luce – Let Luce!

Mission Improbable

Posted on 14th Jul 202316th Jul 2023 by luce

Last night, we headed to the cinema in Chania, Crete to indulge in the opening night of Mission Impossible. Many of you will know of my penchant for a cinema visit whilst abroad and may have read my previous blog, ‘Tickets, Cinema, Action!’ from October 2022 which was when I last visited this particular cinema. In my opinion, a cinema trip abroad is a cultural pleasure not to be missed.

On this occasion, there were a handful of us waiting patiently on the pavement to purchase tickets whilst the ticket man organised his petty cash in his miniscule booth that would not even accommodate a small swinging cat. An extremely short woman dressed in heels near the kiosk was intermittently looking around and also glancing at her phone. It was unclear whether she was about to buy a ticket and, upon seeing her hearing aids, I had visions of me awkwardly gesticulating in a chaotic way whilst uttering a mumble of broken Greek in order to ask her. However, after a few moments of British-queue etiquette, I settled for a gentle, hesitant tap as a means of checking if she was queuing or not. She was.

She appeared to be waiting for someone and when she had glanced at her phone for a final time before buying her ticket, I noticed her screensaver and did a double take. Either her partner was a perfect look-a-like or it was Tom Cruise. My husband had clocked it too and we both affirmed that it was the famous TC. I was curious: my screensaver had always been of someone or something personal – my family or a favourite place. I had thought (perhaps naively) that this was the norm but this woman had opened my eyes to new screen possibilities.

When she asked for her ticket, which sounded like, ‘ένα Tom Cruise’ (one Tom Cruise) I was somewhat relieved as I had been wondering how I was going to say ‘Mission Impossible’ in Greek. When it was my turn, I sort of copied what I had heard, added a slight roll of the ‘r’, puckered my lips a little more than usual in an attempt to create some sort of Greek intonation and asked for ‘δυο Tom Cruise’. It sounded a little greedy asking for two of him, but my message was understood and tickets were received.

After finding our seats in the auditorium, one which we hadn’t been in before, I headed off to the loo. Turning right, I strolled across the foyer, pushed open the fairly innocuous wooden door to the unisex toilets and then gasped an inaudible gasp as I walked in to an improbable visual feast.

As I took in my surroundings of the overwhelming, brightly lit floor-to-ceiling black and white shiny tiled decor, which was everywhere including in every cubicle, I momentarily felt like a Hollywood star stepping into a scene. This was a stark contrast to the faded seated auditoriums, the paltry roadside ticket booth where the buttons on the antiquated till were still going strong and the simplicity of the snack counter which resembled a ladened market stall without the pizzazz and jazz of a 21st century cinema complex. This toilet decor was something!

I half expected Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to rhythmically shimmy across the bathroom floor but as they didn’t and no one else was around, I got out my camera eyeing up every nook and cranny. No surface had been left untouched by the glittery black and white splendour. Upon reflection, my reaction may have been a little over the top but I wanted to remember this heavenly bathroom palace. Back in the auditorium, I whispered to my husband, ‘You have to go to the toilet. Wooden door on the right.’

Two and 3/4 hours later, as the credits rolled on the lengthy, action-packed film, I left the cinema full of ideas of how to next redesign my bathroom.

skiing

Up to Snow Good

Posted on 25th Feb 202325th Feb 2023 by luce

The agonised expletives that left my mouth when I first felt the pain in my wrist were sufficient for nearby skiers to think that they witnessing a heart attack at the top of the slope.

When Pierre, from the mountain rescue team, told me that people had thought I was having a heart attack, I momentarily wondered if I was making too much fuss. I had fallen and landed on my left arm from an almost stand-still position (I wasn’t even skiing!). However, lying in the snow, feeling pain like no other, I felt justified in my use of language.

Soon strapped into a stretcher, I clutched on for dear life with my good hand and clenched what I could clench, convinced that I was going to roll off. I knew that I would be expertly skied down the mountain, but it was still unnerving to be so low at snow level as we journeyed down the slope that I would normally have been travelling along upright on skis. The discomfort was excruciating so I diverted my thoughts to childbirth to compare the extreme pain. At least this kept my mind occupied until we arrived at road access.

Helped into the waiting ambulance, a form then had to be completed. There I sat, laughably incompetent, unable to read the form due to not having my reading glasses, unable to fill out the form myself due to my damaged writing hand and unable to sound out some letters in French to spell my address whilst someone else wrote. Although my French was adequate, I realised I was lacking some basic alphabet knowledge.

However, as luck would have it, there was an injured Bosnian man in the ambulance who didn’t speak French, but did speak English.

“Ah give it to me!” he said to the medical staff in slight exasperation, “She can tell me. I can fill it out for her.” With his own ski injury to deal with, he probably wondered if we would ever be leaving to get to the medical centre.

Minutes later, form filled out, he passed it back to the medical staff and off we went. Despite his damaged knee, the man from Bosnia sounded in relatively good spirits and, whilst I tried not to show any weakness through pain, I was grateful for the distraction of his conversation. He had previously lived in Leeds and also in Birmingham, but now he lived in Germany and he was staying with friends in Annecy and where was I staying and what was the accommodation like and what did I think of Brexit and what was the name of the other Brexit man, not Johnson, but the other one…It took me a few moments to realise that he was talking about Nigel Farage and I was glad to contribute and felt useful in recalling his name.

At the medical centre, with Farage forgotten, I watched my wedding ring being sawn off. I hadn’t removed it in 30 years and it felt like a momentous occasion that I needed to acknowledge. So I shared this information with the doctor, who politely and reassuringly told me that a jeweller could solder it back together. He probably had more pressing things to think about given the unusual shape of my lower arm.

“Oof!” the doctor exclaimed when he looked at the first x-ray and saw the double fracture and misplaced bone.

“Genial!” the doctor exclaimed when he looked at the second x-ray and saw the success of his manipulation of my bone.

Later that evening, with my arm safely ensconced in plaster, I relaxed with a beer and marvelled at the expertise of the rescue team and the medical attention I had received, where everyone had worked cohesively with the perfect level of reassurance and efficiency and with a welcomed small dose of humour – just what the doctor ordered!

cinema, Crete

Tickets, cinema, action!

Posted on 11th Oct 202212th Oct 2022 by luce

Yesterday evening we went to the cinema here in Crete. The film ‘Mrs Harris goes to Paris’ was light-hearted and enjoyable and hit the spot for an evening’s entertainment. The added thrill (for me at least) was being at the cinema in a different country. Before the film started, I noticed that I felt a certain sense of childish excitement and anticipation. It was at that point that I inwardly acknowledged and self-diagnosed that I have a fondness, appreciation and affinity for going to the cinema when abroad.

I have never intentionally sought out the big screen overseas but rather it has come about by chance. Since ditching full-time employment for intermittent travelling to various European countries, both near and further, we have realised that there are only so many dinners out that a human body can ingest and so an ad-hoc cinema trip has offered an alternative evening’s entertainment. As an English speaker, there is an obvious language advantage as so many films are made in English/American and since visiting a few different European cinemas over the last couple of years, I have happily realised that films are not always dubbed into the local language.

Last night’s film, however, did offer a little problematic amusement in some scenes. As the film title indicates, Paris is the setting for much of the film and therefore it would have been amiss not to include some French. I am guessing that in the UK there would be subtitles for the French, but here in Crete there were already Greek subtitles for the Greek market. Therefore, at odd points during the film, I found myself blunderingly trying to listen to the rapid French, whilst at the same time, read the Greek subtitles to identify key words to help my understanding. The idea was to then patch the French and Greek together to make it fit with the story…all this in split seconds before the scene moved on. Lost in translation springs to mind but I think I got the gist.

A particularly delightful aspect about a cinema trip in a different country is that it gives an added insight into the local culture and, believe me, the innocent buzz of seeing the decor, using the cinema toilet or comparing popcorn habits can be enlightening! Last night, as we were unsure if we were allowed to take in our own metal water canisters, we had left these at home and so had to buy water at the cinema. I smiled as I paid and took my two bottles of ice cold water, pondering on how refreshing the total price of 1€ was compared to the pounds one can knock up in a UK cinema just by glancing at the pick and mix.

Here in Crete, even buying the tickets gave me a thrill. I approached the street-side window of the tiny booth which housed one elderly man and his till. I loved his till! There are two prices for this cinema: 5€ (Mon-Wed) and 7€ (Thurs-Sun). This somewhat old-fashioned till had not just one, but five buttons in a row each labelled with 7€ and another five buttons in a row each labelled with 5€. I’m still pondering on why you would need five different buttons that do the same thing?

In my best Greek, I asked for two tickets for ‘Η κυρία Χάρις πάει στο Παρίσι’ and after an agonisingly slow finger scroll down a piece of paper mounted on a board in front of him, the ticket man finally established which screen we were in. ‘Πέντε’, he said holding up five fingers. As his finger then hovered over the till, it was tantalising to watch, wait and see which of the five buttons labelled 7€ he was going to press. I could hardly contain myself!

After securing the tickets, we had to walk two short paces to the door and give them to another man (also many years into retirement) who tore them to confirm purchase. Then we were inside and it was time to investigate the retro delights of the Greek cinema decor…

A unique design – not an easy approach to this door from the spiral staircase!

Travelling

Gotta Split

Posted on 28th May 202228th May 2022 by luce

‘Lower your expectations and you’ll never be disappointed.’

I took heed of these wise words as I stepped up onto the bus in the unseasonable heat of the morning, ready for the 4 hour 40 minute journey from Dubrovnik to Split. I had never been on a Croatian bus and so I didn’t know what to expect but the bus was perfectly adequate and met expectations. As I settled in for the long haul with my table down, crochet out, headphones on and Netflix ready, I noted that most passengers were Croatians rather than tourists. None of these locals had lowered their table and unpacked their bus activities and journey snacks. Did they know something that I didn’t?

As we were about to set off – accustomed to the UK and its health and safety – I murmured to my son about putting on my seat belt. He looked around and observed with a wry smile, ‘I think you’ll be the only person on the bus with a seat belt on – even the nun who is sitting in front of us doesn’t have hers on.’ Hearing this, I decided to do as the locals do. If the Croatian nun had sufficient faith in the driver, then so did I and so I let my holiday waistband enjoy the unrestricted freedom.

Approximately forty minutes into the journey, as we coasted along the main road, our tickets were checked. The bus employee slowly made his way from front to back and, upon speaking to the two passengers seated behind us, he soon called down to the driver. In response, the bus was pulled over on the empty roadside and came to a swift halt. As the two young female passengers were instructed to perform the walk of shame down the aisle and dismount the bus, I couldn’t help but wonder on their fate. Even now, I fear hearing an evening news bulletin announcing the discovery of two bodies in roadside shrub as a result of bus fares not being paid. I noted not to put even a single toe out of line whilst in Croatia. I also pondered on why our tickets were checked 40 minutes into the journey and not at the bus station before we left…

Roughly 10 kilometres of our journey took us through Bosnia and Herzegovina and this meant two passport checks within the space of about 30 minutes. As bus passengers, this involved a more lengthy process where we all had to dismount, queue up at the booth, have our passports checked and then get back on the bus.

For the smokers, these passport checks were welcomed minutes of avid inhaling and exhaling as they queued, grateful for the opportunity of a pit-stop puff. As a non-smoker, the wafts of the unsavoury smell of smoke merely polluted my nostrils, however I admit that I was just jealous that shots of coffee were not so readily available at each stop.

Curiously, during the short time we were in Bosnia and Herzegovina, we made an unannounced stop at a roadside kiosk where one single passenger and the bus driver disembarked to make a purchase of cigarettes. I’m not sure why only one passenger was permitted to disembark and make a purchase or whether this was some sort of unscheduled duty-free stop but with my complete lack of Croatian language and with no reaction from my fellow passengers, this was one of those moments in my life where I shall remain in ignorant bliss.

All in all, it was an interesting ride which gave some sort of insight into Croatian custom. Now in Split, desperately searching for my first coffee of the day, I ponder on the curiosities of my bus journey.

Crete, Greece

Now Ewe See Me, Now Ewe Don’t!

Posted on 29th Apr 202229th Apr 2022 by luce

I’d woken up to another glorious day. With a gentle background of sweet-sounding birdsong, the warmth of the Cretan sun offered its daily comforting welcome as I gradually opened my eyes. I carried my morning coffee to the balcony and settled in the hammock with my book. Bliss, I thought, appreciating the time to do nothing else but enjoy my surroundings and indulge in a good read.

After about half an hour, it was time to make the leisurely move from hammock to table for breakfast. Relaxed and without rush, I ambled through to the kitchen and went out the back door to take in the view – the gorgeous mountainous landscape which stood proud in the distance beyond the expanse of the vivid blue of Souda bay.

Suddenly I stopped.

“A sheep!” I shouted in panic to my husband.

There standing in front of me and staring at me was a woolly creature and it didn’t look friendly. The reason for my startle was that it should have been on the other side of the fence but it wasn’t, and without that fence as a barrier, I suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

“Sheep!” I yelled with a greater sense of urgency.

Somehow this particular sheep had got through the fence – a metal fence which was secured on top of the low stone wall acting as a perimeter and thus separating our property from the adjacent field.

Spot the hole between the fence and the wall! *(Photo by Heather Knibb)*

My immediate thought was that the elastic had gone in my pyjamas and so I knew that I was in fear of tarnishing my upstanding character with our immediate neighbours. Should they look up from their balcony to witness me straddle-walking across the land in an effort to prevent my pyjamas from falling down whilst I confronted a sheep…this was not an image I wanted to share! I also had no footwear on and to walk barefoot through the blanket of wild flowers would not have been sensible given that there were also cacti, thistles and other such pricks, not to mention a possible sighting of a snake or two (not poisonous in Crete, I hasten to add).

Clutching the waist of my pyjama trousers, I rushed back into the house to quickly change into more fitting attire and also to grab my trainers. My mind was racing: who do you call to help with a sheep rescue? Should I shout for our neighbours? Should I ring our friends further up the mountain? Should I ring the shepherd? How would I ring the shepherd if I didn’t have his number? Was there a Cretan Sheep Rescue Helpline?

My main concern was that the sheep would end up in the swimming pool and I had visions of my husband and I splashing, heaving and swearing as we tried to haul the waterlogged animal out with its entrails of bedraggled chlorinated wool making it a dead weight beneath our arms. I quickly shut off my thoughts before I had a chance to consider what a dead sheep’s eyes would look like close up, let alone how we would explain to the shepherd in broken Greek that he was now one sheep short in his flock.

Whilst hopping around the room on one foot trying to put on my trainers quicker than was humanly possible and thus not getting either shoe on correctly, I felt like I was in some inane comedy sketch where all I had to do was eventually fall over and I’d get a laugh. My mind was still buzzing with thoughts about how we were going to get the sheep safely back onto the other side of the fence before it rampaged across the patio and ended up head first in the pool. Was there a manual for such a rescue? Too late if there was: I didn’t have that bloody manual and even if I had, I certainly didn’t have time to consult it and now was also not the time to Google ‘How to get rid of an unwanted sheep’.

After just a few minutes, I ran back outside appropriately dressed with a fitted waistband and my feet safely ensconced in my trainers.

“Where’s it gone?” I said stopping abruptly.

“It went back through the fence,” came the reply. My practical husband didn’t even look up as he casually continued to replace the stones on the wall where the gap had been.

“What do you mean, it went back through the fence?” I exclaimed trying to contain my frustration at not having had the chance to gain my Duke of Edinburgh award for sheep rescue. I felt robbed of an adventure!

Moments later, I relaxed and felt a wave of gentle relief as the frantic mind-whirring stress of the last few minutes ebbed away. I was, in truth, thankful to that sheep who had the foresight to make the sensible decision to head back to where it had come from.

It turned out that I didn’t need a manual after all…but I did need some new pyjamas.

Covid

The Isolation Diet

Posted on 17th Dec 202117th Dec 2021 by luce

Day 4 of isolation: I am up early as I can’t sleep but no one else in the house is awake.

After my husband’s immediate evacuation from our bedroom when my covid was first confirmed, the coffee machine moved in to sit on his bedside table. I have just made myself a cup of coffee and stupidly I don’t have a mug. My large water glass will do for now.

Note to self: always make sure there is a mug in the room before you go to bed. I am still learning how to deal with not being able to wander freely around the house.

In reality, I just feel ill. However, we all know that this illness comes packaged with a far greater magnitude, with the Covid label well and truly fastened. A bombardment of official texts and emails (since my positive testing) have confirmed the severity – as if we need reminding of the chaos this virus has caused. I know for many it has been a desperate experience, a distraught ending, or a life-changing illness so I am in no way belittling it, but for me I just feel ill. I am lucky so far with a cold, cough and a slight headache. As I write this, I hope that it does not progress into something more sinister.

In pre-covid life, if I ever had a cold or cough, I would have just dosed myself up and gone into work. Today, I am isolating in my bedroom with my family rallying around. Our social lives have been put on hold: trips have been cancelled, tickets wasted and family social events avoided. There is an impact on our day to day lives but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not the end of the world.

We are finding a way of dealing with it and now on Day 4, we’re almost halfway. Inane discussions are had about mundane things. On its rare openings, we speak at a safe distance over the threshold of my bedroom door. Yesterday we discussed pizza. I had some leftover slices – should they go in a Tupperware pot and be put in the fridge? Would that contaminate things? In the end my son’s observation was that my bedroom was like ‘a bloody fridge’.

Looking at the wide open windows, it dawned on me that perhaps my room was cold to them but that my body temperature was not as it should be. Interestingly, my feet seem to be permanently cold even though the rest of me is mostly overheated. (Fluffy socks are a big part of my life at the moment.) My now makeshift fridge of a windowsill currently holds 3 slices of pizza and a small jug of milk and thanks to the family technical team, I now have a TV set up in the bedroom for entertainment. Each day brings something new…

Yesterday, I had breakfast al fresco which added some welcomed relief to self-isolation. My husband had set up a garden chair and table for me at a safe distance. It felt so good to be outside. It may have been a grey and slightly damp day, but I felt wonderfully cosy and warm in my crocheted cardigan and scarf wrapped up in a blanket whilst we chatted. I looked around the garden and pondered on staying outside and doing some digging – safe away from anyone. If I’d had the energy I would have, but I don’t so I won’t.

In fact, if I had the energy I would definitely do more. I love to be out and about and active so this sedentary isolation doesn’t sit well with me. I tried some gentle pacing of the room yesterday but it’s not quite the same. On the plus side, I seem to have lost a kilo in weight. So despite the lethargy and inactivity, the upside is a lighter me! I am aiming for another kilo before Day 10. You heard it here first…

The Isolation Diet:when your family forget to feed you!

Crete, earthquake

Shake, Croissant and Roll

Posted on 31st Oct 202131st Oct 2021 by luce

Tuesday 28th September 2021 7:47 a.m.

My first experience of an earthquake.

I was already awake when the hotel bed unexpectedly started moving. It felt as though an invisible someone was at the end of the bed pushing it back and forth. Woken up by the tremors, my husband suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and confused.

We looked at each other and a wry smile immediately came over my face as my first thought was that perhaps the couple in the next door room were having an early morning shag! (We were staying in a nice beachside hotel but it did have rather thin walls.) However I then realised there was absolutely no sound: no heavy breathing not even a grunt or two and no bed frame squeaks. In fact, there was nothing but an unusual silence. Almost instantly, I became aware of the eerie quiet that hung in the air. Finally the penny dropped; it was another earthquake.

24 hours earlier, as we had woven our way along the Cretan coastal road to Rethymon and then headed through the mountains to the south of the island, we were oblivious of the earthquake (measured at 6.3 on the Richter Scale) that had occurred whilst we were on route. We had felt nothing and we only discovered news of this first earthquake later in the day when we had arrived at our destination, the coastal town of Mátala.

At the time we casually brushed off the idea of an earthquake; we hadn’t felt it, we saw no evidence of it, so we didn’t worry. However later when we saw a BBC news report, it became apparent that it was more serious than we thought. A frantic phone call with one relative, who had seen the news from the UK, enhanced our concern as we considered the severity of our location which was just 40 miles from the epicentre.

It was with these thoughts that we woke up in our hotel room to the second quake – this one we felt – which was measured at a magnitude of 5.3. To die-hard experienced earthquakers, perhaps they would have just relaxed in their room, lay on the beach, taken a dip in the pool or enjoyed a beer in the beachside bar, but to us earthquake novices, we felt a deep sense of unease that morning. We decided to leave. We abandoned our planned sightseeing which would have taken us closer to the epicentre, and agreed to head back to our dwelling on the north of the island further away from any earthquake movement.

Decision made, we soon sprang into action. Never have I showered so quickly, nor packed up my things so efficiently and never, never ever have I eaten so little in a hotel buffet breakfast. It seemed scandalous to depart so swiftly without taking advantage of the abundance of croissants, Greek yoghurt with honey, toast, cheese, eggs, rolls, bottomless orange juice and coffee, but sometimes you have to weigh up the odds and make a sensible decision. Earthquake versus big breakfast? Or to be more dramatic: life versus calories? In less than half an hour, we had fled the area.

In the days that followed, where little if any earthquake movement was detected or reported, we pondered on our decision to up and leave so quickly. Upon reflection, perhaps we could have continued our sightseeing and perhaps we overreacted by departing so suddenly but hindsight is always a wonderful thing. At the time, it was a scary moment of the unknown and I shall not forget how I felt at the silence of the tremors.

To end on a more lighthearted note, a return trip is planned and I look forward to finishing my hotel buffet breakfast!

Car breakdown

Motorway To Nowhere

Posted on 26th Sep 202126th Sep 2021 by luce

“Take your high viz off!” my husband hissed at me with a panic-stricken sense of urgency. About to squat behind a smattering of branches which gave a meagre leafy covering from the lorries and cars rushing along the M20, I laughed and was grateful for his warning. It had been an hour since we had broken down (and donned our high viz jackets for safety) and I had no choice but to use the primitive outdoor facilities that the grassy slope offered. Had I not removed my high viz, my attempt at having a discreet motorwayside wee might well have been a delightful fluorescent show for passing drivers.

An hour earlier, our car had decided it had had enough after a ten hour drive through France. Exiting the tunnel onto UK soil, the battery light illuminated in red and then about 20 minutes later, the car started to lose power. Having just passed a sign warning of no hard shoulder for 8 miles, I quickly pulled into the emergency SOS zone, which conveniently appeared as if answering my silent panic.

After an immediate call to the Highways Agency via the SOS phone, we were soon contacted by our breakdown company who said it would be a five hour wait. However, after highlighting the precariousness of our location, we were promised an update within half and hour where they hoped to improve on the wait.

Our next thought was safety. The emergency lay-by was framed with a wall (about 6ft) which was edged with a metal rail. “I’ll give you a leg up,” my husband said. I looked at him amused as I contemplated the extra pounds and years my body had accumulated since he had last given me a leg up, but then I realised that he was serious. So after a joint entertaining effort of a clumsy lift and a few undignified heaves, we managed to climb to a safer place. Once up on the ledge, I looked down and wondered if I would ever get down again.

At first, our spirits were positive, but as we waited and waited watching an endless stream of cars and lorries race by, our energy began to flag. It was now midnight, our phone batteries were low and, although it was still officially summer, we were getting cold. We could do nothing but wait. With no improvement on the predicted five hour wait and with no updates as promised, we began to feel a little helpless as time slowly ticked by. We called again. The wait on the phone to the breakdown services was depressing. No answer. Kept on hold, I desperately hoped that someone would pick up but instead I listened to a chirpy automated voice on endless repeat suggesting that I opt for an electric car as my next purchase. My patience was running thin and my language was certainly getting worse.

As midnight came and went, we began to wonder if anyone would ever come and rescue us. Looking at my husband who was now wrapped in a double bedsheet that he had retrieved from the car, I felt angry with the breakdown company. We were stranded in a dangerous location and they had basically shut down all communication with us. An update of some sort would have been comforting.

Feeling irrationally sorry for myself, I looked up the number for the Kent police headquarters ready to call and spout off about human rights and the expectation of us having to potentially sleep on the side of the motorway. However moments later, I pulled myself together and steered away from my ludicrous self-pity as I pondered the plight of those who were homeless and genuinely had something to worry about.

Around 01:30, our saviour came in the form of a 26-year-old who drove a local breakdown truck. (His arrival was all thanks to the Highways Agency who had helpfully intervened and who were equally frustrated with the silence of our breakdown company.) Never have I been more grateful to see another human being and he didn’t even batter an eyelid when he opened our car door and smelt the waft of over-ripe Camembert which was quietly festering in the now warm cool-bag.

Chatting animatedly on route, this young driver shared his life story and was just the tonic we needed to take our minds away from the previous few hours – hours which had felt endless at the time but which instantly dissipated into the past as his stream of warm and friendly words filled the truck.

Next time maybe we’ll take the train.

Travelling to France

Are We There Yet?

Posted on 30th Aug 202130th Aug 2021 by luce

Each summer, for the past twenty years or so, we have packed up our car, bundled the kids in the back and headed off to the Lot-et-Garonne region in France. Two adults and four children with luggage in a seven-seater Galaxy easily filled the space and the ability to stretch out or unfold was a valuable commodity.

This August, however, it was just the two of us. Our kids are no longer kids, and even if the youngest two siblings had wanted to join us, they couldn’t. Without a double vaccine, adults are currently not allowed to travel to France without an ‘essential reason’. Going on holiday is unfortunately not deemed to be essential and the two of them had not been double-jabbed at the time of departure. So with just us parents in our seven-seater, it certainly felt a little different.

When we first set off, I looked in the rear view mirror and saw empty space – a void that I was not used to. No teenagers slouched in their seats precariously held in by their seat belts; no limbs tangled in a blanket or draped over bags and no mishmash of piled high luggage limiting my view of the traffic behind.

I had taken advantage of our new ‘empty nest’ situation and had lavishly packed a multitude of items which would cater for any possible occasion on this holiday. I had a bag for my yoga blocks, belt and mat; a bag for my latest crocheting projects; an unnecessarily large wash bag; a bag for more clothes than days and a separate shoe bag with a range of footwear that I would probably not wear whilst away. Yet despite this, the luggage remained a meagre pile which lay low and lost in the boot.

The car was eerily quiet: no child had started on the snacks within five minutes of leaving home and no child was throwing up into a discarded empty plastic bag which had been found in desperation in a hidden side pocket. In the silence, I relished the idea of belting out a few tunes or enjoying a podcast at a higher than necessary volume. However, due to buying the wrong connector for my phone to access my playlists and podcasts (which I didn’t discover until underwater in the Eurotunnel) I soon realised that my entertainment was going to be limited to CDs. The upside of this was that it meant a trip down memory lane, delving into my music collection from years gone by.

As we drove, I felt strangely liberated singing aloud in-and-out-of-tune with no criticism from the back. There was no one to complain and no volume control needed to be maintained. I sang along to songs that I knew word for word which I hadn’t listened to in years: Barclay James Harvest, Melanie, Scouting for Girls and more.

At lunchtime, as family tradition dictates, my husband and I swapped the driving. Taking up the passenger role, I was free to fill the baguettes – baguettes which had been bought from a crowded and somewhat unsavoury service station. This year, it was quietly noted that we only needed one baguette. In the past, the kids’ unspoken rule was that I was the trusted lunch maker and with nostalgia, I recalled which family member had which filling. In my opinion, you can’t beat butter and marmite.

On these trips, crisps would often be passed back and forth, but it was hit and miss whether the bag would be empty before us adults in the front would even get a look in. This year, however, gluttony was rife as the crisps stayed firmly between my husband and me in the front.

After a doze, I became aware of an unusual comfort in my surroundings as I realised that I didn’t have a child’s foot propped at the side of my headrest. I sort of missed that foot, but I was equally enjoying the agreeable reclining position of my seat which had been newly unleashed in the space available.

As we swept past familiar fields of beckoning sunflowers and the undulating landscape of vineyards, I smiled a contented smile. Filled with nostalgia of the past and enjoying the tranquility of the present, I mused on how perhaps one day, when my husband and I are old and frail, we may be passengers driven by one of our children on this same journey through France. Will we be the ones snoring in the back, complaining about aches, asking for food and awaking from intermittent car naps asking, ‘Are we there yet?’

Crete

Vamos a la dentist!

Posted on 11th Aug 202128th Aug 2021 by luce

Anyone who knows me well will be aware of my irrational fear of dentists. My siblings may recall my teenage screams echoing down the corridor during check up appointments. In those days, my mum would bundle us into the car and take us on an hour’s drive to Cheltenham to our Swedish dentist who was a friend of a relative. Only in later years did I realise that he reminded me of the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Hence my hang ups. I mean no offence to said dentist, but as a child it’s easy to make these unintentional and unconscious connections.

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Yesterday afternoon I found myself unexpectedly paying a visit to a dentist here in Crete. Driving to the village of Vamos (about 6 km away) the car was registering 42.5 degrees Celsius. To say it was hot was an understatement. Even the air con was having to work harder than usual and the heat wasn’t helping the sick feeling I had in my stomach.

I was experiencing intense pain in a tooth which wasn’t going away. Thankfully, a friend, who lives on the island, came to my rescue. In a flurry of WhatsApp messages, after giving me the number of her dentist, she patiently alleviated my fears, assuring me that, in her experience, he was sympathetic to nervous patients. She even made the appointment for me because I freely admitted to her that I would happily procrastinate when it came to anything dentistry. When she offered to ring him, I was so grateful.

The closer the appointment, the growing concern and whilst driving through the deserted winding country roads, I was discovering that nerves mixed with exceptionally high temperatures produced copious amounts of sweat. Wiping my forehead, repositioning the car aircon vent and taking timely deep breaths whilst trying to recall some of my usual pre-dentist meditation tracks did nothing to stop the sweat dripping down my face.

Upon arrival in Vamos, I reluctantly walked up to the dark green door which stood on an empty street – no one else was out in this heat. It was an unassuming building and if you were just driving past, you probably wouldn’t even have realised that it was a practising dentist. In the relentless Cretan summer sun, a faded sign quietly acknowledged the presence of the business. With some degree of hesitation, I was aware that I was venturing into the unknown to a strange dentist in a foreign country but I knew that I had to overcome my fear in order to eliminate the pain.

I entered the small building and I felt my body involuntarily sigh with a slight sense of relief (yet still tensely clutching muscles) as I walked into a smart reception area which was tastefully decorated with choice pieces of furniture. The dark wood and cool air welcomed calmness, faith and encouraged a positive aura.

The dentist leaned his head around the door from the adjacent room and, with a smile, he welcomed me. I had noted from the sign on the outside door that he had kindly opened his surgery almost an hour earlier than his usual hours to accommodate my emergency. Moments later, I was in ‘the chair’ and, glancing around, I noticed the simplicity of the bare stone walls, the traditionally tiled floor and a beamed high ceiling, all which thoughtfully complemented the modern dentistry equipment which gave the room its purpose. Gentle music was playing, the air conditioning unit was successfully cooling the room and so I bravely settled down as the investigation into my tooth problem began.

‘You need a root canal,’ he explained as he turned to get the injection ready.

‘What? You do it now?’ I asked filled with trepidation mixed with an abundance of sweat trickles. (In the UK, it was usual to have to make another appointment for the actual work to be done which gave further delay – a welcomed delay in my book!)

He smiled and it was the sweetest and calmest of smiles that put me at such ease for which I was truly thankful. I knew I had absolute faith in what he was about to do, but at the same time, I couldn’t quite shake off the image of Steve Martin as the psychopath dentist in Little Shop of Horrors. (Watch it if you haven’t.)

Forty five minutes later, I’d had the prep work for a root canal, been prescribed antibiotics for the abscess and a follow up appointment had been made for a few days time. I felt confident and calm: the immediate, welcoming, no-fuss nature of my Cretan dental experience was refreshing. I left with a smile.