away for some time, they take it upon themselves to remind us of this fact. Any door that we open and walk through, any garden furniture we sit in, any cushion on a wall we sit on, will be sniffed out that night and then Brenda or Jim mark their territory with a little poo. Every new piece of garden furniture is treated to Brenda and Jim’s welcome. We have learnt the ways of our pine martins. If we clear up their poo the day we find it, they remark it the next night. If we leave it at least overnight, by which time it is dry and presumably has little value as a scent mark, then when we remove it they do not remark. It is a small consequence to pay for such pleasure watching them and we believe they keep unwanted furry animals away in return.
Waldo has always been the sort of person to be going round the house muttering ‘where’s my ....’? Glasses and keys are the favourite. My mother has bought us at least four decorative key hooks to encourage him to hang them somewhere specific each time he comes in, but it is a discipline which completely evades him. Now of course as we have both aged the list is longer and I have joined the ranks of 'Have you seen my ...?; the piece of paper I had in my hand a minute ago, stapler, my pen - I had it just a second ago, the telephone, my wallet, indeed anything that isn’t a fixture! As Waldo's frustration mounts and after I have been cross questioned and found not guilty there can be no other solution in his mind; Brenda and Jim have got them. Over the years Brenda and Jim have apparently been walking around our side of the island wearing a fancy navy pair of shorts, a wonderful orange and black striped set of pyjamas, a pair of Ferrari sunglasses and the little devils have even had Waldo’s mobile telephone. So far they’ve returned everything except the ‘phone!
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Health and Safety
When we decided to spend as much time as possible in Greece, one of our location criteria was to be near a hospital. Whilst Waldo is rarely ill and has only been hospitalised once in his life, he says one never knows what is around the corner. In contrast, I have been a creaking door for as long as I can remember. A car accident left me with faulty knee caps; the damage was so extensive that the first surgeon I went to see told me that there was nothing he could do for me, I would be in a wheelchair within about 2 years and that would be where the rest of my life would centre. I was not then thirty and decided that this was not an option. We found another orthopaedic surgeon who told me that the only thing he could do was to put me in a plaster cast from waist to ankles for about a year. Then after that time he thought there might be a chance of me walking again possibly for 2 -3 years, but then most likely I would be in a wheelchair. Despair was now setting in and I was still in pain, but still working.
Eventually, through the Medical Director of the pharmaceutical company I then worked for, he suggested I try a new, young surgeon who had recently moved to Cardiff. It turned out that this dashing young man had been making a name for himself working in Northern Ireland where ‘the troubles’ were alive and kicking. One of the favourite physical traumas played out at that time was knee-capping, where some poor soul’s knees were smashed to pieces. ‘My surgeon’ as I came to refer to him, studied the X-rays, poked and squeezed my knees and eventually came to a conclusion. He felt that he could operate and that there would be a ten percent chance of me walking again as normal. But if anything went wrong, there would not be a half way house, I would be in a wheelchair for life. He was convinced that he could do the operation, but he cautioned that success very much depended upon my ability to follow a rigorous physiotherapy course for months after. The first operations, one on each knee, resulted in two weeks in hospital, followed by six weeks in plaster cast, followed by a further two weeks in hospital for the second operation and then some six months learning to walk again. I am ¾ inch shorter than I was prior to the operations, have had a further 8 operations just to go in and sweep up shards of broken bone as they move, bump and grate around the kneecap. But now, over thirty years later, I walk, do stairs up and down, drive a car and few people would recognise that I had any problem. I still do the physiotherapy exercises most mornings before I can get out of bed, but hey ho, that is no sacrifice. I cherish the life that I can walk. Such is the confidence in my aging knees that Kalithea Villa has some 15 steps from our front door to the lounge, a further 6 from lounge to kitchen!
I was definitely a ‘made on a Friday’ for my health needs quite a bit of support. Apart from being overweight – I do eat very little honest! – I have my mother’s family feet. This means in growing toenails, hard skin, odd sizes and an impossibility to get really well fitting shoes. I have developed really amazing allergies, those really nasty ones which result in anaphylactic reactions! Mild reactions occur to penicillin and zinc oxide plaster, which is not used any more thankfully. Picking up a rubber band or even touching paper printed with certain inks, photocopy inks are worst, sets off my latex allergy and the itching is such I could tear my skin off. But the scary ones are an allergy to all known painkillers, including morphine; aspirin, paracetamol, brufen, no such product can pass my lips. But thankfully I rarely suffer from headaches and over the years of operations to knees, neck, spine, wrist, I have developed a powerful means of self hypnosis, which for the most part sorts me out.
Thus we were very pleased to learn that there is a small hospital on the island. Little did we expect Waldo to use its facilities not once, but twice! The first time was very early on. A friend was staying with use, helping to wash curtains, make new curtains and generally advise me on anything related to sewing. She is also a midwife! Waldo had taken ownership of Kalithea Villa in the September and Jan and I came out to join him in October. Our rough track up the mountain was in a bad way and I had not attempted to drive our old 4 x 4 Lada up or down it. Jan and Waldo had spent most of the day taking down curtains and then washing them by treading them in the bath! I managed the drying, moving them around different patios to keep in the sun. I was also making some spaghetti bolognaise and salads as we were having friends to visit that evening. The three of us had had a coffee break and then Waldo decided to just go and hang the last curtain in his office-come-spare-bedroom. I had picked a few olives earlier in the day and was about to start the pickling process, just to see how they would turn out. I was chatting to Jan in the kitchen when we heard an almighty crash and a moan of a seriously wounded animal. To this day I have never found the bowl of olives that were in my hand! I ran to the garage, thinking Waldo was there, but Jan was ahead of me and went to Waldo’s office. As I returned to the lounge I saw him come through the archway between the two rooms. His face was covered with blood, it was dripping from his mouth and one ear, his hand was clenched to his chest and the hand was covered in blood. Jan ran past me as I ran towards Waldo. I was convinced that he had fallen off the ladder and something had pieced his chest, there was so much blood seemingly coming from there. I perched him on the wide arm of a chair and tried to look. He was holding his hand so close to his chest; I could hardly prize it away. I thought he was trying to save me from the gory sight and struggled to get his hand out of the way, whilst mentally steeling myself for the sight that was to come. I was shocked when I eventually looked – there was nothing! ‘Oh well, he’s OK’ I thought. I had been so worked up to seeing this gory sight that when it wasn’t there I momentarily relaxed. By this time Jan had reached us with a few damp tea towels and started to stem the various flows of blood. Slowly as she worked away we could see that the blood was coming mainly from a deep gash over his eye which dissected his eyebrow; this was going to need stitches. Fortunately it was blood from this wound that had reached his ear and once cleaned that looked fine. The biggest problem was his lips which had been bitten through by his own teeth, the bottom lip had about half an inch hanging down whilst the top lip had a nasty gash up and along for about two inches.
There was no way an ambulance could get up our road. So Jan and I helped Waldo to the Lada and she sat in the back holding various towels to his head. Her midwifery skills at least enabled her to deal with blood and patients. I was glad I had the driving job. I gingerly turned the engine on and prepared myself for the drive. We made it to the hospital in record time. The duty doctor soon cleaned Waldo up, stitched his gash over his eye and his lips. Then, after checking him over he decided that Waldo was to be admitted. He was to be on 15 minute observations throughout the night. I eventually managed to understand that the doctor was concerned in case Waldo spleen had been damaged or might burst; this was serious.
A male nurse came to admit Waldo. I explained that I would go back to the house to get his pyjamas, a towel and all the usual paraphernalia needed in hospital. But the nurse was adamant; he would find some pyjamas and towels which would be fine. Indeed he found a pair of wonderful navy blue pyjamas which were in some sort of satin material and had a sort of yellow braiding around the edges. They were certainly much posher than any Waldo owned. They were spotlessly clean and ironed, but it did cross my mind as to which wealthy old Kytherian had passed on and left them behind. The nurse shoed us out of the ward; he would dress Waldo and get him into bed. We took the chance to telephone our friends and explain that spag bol that night was ‘off’! They immediately said they would come to the hospital.
The ward was a six bedded ward, but there was only one other person, an old man who looked to be very ill indeed. A woman sat and held vigil by his bedside. By the time we went back to see Waldo, I could see that he was getting very tired. His breathing was better and he was less panicky than he had been. It was a bad fall and a shock to him. Our friends soon arrived, but could see Waldo really didn’t want visitors. None of the night staff in the hospital spoke English, but we knew they would take care of Waldo. We left him to sleep.
I certainly didn’t feel like going out to eat and so we left out understanding friends to fend for themselves. It had been raining whilst we were in the hospital and I was concerned about the road. The water had turned the dust to a glue-like mud and as I turned the corner to face the worst bit, I groaned inwardly. I knew Jan was quite scared and didn’t want her to feel any worse. I told her to hold on to the handle in the roof, as I needed a bit of speed to get to the top. The Lada was fantastic; I’m sure it would go up the side of a cliff face if only I could dare drive it up one. We bounced a bit, but no slippage. We reached the house safely. I was in a dream as I finished making the bolognaise sauce. I boiled a little pasta and we ate mostly in silence; but no doubt dealing with our own demons.
Waldo was much better the next day when we went to visit. The doctor was pleased with him and had reduced him to one hourly observations. The three broken ribs were now the most painful. The bruising on his face had come out and it was also clear that he would need some radical dental treatment as three teeth were poking under his lip at very strange angles. I took him his own pyjamas, a towel and his wash kit. It was warm in the ward and the windows at the end of the room were wide open to let in as much cool breeze as possible. They also let in flies, no doubt attracted to the various sweet smells of the various potions and salves that were used. The lady visiting the bed opposite was well prepared. Her husband, or maybe it was her father, had obviously been there for a long time. As he slept she swotted away, giving some really hard sounding thwacks on the sleeping man. She was clearly an expert in this field for the frequently caught two flies at once. Waldo as a keen novice fly swatter was really impressed. Her actions kept him occupied for long hours when we weren’t there.
It took just until our second visit when Waldo had become thoroughly institutionalised they way people do when in hospital. That ward became his world and nothing else mattered. He reported activity. There seemed no move to consider when Waldo would be leaving, and for the moment that was fine: we had a almost a week before we were due to fly back to the UK. The visiting lady had two triumphs and twice swatted three flies. Such was her excitement that she woke the sick patient up to tell him, but he hardly cared. She then told Waldo; well she mainly mimed the re-enaction, and then volunteered to have a go around Waldo’s bed. She did very well until a fly landed on the bedcovers above his ribs. The wail that came from him sent her scurrying back to her side of the ward with the speed of an Olympic runner.
Waldo was hungry. He craved for some of Stella’s cheese pies. Stella ran her own tavern on the front in Aghia Pelagia. Her cooking is excellent and it is now a ritual that the first and last night’s of our trips are always spent in Stella’s, also the first night out when any visitors arrive we take them to Stella’s. In fact we go in between times as well. I called in to ask if I could take out some cheese pies for Waldo. She had already heard by the village grapevine that he was in hospital. She was delighted and slightly amused that it was her cooking Waldo craved, not mine. But she packed up a small box of pies, refused to take any money for them, and insisted they were a gift to the patient. She and her husband impressed upon me that if there was anything they could do, anything we wanted, we only had to ask. In fact it was incredible the number of people who stopped me in the street or telephoned to ask how Waldo was and if there was anything they could do. The response was amazing. People didn’t visit him in hospital because they thought it might be an intrusion, but they made it clear that if I wanted help with the translation, administration, paperwork etc. they would be there for us. We were both really touched by the kindness of friends and strangers.
Sometime during the evening a third patient joined Waldo in the ward. He was given a bed at the far end of the room, by the window. Waldo did not know what was wrong with him, but like all the patients in the ward as soon as he was in bed, a saline drip was fitted to his hand. Waldo was still not allowed out of bed or even to sit up because of the ongoing concern about his spleen. But this man was free to get in and out of bed as he wished. He spent a lot of time just staring at Waldo; whether it was his long beard, the changing colours of his swollen face, or just the fact that he was a ‘xenoi’ ( stranger ) Waldo wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure whether the man had a bladder problem or whether it was just an excuse to walk past and get a better view, but every hour or so he would make his way to the men’s toilet next door. Now Waldo is not a tall man, but this inquisitive fellow was really height disadvantaged. Getting off the bed meant first standing on the bed to unloop the saline drip bottle fixed by a tab hooked over a large in the wall – drips on poles on wheel have not reached the island yet! He then had to turn around so that he faced the bed and let his legs dangle over the side. Holding his bottle in the same arm as he had the needle, he used his other arm to hold his weight so that he could drop down to the floor. Once his feet landed on the floor he would pad his way across the ward, still holding his saline bottle as high as he could. He had been told to do this by the nurse, but nobody had explained to him that it was to keep the bottle higher than his needle and so he kept the bottle tightly clenched next to the needle! Waldo could then hear a sound like someone jumping and occasionally huffing, puffing and swearing: the tone recognisable in any language. After a short time this would be repeated, but then end up with a repeat cry of a word Waldo did not understand. It was only the next day, when Waldo was allowed to go to the toilet himself that he found out what was happening. This short man would open the toilet door, and by jumping and flicking the saline bottle he could eventually hook the tag over a six inch nail fitted in the door, presumably for just that purpose. Nine times out of ten, the tag would slip down as the nail had been banged in at a 45° upward angle. After the man had done what he came to do, no amount of jumping could enable him to have the height now to lift the tag up and over the nail head. Waldo did it a few times for him, but he discovered that when he wasn't available, the cry was for the nurse to come and unhook the little guy and give him his freedom to climb back into bed and once more flick the tag over his own nail.
The exercise of moving under the fly swatter and getting up to unhook his fellow inmate, soon enabled Waldo to move around a bit more easily. Then of course, all he wanted to do was come out, but the doctor was adamant. Eventually Waldo insisted, that he had to go back to the UK. He was told he could not fly. Whilst Jan and I started considering the cost of changing tickets, Waldo thought none of it. He simply persisted and then forced the doctor’s hand saying he would catch the ferry to Athens, go to hospital in Athens and wait for the ‘all clear’. We collected Waldo the day before our departure flight. Of course we forgot about the smallness of the island for that afternoon, whilst doing some last minute shopping who did I bump into but the doctor.
‘I thought you were going on the ferry today?’ he asked.
Of course the one ferry a week to Piraeus left the island a few hours ago. I mumbled something about the fact that I was flying tomorrow. Hoping he would infer that Waldo had gone on the ferry.
The next day we ducked down in the taxi as we passed the doctor’s house and the hospital. We flew to Athens and then on to Heathrow. I drove back to Cardiff. Waldo’s main problem was his sore ribs. But happy to say that his spleen did not burst, his stitches were taken out and hardly show, his bruises faded, teeth were sorted and his ribs finally stopped hurting. I bought him a new step ladder for his birthday!
Eventually, through the Medical Director of the pharmaceutical company I then worked for, he suggested I try a new, young surgeon who had recently moved to Cardiff. It turned out that this dashing young man had been making a name for himself working in Northern Ireland where ‘the troubles’ were alive and kicking. One of the favourite physical traumas played out at that time was knee-capping, where some poor soul’s knees were smashed to pieces. ‘My surgeon’ as I came to refer to him, studied the X-rays, poked and squeezed my knees and eventually came to a conclusion. He felt that he could operate and that there would be a ten percent chance of me walking again as normal. But if anything went wrong, there would not be a half way house, I would be in a wheelchair for life. He was convinced that he could do the operation, but he cautioned that success very much depended upon my ability to follow a rigorous physiotherapy course for months after. The first operations, one on each knee, resulted in two weeks in hospital, followed by six weeks in plaster cast, followed by a further two weeks in hospital for the second operation and then some six months learning to walk again. I am ¾ inch shorter than I was prior to the operations, have had a further 8 operations just to go in and sweep up shards of broken bone as they move, bump and grate around the kneecap. But now, over thirty years later, I walk, do stairs up and down, drive a car and few people would recognise that I had any problem. I still do the physiotherapy exercises most mornings before I can get out of bed, but hey ho, that is no sacrifice. I cherish the life that I can walk. Such is the confidence in my aging knees that Kalithea Villa has some 15 steps from our front door to the lounge, a further 6 from lounge to kitchen!
I was definitely a ‘made on a Friday’ for my health needs quite a bit of support. Apart from being overweight – I do eat very little honest! – I have my mother’s family feet. This means in growing toenails, hard skin, odd sizes and an impossibility to get really well fitting shoes. I have developed really amazing allergies, those really nasty ones which result in anaphylactic reactions! Mild reactions occur to penicillin and zinc oxide plaster, which is not used any more thankfully. Picking up a rubber band or even touching paper printed with certain inks, photocopy inks are worst, sets off my latex allergy and the itching is such I could tear my skin off. But the scary ones are an allergy to all known painkillers, including morphine; aspirin, paracetamol, brufen, no such product can pass my lips. But thankfully I rarely suffer from headaches and over the years of operations to knees, neck, spine, wrist, I have developed a powerful means of self hypnosis, which for the most part sorts me out.
Thus we were very pleased to learn that there is a small hospital on the island. Little did we expect Waldo to use its facilities not once, but twice! The first time was very early on. A friend was staying with use, helping to wash curtains, make new curtains and generally advise me on anything related to sewing. She is also a midwife! Waldo had taken ownership of Kalithea Villa in the September and Jan and I came out to join him in October. Our rough track up the mountain was in a bad way and I had not attempted to drive our old 4 x 4 Lada up or down it. Jan and Waldo had spent most of the day taking down curtains and then washing them by treading them in the bath! I managed the drying, moving them around different patios to keep in the sun. I was also making some spaghetti bolognaise and salads as we were having friends to visit that evening. The three of us had had a coffee break and then Waldo decided to just go and hang the last curtain in his office-come-spare-bedroom. I had picked a few olives earlier in the day and was about to start the pickling process, just to see how they would turn out. I was chatting to Jan in the kitchen when we heard an almighty crash and a moan of a seriously wounded animal. To this day I have never found the bowl of olives that were in my hand! I ran to the garage, thinking Waldo was there, but Jan was ahead of me and went to Waldo’s office. As I returned to the lounge I saw him come through the archway between the two rooms. His face was covered with blood, it was dripping from his mouth and one ear, his hand was clenched to his chest and the hand was covered in blood. Jan ran past me as I ran towards Waldo. I was convinced that he had fallen off the ladder and something had pieced his chest, there was so much blood seemingly coming from there. I perched him on the wide arm of a chair and tried to look. He was holding his hand so close to his chest; I could hardly prize it away. I thought he was trying to save me from the gory sight and struggled to get his hand out of the way, whilst mentally steeling myself for the sight that was to come. I was shocked when I eventually looked – there was nothing! ‘Oh well, he’s OK’ I thought. I had been so worked up to seeing this gory sight that when it wasn’t there I momentarily relaxed. By this time Jan had reached us with a few damp tea towels and started to stem the various flows of blood. Slowly as she worked away we could see that the blood was coming mainly from a deep gash over his eye which dissected his eyebrow; this was going to need stitches. Fortunately it was blood from this wound that had reached his ear and once cleaned that looked fine. The biggest problem was his lips which had been bitten through by his own teeth, the bottom lip had about half an inch hanging down whilst the top lip had a nasty gash up and along for about two inches.
There was no way an ambulance could get up our road. So Jan and I helped Waldo to the Lada and she sat in the back holding various towels to his head. Her midwifery skills at least enabled her to deal with blood and patients. I was glad I had the driving job. I gingerly turned the engine on and prepared myself for the drive. We made it to the hospital in record time. The duty doctor soon cleaned Waldo up, stitched his gash over his eye and his lips. Then, after checking him over he decided that Waldo was to be admitted. He was to be on 15 minute observations throughout the night. I eventually managed to understand that the doctor was concerned in case Waldo spleen had been damaged or might burst; this was serious.
A male nurse came to admit Waldo. I explained that I would go back to the house to get his pyjamas, a towel and all the usual paraphernalia needed in hospital. But the nurse was adamant; he would find some pyjamas and towels which would be fine. Indeed he found a pair of wonderful navy blue pyjamas which were in some sort of satin material and had a sort of yellow braiding around the edges. They were certainly much posher than any Waldo owned. They were spotlessly clean and ironed, but it did cross my mind as to which wealthy old Kytherian had passed on and left them behind. The nurse shoed us out of the ward; he would dress Waldo and get him into bed. We took the chance to telephone our friends and explain that spag bol that night was ‘off’! They immediately said they would come to the hospital.
The ward was a six bedded ward, but there was only one other person, an old man who looked to be very ill indeed. A woman sat and held vigil by his bedside. By the time we went back to see Waldo, I could see that he was getting very tired. His breathing was better and he was less panicky than he had been. It was a bad fall and a shock to him. Our friends soon arrived, but could see Waldo really didn’t want visitors. None of the night staff in the hospital spoke English, but we knew they would take care of Waldo. We left him to sleep.
I certainly didn’t feel like going out to eat and so we left out understanding friends to fend for themselves. It had been raining whilst we were in the hospital and I was concerned about the road. The water had turned the dust to a glue-like mud and as I turned the corner to face the worst bit, I groaned inwardly. I knew Jan was quite scared and didn’t want her to feel any worse. I told her to hold on to the handle in the roof, as I needed a bit of speed to get to the top. The Lada was fantastic; I’m sure it would go up the side of a cliff face if only I could dare drive it up one. We bounced a bit, but no slippage. We reached the house safely. I was in a dream as I finished making the bolognaise sauce. I boiled a little pasta and we ate mostly in silence; but no doubt dealing with our own demons.
Waldo was much better the next day when we went to visit. The doctor was pleased with him and had reduced him to one hourly observations. The three broken ribs were now the most painful. The bruising on his face had come out and it was also clear that he would need some radical dental treatment as three teeth were poking under his lip at very strange angles. I took him his own pyjamas, a towel and his wash kit. It was warm in the ward and the windows at the end of the room were wide open to let in as much cool breeze as possible. They also let in flies, no doubt attracted to the various sweet smells of the various potions and salves that were used. The lady visiting the bed opposite was well prepared. Her husband, or maybe it was her father, had obviously been there for a long time. As he slept she swotted away, giving some really hard sounding thwacks on the sleeping man. She was clearly an expert in this field for the frequently caught two flies at once. Waldo as a keen novice fly swatter was really impressed. Her actions kept him occupied for long hours when we weren’t there.
It took just until our second visit when Waldo had become thoroughly institutionalised they way people do when in hospital. That ward became his world and nothing else mattered. He reported activity. There seemed no move to consider when Waldo would be leaving, and for the moment that was fine: we had a almost a week before we were due to fly back to the UK. The visiting lady had two triumphs and twice swatted three flies. Such was her excitement that she woke the sick patient up to tell him, but he hardly cared. She then told Waldo; well she mainly mimed the re-enaction, and then volunteered to have a go around Waldo’s bed. She did very well until a fly landed on the bedcovers above his ribs. The wail that came from him sent her scurrying back to her side of the ward with the speed of an Olympic runner.
Waldo was hungry. He craved for some of Stella’s cheese pies. Stella ran her own tavern on the front in Aghia Pelagia. Her cooking is excellent and it is now a ritual that the first and last night’s of our trips are always spent in Stella’s, also the first night out when any visitors arrive we take them to Stella’s. In fact we go in between times as well. I called in to ask if I could take out some cheese pies for Waldo. She had already heard by the village grapevine that he was in hospital. She was delighted and slightly amused that it was her cooking Waldo craved, not mine. But she packed up a small box of pies, refused to take any money for them, and insisted they were a gift to the patient. She and her husband impressed upon me that if there was anything they could do, anything we wanted, we only had to ask. In fact it was incredible the number of people who stopped me in the street or telephoned to ask how Waldo was and if there was anything they could do. The response was amazing. People didn’t visit him in hospital because they thought it might be an intrusion, but they made it clear that if I wanted help with the translation, administration, paperwork etc. they would be there for us. We were both really touched by the kindness of friends and strangers.
Sometime during the evening a third patient joined Waldo in the ward. He was given a bed at the far end of the room, by the window. Waldo did not know what was wrong with him, but like all the patients in the ward as soon as he was in bed, a saline drip was fitted to his hand. Waldo was still not allowed out of bed or even to sit up because of the ongoing concern about his spleen. But this man was free to get in and out of bed as he wished. He spent a lot of time just staring at Waldo; whether it was his long beard, the changing colours of his swollen face, or just the fact that he was a ‘xenoi’ ( stranger ) Waldo wasn’t sure. He also wasn’t sure whether the man had a bladder problem or whether it was just an excuse to walk past and get a better view, but every hour or so he would make his way to the men’s toilet next door. Now Waldo is not a tall man, but this inquisitive fellow was really height disadvantaged. Getting off the bed meant first standing on the bed to unloop the saline drip bottle fixed by a tab hooked over a large in the wall – drips on poles on wheel have not reached the island yet! He then had to turn around so that he faced the bed and let his legs dangle over the side. Holding his bottle in the same arm as he had the needle, he used his other arm to hold his weight so that he could drop down to the floor. Once his feet landed on the floor he would pad his way across the ward, still holding his saline bottle as high as he could. He had been told to do this by the nurse, but nobody had explained to him that it was to keep the bottle higher than his needle and so he kept the bottle tightly clenched next to the needle! Waldo could then hear a sound like someone jumping and occasionally huffing, puffing and swearing: the tone recognisable in any language. After a short time this would be repeated, but then end up with a repeat cry of a word Waldo did not understand. It was only the next day, when Waldo was allowed to go to the toilet himself that he found out what was happening. This short man would open the toilet door, and by jumping and flicking the saline bottle he could eventually hook the tag over a six inch nail fitted in the door, presumably for just that purpose. Nine times out of ten, the tag would slip down as the nail had been banged in at a 45° upward angle. After the man had done what he came to do, no amount of jumping could enable him to have the height now to lift the tag up and over the nail head. Waldo did it a few times for him, but he discovered that when he wasn't available, the cry was for the nurse to come and unhook the little guy and give him his freedom to climb back into bed and once more flick the tag over his own nail.
The exercise of moving under the fly swatter and getting up to unhook his fellow inmate, soon enabled Waldo to move around a bit more easily. Then of course, all he wanted to do was come out, but the doctor was adamant. Eventually Waldo insisted, that he had to go back to the UK. He was told he could not fly. Whilst Jan and I started considering the cost of changing tickets, Waldo thought none of it. He simply persisted and then forced the doctor’s hand saying he would catch the ferry to Athens, go to hospital in Athens and wait for the ‘all clear’. We collected Waldo the day before our departure flight. Of course we forgot about the smallness of the island for that afternoon, whilst doing some last minute shopping who did I bump into but the doctor.
‘I thought you were going on the ferry today?’ he asked.
Of course the one ferry a week to Piraeus left the island a few hours ago. I mumbled something about the fact that I was flying tomorrow. Hoping he would infer that Waldo had gone on the ferry.
The next day we ducked down in the taxi as we passed the doctor’s house and the hospital. We flew to Athens and then on to Heathrow. I drove back to Cardiff. Waldo’s main problem was his sore ribs. But happy to say that his spleen did not burst, his stitches were taken out and hardly show, his bruises faded, teeth were sorted and his ribs finally stopped hurting. I bought him a new step ladder for his birthday!
Sunday, 4 July 2010
It’s Not Shopping, Just Developing Friendships
In other lives, worlds away, in previous years I have been involved in business; running my own business, living with a serial entrepreneur, studying business, lecturing in entrepreneurship, mentoring existing and potential entrepreneurs. In the latter years in the concrete jungle of a post 1992 Polytechnic conversion to a University, I guess I was mildly arrogant in my belief that I had a head start over the theorists; not only did I have a mother who had run her own business, a partner who was into his third business since I had known him, and I had gone through the apprenticeship myself in setting up my own business, started two further businesses with other people, served on the board of a number of private companies, a charitable organisation that had grown some 100 fold during my time on the board, had three public appointments with large organisations, one during the time of its privatisation, I had the practical experience in bucket loads. But in reality it is I who never stops learning. I learnt more from my students than I could ever teach them.
Even though I have travelled extensively and am quite observant as a traveller, I realise now how my business knowledge is culturally limited. The Greek economy is dominated by thousands of small and medium sized businesses, mainly family businesses. Businesses are often organised with an employment structure which suits the family and this does not always mean ‘the best person for the job’ is appointed to any position. For the most part Greek people work to live; this is an overriding aspect of their character. Family, friendships, relationships, food and conversation list as top priorities. Yes of course there are stresses, but few are borne of the workaholic neurosis of other nations. On a small island with a winter population of around 3000 and summer one rising to a shifting 10,000 in any one week, the need for the community to survive has all sorts of implications for businesses.
The first thing that we noticed was the supposed lack of competition. Our capitalist text books are full of business concepts of competition and advise various actions relating to range of products, pricing, customer service, delivery, opening times and a host of ways in which one business can catch an advantage over another. Not so here. Firstly each shop or business is a member of its organisational, trade or professional body. These bodies then determine what hours shops within their membership will open; so nobody can gain a competitive advantage by opening at a different time from anyone else. Small, family businesses cannot open all hours; the family must live together, eat together, talk together, share joy and sorrow together and this cannot happen if different members are always in the shop. Closing times are important family times and everyone respects that. Closures of all businesses and public offices are also due to seasonal fluctuations. It is expected that many places dependent upon tourism are closed for the winter months: hotels, apartments, gift shops, tavernas, coffee shops, ice-cream parlours and the like. Olive picking season results in closure for all or part of the day for most shops and many public services. For the most part, summer or winter shops are open from 9.00 to 13.00 and again from 18.00 – 20.00. But there are exceptions as some trade businesses open at 7.00 or 8.00, in the summer some shops stay open throughout the afternoon and in the winter some places do not open in the evening. Then there are funerals. Living in a small community where most people know everyone else, and where respect is still a praiseworthy characteristic of a person, people either close their shops so that they can attend a funeral or to show respect for the dead. Then there are the usual run of family crises, illnesses, broken down cars and catastrophes which can delay opening, bring forward closing or mean the shop does not open at all.
We have never really come to fully understand the whims and needs of local shop keepers and so for us, shopping is an experience. We have a mental list of those business that we use and know to have regular hours; George who runs our local supermarket in Aghia Pelagia, Vassili where we buy our paint, wood and various bits and pieces of equipment in Karvounades, Kyria Anna in Potamos where we buy all manner of nails, screws, rope, tools and get our pictures framed, Iannis the Baker in Karavas famed for his Paximadia (a type of rusk which is a form of bread baked, cut into slices and then quickly cooked in oil, and tastes magnificent). But for the most part many other shops that we frequent we rate on the basis of how many times we go to them in contrast to the number of times we find them open. About 1 in 3 is the average. Now, instead of getting frustrated we have devised a cunning plan. Instead of going out with a shopping list, we now have a shopping list book. This keeps a running list of what we want to buy; some items can be carried forward page after page, week after week. Dates have been on my list for two months now, walnuts for almost the same time, but last week I grabbed two of just four firm toothbrushes from a supermarket shelf as I had been searching for almost a year for one. What joy we get out of little things. I had such a sense of success over that.
The haberdashery store in Potamos is my favourite place to shop. He represents our highest rating, 1 in 7, although he insists that he is always there around 9am, which is rarely a time we are up and about. The store sells so many things; blankets, pillows, material, plastic table covering, cushions, thread, crochet cotton, pots and pans, plastic bowls, rugs and carpets, axe handles, rolling pins and huge rolling boards for making filo pastry, cutlery and crockery and a pile of old junk which is probably now into the antique range. Panayiotis has the most amazing rule of mathematics when it comes to adding up the bill; even I as an ex-maths teacher cannot keep up with him. The other day I went in to buy some cotton material. I asked for 2 metres but just before it was cut, caution took the better of me and I asked for 2.5 metres; it was 6 Euros a metre. I then asked for 2 metres of wide elastic which was just 30 cents per metre. A quick calculation told me that would be 15.60 Euros. I heard Panayiotis mumble something about the extra ½ metre was nothing, and then there was a discount, and the elastic was nothing, well 11 Euros should cover it. Before I could protest or comment he had moved on.
‘Do you like cherries?’ I looked around as he had moved further along the counter of the shop. An old traditional deep fruit pickers basket, the type people used to strap to their backs, was full to the brim which gorgeous yellow-red cherries. He threw me one to taste; it was magnificent. He had just picked them fresh from his trees.
‘You like? You want?’ Panayiotis asked.
I merely nodded my head as I was still savouring the taste of the cherry, and wondering where to put the stone. The next thing I knew I had a wonderful gift, a plastic bag with about a kilo of cherries placed in my hand.
‘Eat. Enjoy. They are no chemicals. All natural. Eat. You will not go to toilet.’
I knew that he was a great environmentalist and that he would not use any chemicals on his trees. A few years previously when I had gone to the shop with my cousin, we had stayed there for about an hour whilst he took us through hundreds of photographs he had taken over the years. They showed the erosion of some of Kythera’s beaches, how some sandy bays had been stripped of sand as the currents swirled it further round the coast. This was no natural occurrence but as a consequence of building various ports, harbours and breakwaters. Whilst they might serve a purpose or solve a problem in one place, they create a new problem somewhere else.
The small windows into Panayiotis’’ shop are piled with all manner of brick-a-brack; brass candle holders, brass coffee grinders, brass brikis (the tiny saucepans for boiling thick grounds of Greek coffee with a few drops of water), old metal pitchers for holding wine, and lots, lots more. I was sorting out material that I wanted to buy and could not help but hear a Dutch tourist come into the shop and ask for something out of the window. I could well understand the decorative value of some of these old items, but Panayiotis is far too pragmatic. He reached for the old brass ‘briki’ and at the same time lifted off the shelf a gleaming new shiny silver coloured metal one.
‘What you want this?’ He held up the brass item. ‘I sell you new one. Much better.’
The new one was wrapped up and placed before the confused Dutchman who paid the few Euros and left, too embarrassed to say he really wanted the old one. But Panayiotis is like this. If he doesn’t want to sell anything, he just won’t sell it. He has a beautiful hand painted wooden tray, high up on his shelves. No way will he sell it to me, or presumably anyone. But why is there to tempt people? Numerous times I have chosen something and he has insisted that it is ‘No good.’, ‘Not good quality this one.’ ‘No, you buy this one, much better.’ ‘No, this not nice, this one for you.’ I have often wondered, but been afraid to ask why he stocks goods which he doesn’t think are good enough to sell. But perhaps he rates his customers as we rate our shops.
We bought two carpet runners for our bedsides. It took ages to find something that would go with the colour of our decor, but eventually found a compromise. When we came home and placed them around the bed we decided that we should get a third to run in from of the double glass doors that lead to the patio outside our bedroom. One in seven trips later we found the store open and searched through all the carpets. I was sure there had been another one. We were out of luck, but Panayiotis, helpful as ever said he would order one for us. We explained that we were going the following week and would he keep it for two months when we returned. As usual any offer of a deposit or full payment was refused. We returned as promised some nine weeks later. Panayiotis hit his head with the palm of his hand ‘I forget. It came in, but I sold it.’ He then explained that his last consignment had been the last of that design and he could get no more. As I had been listening and translating this, Waldo had been looking through the carpet pile. He found one, exactly the size we wanted, in the same design as our existing pair, in the same colours; the only difference was that the colour ways were reversed. So we now have three very artistically arranged carpets two with an orange-red deign on beige background and a third with a beige design on an orange-red background.
I have long since learnt that if I want anything like curtain material, table cover material, any material, thread, knitting wool, ribbon, indeed anything that I might need more of, I should buy it all at once. I believe that Panayiotis’ shop is the end-of-run depository for the world. He does stock a wide range of things, but once it is sold out, it can never be matched again!
Last week I went to buy some pink thread. The system is that he reaches under the counter and brings out two large wicker baskets and you put your hand in, like some lucky dip, until you come out with the colour you want. I came away with two reels of the thread and about 2 kilos of fresh greengages, again from Panayiotis’ orchard. Our haphazard shopping does have its wonderful benefits.
We buy our paint from the paint shop in Karvounades. Even though we have become islanders in the sense that this 20 miles journey is now seen as a special occasion, we have developed a relationship which means we would now not buy from anywhere else. So a trip to ‘get paint’ means getting up early in the morning and setting off by 10am! It’s quite an excitement because it usually means that we have stored up other things that we need to do, see or buy ‘down south’, and it means that we get to have lunch in Pierro’s tavern in Livadi. We must have bought at least 20 ten-litre pots of paint to cover the house. The seven roofs take 7 pots as we need to keep them pristine because we collect our water from them, thus we use this acrylic paint which does not flake and lift. Vassili has given us advice on the type of paint and on paint for various projects like repainting the swimming pool, various varnishes for jobs and the equipment needed. When his English fails, his wife comes to the rescue as she has an amazing vocabulary of painting and decorating terms. In true Greek form, the discussions that take place are usually supported with little glasses of ‘tsiporou’ (a fiery Greek drink much much stronger than ouzo and to be taken lightly) and some ‘glyko’ (sweet preserved fruit of a slightly more sticky and runny consistency than glace fruits). It is quite an amazing combination of the strong liqueur and very sweet dish, without any carbohydrates to soak up either. This is particularly noticeable if we have had a rush in the morning and just come out with a drink of milk and no breakfast. Vassili insists that it is not from him, but from his mother. And so that is OK then. We cannot refuse the lady. We buy our goods and totter off to our car, pleased with whatever our purchases. Occasionally we may be just passing and Waldo remembers that he needs some paint. A few occasions we have gone in to ‘buy’ paint and then, to my utter embarrassment, realised that I do not actually have enough money with me. But ‘no problem’, as Vassili says ‘you have a good face’ and he waves us away with our goods. We pay when we are next ‘going south’, despite the fact that it may be a month away.
Buying wood is another ‘down south’ occurrence. The carpenter speaks no English and so we get along with my Greek, supported by drawings with measurements. We did have a problem when Waldo had called out figures to me in millimetres and I had assumed they were centimetres. The carpenter thought we were setting up a cafe with lots of weird chunky tables rather than just making some draughts pieces for our new patio set out as a chess board! Because the carpenter is often away from his shop fitting whatever he has made, he has the system that whenever he has made something which is to be collected, he leaves it outside his shop. So buying something involves a minimum of three trips. One to place the order. The carpenter has about a 1 in 4 rating, and so it takes anything up to 4 trips before our goods are outside his shop. We then keep the note he cellotapes to the goods, add to it the correct and appropriate money, and pack it all into an envelope. We then keep this in the car for we are usually bound to see the man in his new blue lorry, somewhere on the road when we can pay him. If not, it is left until our next trip ‘down south’.
It never fails to amaze us how trusting people are on the island. They trust that we will come back and pay. Taking a deposit or heaven forbid the whole amount of money beforehand, is seen as a personal offence and rude. Goods are left out for collection with no fear that they will be stolen or damaged by unruly youngsters. Most people who make something to order on the island are fairly inaccurate when estimating the time something will be ready. Then consideration of time is not a Greek strength. The focus is to please. They want the customer to be happy. Getting paid is secondary. But then we live on an island where people are known and where personal reputation still counts for something. People are respected for what is referred to as a ‘good face’ or ‘good character’, not for how much money they have or how many material goods they surround themselves with.
Even though I have travelled extensively and am quite observant as a traveller, I realise now how my business knowledge is culturally limited. The Greek economy is dominated by thousands of small and medium sized businesses, mainly family businesses. Businesses are often organised with an employment structure which suits the family and this does not always mean ‘the best person for the job’ is appointed to any position. For the most part Greek people work to live; this is an overriding aspect of their character. Family, friendships, relationships, food and conversation list as top priorities. Yes of course there are stresses, but few are borne of the workaholic neurosis of other nations. On a small island with a winter population of around 3000 and summer one rising to a shifting 10,000 in any one week, the need for the community to survive has all sorts of implications for businesses.
The first thing that we noticed was the supposed lack of competition. Our capitalist text books are full of business concepts of competition and advise various actions relating to range of products, pricing, customer service, delivery, opening times and a host of ways in which one business can catch an advantage over another. Not so here. Firstly each shop or business is a member of its organisational, trade or professional body. These bodies then determine what hours shops within their membership will open; so nobody can gain a competitive advantage by opening at a different time from anyone else. Small, family businesses cannot open all hours; the family must live together, eat together, talk together, share joy and sorrow together and this cannot happen if different members are always in the shop. Closing times are important family times and everyone respects that. Closures of all businesses and public offices are also due to seasonal fluctuations. It is expected that many places dependent upon tourism are closed for the winter months: hotels, apartments, gift shops, tavernas, coffee shops, ice-cream parlours and the like. Olive picking season results in closure for all or part of the day for most shops and many public services. For the most part, summer or winter shops are open from 9.00 to 13.00 and again from 18.00 – 20.00. But there are exceptions as some trade businesses open at 7.00 or 8.00, in the summer some shops stay open throughout the afternoon and in the winter some places do not open in the evening. Then there are funerals. Living in a small community where most people know everyone else, and where respect is still a praiseworthy characteristic of a person, people either close their shops so that they can attend a funeral or to show respect for the dead. Then there are the usual run of family crises, illnesses, broken down cars and catastrophes which can delay opening, bring forward closing or mean the shop does not open at all.
We have never really come to fully understand the whims and needs of local shop keepers and so for us, shopping is an experience. We have a mental list of those business that we use and know to have regular hours; George who runs our local supermarket in Aghia Pelagia, Vassili where we buy our paint, wood and various bits and pieces of equipment in Karvounades, Kyria Anna in Potamos where we buy all manner of nails, screws, rope, tools and get our pictures framed, Iannis the Baker in Karavas famed for his Paximadia (a type of rusk which is a form of bread baked, cut into slices and then quickly cooked in oil, and tastes magnificent). But for the most part many other shops that we frequent we rate on the basis of how many times we go to them in contrast to the number of times we find them open. About 1 in 3 is the average. Now, instead of getting frustrated we have devised a cunning plan. Instead of going out with a shopping list, we now have a shopping list book. This keeps a running list of what we want to buy; some items can be carried forward page after page, week after week. Dates have been on my list for two months now, walnuts for almost the same time, but last week I grabbed two of just four firm toothbrushes from a supermarket shelf as I had been searching for almost a year for one. What joy we get out of little things. I had such a sense of success over that.
The haberdashery store in Potamos is my favourite place to shop. He represents our highest rating, 1 in 7, although he insists that he is always there around 9am, which is rarely a time we are up and about. The store sells so many things; blankets, pillows, material, plastic table covering, cushions, thread, crochet cotton, pots and pans, plastic bowls, rugs and carpets, axe handles, rolling pins and huge rolling boards for making filo pastry, cutlery and crockery and a pile of old junk which is probably now into the antique range. Panayiotis has the most amazing rule of mathematics when it comes to adding up the bill; even I as an ex-maths teacher cannot keep up with him. The other day I went in to buy some cotton material. I asked for 2 metres but just before it was cut, caution took the better of me and I asked for 2.5 metres; it was 6 Euros a metre. I then asked for 2 metres of wide elastic which was just 30 cents per metre. A quick calculation told me that would be 15.60 Euros. I heard Panayiotis mumble something about the extra ½ metre was nothing, and then there was a discount, and the elastic was nothing, well 11 Euros should cover it. Before I could protest or comment he had moved on.
‘Do you like cherries?’ I looked around as he had moved further along the counter of the shop. An old traditional deep fruit pickers basket, the type people used to strap to their backs, was full to the brim which gorgeous yellow-red cherries. He threw me one to taste; it was magnificent. He had just picked them fresh from his trees.
‘You like? You want?’ Panayiotis asked.
I merely nodded my head as I was still savouring the taste of the cherry, and wondering where to put the stone. The next thing I knew I had a wonderful gift, a plastic bag with about a kilo of cherries placed in my hand.
‘Eat. Enjoy. They are no chemicals. All natural. Eat. You will not go to toilet.’
I knew that he was a great environmentalist and that he would not use any chemicals on his trees. A few years previously when I had gone to the shop with my cousin, we had stayed there for about an hour whilst he took us through hundreds of photographs he had taken over the years. They showed the erosion of some of Kythera’s beaches, how some sandy bays had been stripped of sand as the currents swirled it further round the coast. This was no natural occurrence but as a consequence of building various ports, harbours and breakwaters. Whilst they might serve a purpose or solve a problem in one place, they create a new problem somewhere else.
The small windows into Panayiotis’’ shop are piled with all manner of brick-a-brack; brass candle holders, brass coffee grinders, brass brikis (the tiny saucepans for boiling thick grounds of Greek coffee with a few drops of water), old metal pitchers for holding wine, and lots, lots more. I was sorting out material that I wanted to buy and could not help but hear a Dutch tourist come into the shop and ask for something out of the window. I could well understand the decorative value of some of these old items, but Panayiotis is far too pragmatic. He reached for the old brass ‘briki’ and at the same time lifted off the shelf a gleaming new shiny silver coloured metal one.
‘What you want this?’ He held up the brass item. ‘I sell you new one. Much better.’
The new one was wrapped up and placed before the confused Dutchman who paid the few Euros and left, too embarrassed to say he really wanted the old one. But Panayiotis is like this. If he doesn’t want to sell anything, he just won’t sell it. He has a beautiful hand painted wooden tray, high up on his shelves. No way will he sell it to me, or presumably anyone. But why is there to tempt people? Numerous times I have chosen something and he has insisted that it is ‘No good.’, ‘Not good quality this one.’ ‘No, you buy this one, much better.’ ‘No, this not nice, this one for you.’ I have often wondered, but been afraid to ask why he stocks goods which he doesn’t think are good enough to sell. But perhaps he rates his customers as we rate our shops.
We bought two carpet runners for our bedsides. It took ages to find something that would go with the colour of our decor, but eventually found a compromise. When we came home and placed them around the bed we decided that we should get a third to run in from of the double glass doors that lead to the patio outside our bedroom. One in seven trips later we found the store open and searched through all the carpets. I was sure there had been another one. We were out of luck, but Panayiotis, helpful as ever said he would order one for us. We explained that we were going the following week and would he keep it for two months when we returned. As usual any offer of a deposit or full payment was refused. We returned as promised some nine weeks later. Panayiotis hit his head with the palm of his hand ‘I forget. It came in, but I sold it.’ He then explained that his last consignment had been the last of that design and he could get no more. As I had been listening and translating this, Waldo had been looking through the carpet pile. He found one, exactly the size we wanted, in the same design as our existing pair, in the same colours; the only difference was that the colour ways were reversed. So we now have three very artistically arranged carpets two with an orange-red deign on beige background and a third with a beige design on an orange-red background.
I have long since learnt that if I want anything like curtain material, table cover material, any material, thread, knitting wool, ribbon, indeed anything that I might need more of, I should buy it all at once. I believe that Panayiotis’ shop is the end-of-run depository for the world. He does stock a wide range of things, but once it is sold out, it can never be matched again!
Last week I went to buy some pink thread. The system is that he reaches under the counter and brings out two large wicker baskets and you put your hand in, like some lucky dip, until you come out with the colour you want. I came away with two reels of the thread and about 2 kilos of fresh greengages, again from Panayiotis’ orchard. Our haphazard shopping does have its wonderful benefits.
We buy our paint from the paint shop in Karvounades. Even though we have become islanders in the sense that this 20 miles journey is now seen as a special occasion, we have developed a relationship which means we would now not buy from anywhere else. So a trip to ‘get paint’ means getting up early in the morning and setting off by 10am! It’s quite an excitement because it usually means that we have stored up other things that we need to do, see or buy ‘down south’, and it means that we get to have lunch in Pierro’s tavern in Livadi. We must have bought at least 20 ten-litre pots of paint to cover the house. The seven roofs take 7 pots as we need to keep them pristine because we collect our water from them, thus we use this acrylic paint which does not flake and lift. Vassili has given us advice on the type of paint and on paint for various projects like repainting the swimming pool, various varnishes for jobs and the equipment needed. When his English fails, his wife comes to the rescue as she has an amazing vocabulary of painting and decorating terms. In true Greek form, the discussions that take place are usually supported with little glasses of ‘tsiporou’ (a fiery Greek drink much much stronger than ouzo and to be taken lightly) and some ‘glyko’ (sweet preserved fruit of a slightly more sticky and runny consistency than glace fruits). It is quite an amazing combination of the strong liqueur and very sweet dish, without any carbohydrates to soak up either. This is particularly noticeable if we have had a rush in the morning and just come out with a drink of milk and no breakfast. Vassili insists that it is not from him, but from his mother. And so that is OK then. We cannot refuse the lady. We buy our goods and totter off to our car, pleased with whatever our purchases. Occasionally we may be just passing and Waldo remembers that he needs some paint. A few occasions we have gone in to ‘buy’ paint and then, to my utter embarrassment, realised that I do not actually have enough money with me. But ‘no problem’, as Vassili says ‘you have a good face’ and he waves us away with our goods. We pay when we are next ‘going south’, despite the fact that it may be a month away.
Buying wood is another ‘down south’ occurrence. The carpenter speaks no English and so we get along with my Greek, supported by drawings with measurements. We did have a problem when Waldo had called out figures to me in millimetres and I had assumed they were centimetres. The carpenter thought we were setting up a cafe with lots of weird chunky tables rather than just making some draughts pieces for our new patio set out as a chess board! Because the carpenter is often away from his shop fitting whatever he has made, he has the system that whenever he has made something which is to be collected, he leaves it outside his shop. So buying something involves a minimum of three trips. One to place the order. The carpenter has about a 1 in 4 rating, and so it takes anything up to 4 trips before our goods are outside his shop. We then keep the note he cellotapes to the goods, add to it the correct and appropriate money, and pack it all into an envelope. We then keep this in the car for we are usually bound to see the man in his new blue lorry, somewhere on the road when we can pay him. If not, it is left until our next trip ‘down south’.
It never fails to amaze us how trusting people are on the island. They trust that we will come back and pay. Taking a deposit or heaven forbid the whole amount of money beforehand, is seen as a personal offence and rude. Goods are left out for collection with no fear that they will be stolen or damaged by unruly youngsters. Most people who make something to order on the island are fairly inaccurate when estimating the time something will be ready. Then consideration of time is not a Greek strength. The focus is to please. They want the customer to be happy. Getting paid is secondary. But then we live on an island where people are known and where personal reputation still counts for something. People are respected for what is referred to as a ‘good face’ or ‘good character’, not for how much money they have or how many material goods they surround themselves with.
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