travel – Let Luce!

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, 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, Travelling

Let Loose Again

Posted on 6th Aug 20216th Aug 2021 by luce

It has been about nine months since I have stepped foot out of the UK and at first it felt a little strange to be on the move. As I tore myself away from the familiarity and comfort of home, which has been the base of my lockdown life, a sense of muted excitement lulled in the air, mixed with a slight reluctance.

It felt like the world had shrunk and that anything beyond my locality was just a little bit scary. It felt like one of those times where it would have been so easy to stay put, so easy to stick with the familiar, so easy to stay at home. I was excited about heading to Crete but not at all thrilled about the journey itself which would take me to public locations where I would have to mix with people in situations that I hadn’t for nine months.

Heading to the airport, I lowered my expectations of what it might be like: check-in, the flight, getting through security, mixing with people, passport control… I imagined long queues, chaos, delays and disorganisation. This mindset was my way to avoid any disheartened disappointment where I knew the world was still figuring out how to deal with often changeable covid-related rules and regulations in public places.

Despite the unsociable early hour of the morning, thankfully we arrived at a relatively quiet airport, which was free from the usual mad rush of passengers starting the school holidays. This gave a promising start. I was hopeful. We immediately joined a not-so-long queue of fellow bleary-eyed passengers, and waited to get our documents checked before heading for a much needed coffee. As the queue shuffled along at a pleasantly steady pace, my spirit was lifted further and I soon realised that the entire airport operation was well organised and prepared. I almost felt guilty for my negativity but I was equally pleased to be proven wrong.

Papers checked, bags dropped, security passed and stomach fuelled, we were aboard the plane within an hour of arriving at Gatwick. And despite my awareness of the close proximity of the passenger in the seat next to me (which felt odd after so much social distancing) the thought that every adult on the plane had had their papers checked and in most cases had been double vaccinated, gave some element of safety.

Landing just a few hours later, I felt the welcoming heat of the Cretan sun and a warm gentle breeze on my face.

It felt good to be let loose once again. ☀️ 🇬🇷

face masks, running

The Unmasked Runner

Posted on 23rd Sep 202027th Sep 2020 by luce

Everyone understands the severity of this virus and the majority of people agree that measures imposed to restrict the spread are vital, but today reinforced my view that we also do need to apply some common sense.

Here in Crete, the current rule states, ‘Mandatory use of face masks in indoor and outdoor public spaces.’ Earlier, as I was about to embark on a run, this ruling raised some interesting discussion in our household. Mask or no mask?

Picture the location: I was up a fairly remote mountainside, with the exception of a smattering of houses – some occupied, others not. The landscape is largely untouched, where proud olive trees stand collectively in the fields, fields which are separated by low walls made up of precarious piles of stones. The bell tinkering of the sheep, who roam daily in a nearby field at sunrise and sunset, had silenced. The lonesome farmer had already moved them on. Looking around across the expanse of the land, I saw no one. It was here, on this mountainside, that I would begin my run. First along a deserted dirt track and then on a trail that would lead me down the hill – down a quiet tarmac road which sees very little action.

My initial thoughts were how could I possibly run with my nose and mouth covered with a mask – the temperature was already in the mid 20s and a full sun was shining. However, as I pondered further, I realised that if I didn’t, strictly speaking I would be breaking the ruling. I mulled over what I perceived to be the madness of running in a mask; the idea of exercising and thus breathing heavily whilst constricted by a fabric covering didn’t sit well in my mind. And yet, to fully comply with the ruling, anyone out in public should wear a mask. Surely this is where common sense had to come in?

The CDC (Centre for Disease Control and Prevention) states that ‘masks are recommended as a simple barrier to help prevent respiratory droplets from traveling into the air and onto other people’. As we all know, Covid-19 spreads mainly among people who are in close contact with one another (about 6 feet or 1.83 metres to be precise) and the importance of mask wearing where people are close to each other is clearly understood. The chances of me coming in close contact with anyone on this run was next to none. In fact, not next to none, it was none. If I was to meet another soul walking or running then we could easily maintain the distance of the road width (approx 3-4 metres) should we happen to pass each other.

I pondered further on the ruling versus common sense. After about 2 km, I would have to pass through a tiny village (with one small local convenience store and a taverna) and then a second village, which although larger, would still be fairly empty due to the early hour. Continuing downhill, I would eventually reach the quiet sea resort of Almyrida, which sits nestled in a gentle and quieter-than-normal bay. Here I would end my run. Here I would mingle with the somewhat despondent local employee in a cafe who, if his establishment was lucky enough to be selected, would be tending to the odd tourist seeking breakfast. August had ended, holiday makers had left – or not even arrived, the place was quiet.

After much thought, I decided to carry my mask as I ran. That way, should I meet anyone along the way, I could easily put it on at a safe distance before we crossed paths. I decided that I would wear the mask when going through the villages, but not along the deserted road. And so finally I set off.

For the first kilometre, despite not meeting a soul, I felt an element of guilt. I almost expected a police officer to stroll out from behind a prickly pear cactus as if waiting to catch me! Just before reaching the first village, I did actually pass an older lady who was strolling up the hill on the opposite side of the road. For the record, she wore no mask. This made me feel a little easier; I wasn’t the only one who was applying some common sense in our remote surroundings. In fact, she was the only pedestrian I passed for the entire five kilometre route. It was that remote.

As I reached the second larger village, I stuck to my decision and slowed to a masked walk. The tavernas had not yet opened and the local store was empty so other than a couple of cats, I was the only life form on the road. I suspect that many would consider me a touch over cautious; others perhaps not. Once through the village, I unmasked (keeping it close to hand) and continued down the twists and turns of the silent tarmac, yet still on the lookout just in case my sweaty undressed face met another. Soon, however, I arrived at the beach, masked up and headed for a well earned breakfast. Whilst contemplating my journey down the mountain, I released a final sigh of leftover guilt mixed with a feeling of ridiculousness at my worry of breaking a rule which was based on close human contact of which I had none.

Upon returning to the house, I googled a little further and was pleased to find that the CDC have a section entitled, ‘Feasibility and Adaptations’ which suggests that mask wearing is not always possible in all situations. It mentions running and suggests, ‘…conducting the activity in a location with greater ventilation and air exchange (for instance, outdoors versus indoors) and where it is possible to maintain physical distance from others.’ So after my initial concerns, my subsequent research and the sight of another lonesome maskless runner later in the day, I am content with my decision to be a law abiding citizen whilst applying an element of common sense.

Greek taverna

A Taverna Tale

Posted on 15th Aug 20208th Sep 2020 by luce

We had just finished a delicious meal of beautifully prepared traditional Greek food at a gorgeous taverna located in the heart of a small, peaceful village.

Set slightly to the edge of the taverna was a table with four chairs, where three local men were each enjoying a cold Greek coffee frappe and a cigarette or two or three…The fourth seat was occupied by the waiter (also the taverna owner) who joined his friends for a chat, a drink and a smoke in-between serving customers.

At intermittent stages over the course of the evening, a bell was rung in the kitchen. This prompted a delayed reaction from the waiter/owner where he would slowly rise from his seat, stroll inside, collect the food, serve the customer and then return to his position at the table with his friends to resume the conversation.

Don’t get me wrong, he did an excellent job in his role as front of the house. He was friendly, helpful and attentive and his relaxed demeanour was welcomed with a casual, homely approach that was perfect in this local family taverna.

As our meal came to an end, I pondered on what was going on in the kitchen. In the relentless heat of 30+ degree temperatures, juggling the timing of all the orders, the women were cooking the starters and main courses. Earlier in the day, the women had no doubt prepped vast quantities of vegetables, including countless tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, aubergines and courgettes for the array of mezze dishes. In advance of service, the women would probably have spent hours baking moussaka, boureki and pasticio. And we haven’t yet even considered dessert production. I was exhausted just thinking about the late evening hours that would be spent washing up and cleaning in preparation to begin the whole process again the following day. Factor in bringing up children – that’s a handful.

‘Who is paying?’ asked the waiter/owner as he brought the bill over to our table. Standing patiently beside the table waiting for our answer, he wore a slightly dishevelled look as if he’d just got up from a relaxed afternoon in front of the TV and had been disturbed by the doorbell.

‘He is,’ I replied indicating to my husband, who happened to have the cash in his wallet having been to the ATM earlier in the day. Another meal, it might be have been me paying: a joint account and together 30 years, it makes little difference who puts the money down at the end of a meal. On this particular evening, it was my husband who happened to have the cash.

In response to my answer, the waiter replied, ‘Ah, it’s always the man. The man, he always pay.’ Musing on the implication of his remark, I smiled outwardly in polite passive agreement, whilst inwardly chuckling at what I perceived to be the irony of his comment. He may have had to momentarily vacate his seat at the table with his friends but there was a hidden hive of activity in the kitchen. 😉

corona virus, hobbies, Travel

Time Well Spent

Posted on 3rd May 20203rd May 2020 by luce

With my travels unexpectedly interrupted by the spread of the corona virus, on more than one occasion it has been mentioned by friends and family, “Oh but you must be bored,” or “You poor things not being able to travel.” When I hear this, I find myself having to justify why I don’t feel either boredom or self-pity. I thank them for their concerns with an underlying feeling of guilt because at this point in time, there are far more pressing worries in these ‘COVID-19 times’.

Initially we did have to adjust and accept the fact that we could not continue our travels to Spain, Croatia and then take the planned long road-trip through Italy to Crete. However, it has actually been relatively easy to recalibrate and I am certainly not in a position to be dwelling on my misfortunes of not being able to travel. There are clearly other people on whom to focus: the elderly, the vulnerable, the key workers and how the effect of isolation and inaccessibility to vital resources can be managed.

“Oh, you must be bored?”

Bored? No. It is not worth dwelling on what you can’t do. The best thing is to focus on making the most of the opportunities that are presented by unforeseen circumstances. In this case, I have settled into home-life just loving the fact that I have time to discover new hobbies as well indulging in long-term loves, which I never had time for before or which I was too exhausted to do when my job dominated my life. I can now spend hours at a sewing machine, learning Greek, running an increasing number of kilometres, cooking, yoga, catching up with the classics on audiobooks, chatting to my family and friends, crocheting, thinking about and writing a number of unfinished blogs, reading paperbacks and also e-books on a Kindle, painting doors and walls, growing vegetables and herbs, catching up on TV, listening to podcasts, as well as learning through thoughtfully-selected online OU courses.

“You poor things not being able to travel.”

When people expressed an element of feeling sorry for us for not being able to travel, a sense of awkwardness set in when I considered my current situation. I wasn’t a key worker, I wasn’t a front line NHS worker, and I didn’t have to worry about my job – whether I would lose it or put myself at risk by working. Having already given up work with the plan to travel, no one was expecting me to be anywhere to do anything at any time. So it was easy to adjust to the changes: I was just in a different country than I had intended to be in. I certainly didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. For the time being, travelling has to wait, which it will.

With time at home now available and in an attempt to contribute some sort of worthwhile support in this current lockdown, I signed up to be an NHS volunteer. Once accepted, with much anticipation I prepared to be immediately busy helping others, however no alerts came (or have come) through. Although initially frustrating, I can only assume that the lack of request calls has to be a good thing. So what else could I do to help?

With recent discussion on whether face masks are beneficial or not to help prevent the spread of the virus, I am now busily putting my sewing skills to good use and making these. This was prompted by a request from my brother, who lives in London (with its concentrated number of corona cases) where he asked me if I could make some face masks for him and his family. This has since sparked off further requests so now I am feeling vaguely useful. My contribution maybe small, but it is valuable to some.

None of us planned for these last few weeks and who knows what life will be like over the next few weeks or months. But, cliche to hand, don’t forget that every cloud has a silver lining – you just have to make sure you find it.