Crete part 2: The Holiday.
So for those who didn't know, The Englishman booked a job last minute before we were due to go on our much- needed holiday. This is actually a natural law as far as I've gathered; sort of like gravity, but less fun.
We tried it all - rebooking (No go - bank holiday weekend leading up to the departure date left less than 24 hours before departure, which travel agents don't get excited by as a rule. Insurance - nope. Not unless the job involved the army and nation safety. Uhm...how about filming an advert?)
So off I went - on my tots! We unimaginatively chose Crete again. We felt uninventive, but then, only if you hate crystal blue seas, good food, cheap wine and excellent customer service.
Day 1 - Ahhhhhhh.
The taxi driver is chatty. Why is anyone chatty at 4.30 am? I'd have liked to snooze, except his GPS keeps blasting out "AT THE NEXT JUNCTION TURN RIGHT THEN TURN RIGHT MY GOD AM I CHIRPY" at an abnormally high pitch." In addition, he seems to have cheerfully ignored the sleepy bald dude that helped my bags into the car and continues chatting me up, including the phrase "us black guys you know - we love strong women from scandinavia!" I like cute black guys too. But not when I have a dude already, and it's BLOODY 4.30 AM. He had some good banter though, resulting in a very bleary- faced Kat heading into Gatwick.
Faced alone with Duty Free section, something no woman should ever be allowed, I promptly nearly miss my flight. But - the lady offered me a FREE mini facial with Sisley products! I mean, hello? That floral hydrating mask was like silk, like a sweet drink for the skin, and she thought I was 22, and oh shiiiiiiiiiiit! How did the boarding call come up? How? I haven't even got a book or any food yet!
I scramble to Pret and get a tub of porridge and a bottle of water. Why I chose a porridge, maybe the least edible food on the run or aboard a plane ever, is up for questioning. I also speed- chose books, landing on Caitlin Moran's "How to be a Woman" (Hilarious and true- read it. Read it!) and the book version of "Life of Pi." (Beautiful. As sad as the film, unsurprisingly.)
The flight is quite good, for me. Of course I sit in the bumpy tail section with a dour eastern european flight attendant, but this is immideately improved by a flamboyant, darkly tanned, gay attendant who recognises slight fear when he sees it and spends a lot of time telling me things I already know, which exactly what I want. I still don't sleep a minute of course, and we hop and bumb all across Europe. The view of the Alps is very nearly worth it.
Ah, Crete. I do love you. Mountainous ranges, worthy of the mythical Mount Olympos...olive groves, lapping seas and...rain? Rain. Rather a lot of rain.
The bus does not take "45" minutes. Much like the Easyjet desk attendant earlier, the bus company can't find my reservation either without 15 minutes of phone calls. When they do, the rain is coming down in torrential sheets and the bus driver, disgruntled, adds my hotel to his list. I'm the only one going there. By the time we reach it, it's just me and an elderly couple who I suspect died about two miles back.
Now, the hotel - nice. Fresh peach drink on arrival. Unpretentious exteriour, as most greek buildings, but modern, sleek inside with beautiful, shifting wall lighting and open bar.
The room as a huge balcony with sea, pool and mountain view. I'm now quite excited about being on my own. No man? Hah! I can fanny around without worrying about makeup, closing the loo door OR matching underwear! I can be as antisocial as I like! I can eat ice cream in bed! I can spend all day in the spa! Mwo- haha.
The "amazing spa" consists of a tiny pool submerged underground, with none of the "waterfalls" advertised active. No steam or sauna - I quickly discover they are "private" and you pay extra to use them. Aha.
Bah well - the rain has stopped now. The sun is emerging. I pack my bikini and go exploring. Sisi is a tiny town, one that for sure 50 years back relied on nothing but a modest catch of fish to get by, and maybe some olive fields. Now there are little tavernas and souvernir shops jostling for space, but it all looks affected by the recent economic troubles. It's not as prosperous as the Greece I remember as a child. Several shops are closed down and boarded up; it seems only the ones who can support themselves have lasted.
I manage to locate the local beach - there are three - and there's not one person there. All for me. It's rocky, but beautiful. It's a bit nippy to put my toe in, but it soon melts away into a velvety warm.
I enjoy my first taste of salt. The smell of the late sun on the salty water is something that always reminds me of my mum. She would be collecting shells on the beach whilst keeping a keen eye on her diving daughter. I close my eyes and remember the warm smell of her skin with suntan lotion.
I find a suitable beach view taverna, and order "Gyros". This delight, if you remember last year's description, is either lamb or chicken on skewer, fatty and crisp, shaved onto fresh pitta bread with heaps of onion, tomato and tzatziki. And chips. I devour it all, watch the sunset and read my book. London is far, far from my mind.
Day 2 - Zeus
Day 2 dawns with sun, so I go on a trek to find the sandy beach. I'm informed after a long walk that this entrance is for club members only, but I'm able to trek back again and enter via the seaside. "Entering" requires scaling a little mountainside with no discernable path. This is fine for me, but not for anyone with any mobility issues whatsoever. Though if it discourages large, noisy families, I'll be thrilled at this moment in time.
The beach has some noisy families - but this is posh white people's territory. This "club" has tennis courts and private pools. The families are german and dutch and italian, but mainly German. The greatest sign of riches: The mothers all have at least 3 children, but not one of them have put on more than 1 cm of bodyfat. They are bronzed and their children all seem to be called "Linus".
It's bliss. The ocean is still and endless, only Thira can be faintly glimpsed on the horizon.
Whilst diving, curiously observing a large fish munching algae, a rapid darting motion out of the corner of my eye grabs my attention. Ignoring my reptile brain saying SHARK SHARK FUCK SHARK I soon realise it's an octopus. Rather a large one! It had made itself look not only like the colour, but also the texture of the surrounding rocks. How marvellous and ingenious nature is.
I walk to a recommended restaurant not to far from town. They serve in a lovely garden. The food is proper peasant fare, lamb, also with chips(damn!) but for dessert I'm offered fresh strawberries and strong, honeyed Raki. Free.
I still fancy chocolate. Hmm. A long walk reveals nothing tempting, so I walk back to the hotel and order ICE CREAM TO MY ROOM. Ha ha ha ha ha. I eat it on the terrasse, gazing down onto the pool, which has starlights in it at night. The sky rumbles faintly - in fact it has done all afternoon. Some hot air meeting cold the other side of the island, I could see lightning forking over the water. It seems to be coming closer. I go to bed.
BAM! BOOM! The thunderstorm has not so much come closer as moved directly over the hotel. I jerk out of bed thinking that the spanish inquisition has personally come to my room to make me atone for all my sins. The rain cascades down, spattering the balcony and my clothes like drumming needles. Jesus actual christ. Or Zeus. I think Zeus must have been genuinely pissed off. The clouds have rolled down from mount olympos and he's taken all his basket of lightning buddies with him. The light shatters the darkness like an epileptic fit and the thunder growls like a raging tiger for half the night. I lay in bed, feeling like a very small piece of nature and quite happy the Englishman isn't flying out tonight, as previously planned. Though having him in the bed would have been nice.
Day 3 - "Dugnad"
Cold this morning. Like the island has to breathe out after that weather. I'm wracked with Raki hangover and no sleep. I go down to wolf my thick- as - wall- glue yoghurt and honey, observe the chill and momentarily panic. I should be doing something sensible! Go on walks! See things! But...I'm tired. No deal ,you HAVE to- wait, no. I don't. I'm not at work. I go back to bed.
At noon, I wake, dry mouthed. I'm sure the cleaner was in earlier, saw me drooling and swifly exited.
The sun is out now. That will do nicely.
I explore the third beach today. Here, I'm less thrilled. Rocky again, but also absolutely littered to fuck with plastic shit. I mean- toothbrushes, straws, bottles, buckets, balls, even SHOES - which idiot took his shoes off at a party and thought "To hell with it! I've had enough! These are going IN THE OCEAN!" If it was a pair of heels I would have undestood. Jesus, there are actually as many colourful bottletops here as shells. And plastic bags curling under sand. And...is that a red shopping bag drifting ashore?
I sit in seething silence for a while, wondering whose job it is to clear this shit up, it's tourist beach for heaven's sake, and humanity's utter disregard for the nature we're so happy to use, then abuse. What does it take for us to actually get that if we want to be here and enjoy our life, we're gonna have to stop behaving like planet- molesting fucktards?
It dawns on me. Everyone looks at this and thinks "what a pile of shit, somebody should do something."
Right. I strap my sandals on, fold up my imaginary sleeves and get to it. That plastic bucket with only a broken lid and a wooden fruit box (wtf?) will do as receptacles. I spend an hour combing the beach, filling both to bursting, and still not even remotely a quarter there. And the beach is small.
With 20 people we could have done it in an hour, but I doubt I'll find may inclined tourists. That's the "dugnad" spirit I've been raised on in Norway - people coming together to do something for the community; picking litter, painting a wall, buliding a fence for an elderly neighbour. I love it. It's a warmth and a togetherness rarely seen these days.
So I was "dugnading" on my own, but at least the front part of the beach has no plastic shit now, and it won't wash out to sea. "Somebody should thank me for this" I thought to my smug ego. But even as I did it, I knew nobody would. You're just happy "someone" has cleared it away. And I'll know it's a tiny bit better. And maybe that's enough, and maybe I should think like that more often.
In the evening, I check out the second recommended restaurant. It does dawn on me that they are quite healthily supplied by the hotel's recommendations, these guys - I ask where greek people eat - but the answer to that is mostly "at home." They come out to have coffee maybe, or eat later. 11pm is not an unreasonable dinner time in the medeterranian. So I share time with Germans and Australians. The female owner takes pity on my lonesomeness and is very lovely. I get practically a 6- course meal that I pay about 10 quid for. Velvety beetroot salad, pork cooked in wine and mushroom and garlic bread as a starter. (Free.) I order Fried courgettes, stuffed vine leaves and a saganaki cheese,which I immedeately realise is way too much. I manage all but the cheese.
I'm feeling stuffed - and then they bring over a plate of fruit, Raki, and a massive - MASSIVE- piece of greek cheesecake. Oh my god. My belly is taking on herculean proportions, and not in the good way. Sod it. mmmmmm.
Day 4 - Arrival of the Englishman
I admit that panic nearly seized me when he announced he wasn't coming till Saturday. This is a dilemma we actors get ourselves in- we accept jobs that can't tell us when we are working, how long we will be working or what our exact pay will be. No other job would ever offer such terms; though I think we are ourselves responsible here. If we all said no to these jobs, these companies would not be able to offer such gross terms, but which actor do you know who would turn down paid work? At all?
Anyway, I couldn't get hold of him. In man fashion, I had received none of the things I asked for (Such as flight arrival and flight number) from him, and his phone promptly died and Heraklion airport was not able to tell me whether an Easyjet flight had indeed landed at 12.10. You would think this was possible, but naw.
When he arrived, we committed the devastating London crime of demolishing the journey in a moany howl, spluttering our aggreivances instead of enjoying that we we're both here, and both on holiday. It was quickly remedied though, by bringing him to the sandy German beach.
In the evening I bring him to Neromilos, they of the extended tummy sinfulness, and the hostess happily exclaims "Aha! I wait to meet you!" to the Englishman, who is happily supplied with carafs of red wine and fried courgettes. A success. We continue with cocktails at the hotel. The barman is wasted on this half empty hotel, and should work the most glamorous places in Monaco, New York or similar. His Mojito is an absolute killer. I have the brilliant idea we should seek our Crepes for dessert. We find it, but are too drunk to think and order two. Of course, this is not the point where the crepes turn out to be tiny things with a slick of sad Nutella as an afterthought, but two huge, thick pancakes with oceans of the hazelnut spread, cream, sprinkles, sparkles and god knows what else. We can't remotely finish them and I was too drunk to remember the taste. All in a night's fun though.
Day 5 - Company
Mmmmmm.
Day 6 - CAR AGAIN
So we arrived at the conclusion that we should rent a car again. What, after that death machine experience of last year, you say? Of course. A car involves freedom to explore.
The benefits of 5 stars is an extremely helpful staff (Though in Greece you often get that anyway) who get us a car for next to nothing, for 2 days. It even says it has "open top". We get excited, as the sleek sportscar transformer wonder of last year made us the coolest cats around. (Except when we stalled the engine repeatedly and snagged a moped's tyre.)
Open top meant a Fiat Panda with a sun roof. The car is functional but, suffice to say, when we ask another British couple to take a photo of us, the male guwaffs, "What? With the car?" and hoots all the way to his hyundai. (As if he were any better.)
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Our first point of order is the Aqua Park in Hersonissos. I know what you're thinking - screaming kids, expensive shitty food, complete tourist trap- and you would be right. But the water games are awesome and we are pre season - an Aqualand all to ourselves with no queues? Come aaawn.
We start off with great gusto and promptly get lost. There are several roadsigns, just none that seem to point in the right direction in relation to the map. The Englishman claims there was one for sure, but I ingore his pleas and sail on down the main road until we arrive in Gouves. I seem to remember Gouves is not where we were supposed to be. We trot down to a taverna down a sleepy side street and find ourselves being the only patrons there. We share a table with a little lizard that looks like a comodo dragon, and a very talkative cat.
We intrude on the owners just as they're having their own lunch, (one elderly lady with a giant plate of meat and prawns...) but this doesn't seem to be a problem. They dish up a big bowl of greek salad, tzatziki and a plate our Souvlaki and chips, chicken charred black but tender on the inside.
"The aqualand? Ten minutes. That way" the man says, pointing in the direction we just came from. Smashing.
After some careful guidance from the Englishman, the Aqualand opens up before us in a deserted vale of golden mountains and dark green olive trees. As we thought- almost not a soul there.
The rides are fabulous, though I'm sure some of them can't possibly be safe. Now that I've arrived, I remember tall slides and crazy spinning things actually scare me. What am I doing here?
It does turn out to be great fun though. A whirlpool slide, where you're catapulted through a tube and then circle a huge drain like so much shaved hair in a tub, becomes a favourite. So are the "black holes", twisty tubes with sparkly lights inside where we ride on double rubber rings, yelling all the way down.
At the end we are battered, laughing and my elbows are blue from scraping the bottom of multicoloured slides.
In a humorously metaphorical battle, we attempt going against the current in the "lazy river" game, where you are supposed to float leisurly through a gentle river along with everybody else. Me and The Englishman decide we want to go the other way. This is harder than you think, because the current is strong that way and we have to be both inventive and have some serious stamina to get where we wanted to go. (Geddit?). We get there, though. Eventually. Oh yes.
We decide we want to go to the restaurant we fell in love with last year- David's. The faint call of a massive meal of delicious freshness with wine and dessert, all for 20 Euro for both, seems suddenly very strong.
It's surprisingly easy. We only stop once due to confusing roadsigns (Sort it out!), and are told we are in fact IN Hersonissos, where we want to be. For a moment we imagine a nightmarish journey through the winding, tiny streets of the Old Town, but we haven't driven 5 minutes when the restaurant is- THERE. Just straight in front of us. Hah! I panic about parking, but when we ask, people shrug and gesture to the road - "anywhere?" I realise I have a London mindset. Free parking along any bit of road is like a dream.
We have a walk in the sunset, The Englishman buys me a bracelet. But we can't really wait. David recognises us from last year. Or rather, if we understand his gesticulating correctly, he recognises the Englishman's bald head. Oh well!
Apart from the fact I can't drink (my tiny glass of wine has never been so enjoyed), the food is spectacular. Stewed rabbit, veal in tomato, saganaki cheese, beetroot salad, fried courgettes, grilled octopus. He brings little desserts that look inconspicuous but hide the most sumptuous amazingness; thick yoghurt with some sort of home made cherry compote and blanched almonds, (I don't even like cherry compote), and little squares of honeyed semolina tarts. I am too full to drive. But I'm going to have to; and in the dark nonetheleast.
The road proves uneventful except for a very sudden turn. Of course there is no sign to Sissi, but one to "Sissi camping" and "Malia." Doing a u- turn proves a wise decision, because by now it's pitch black. A triumphant fist is raised when we discover we are indeed on the straight path back to our hotel. Hah! Kings and queens of driving without GPS on a Greek island!
Day 7 - Some serious driving skills.
Up and about early to get to Elounda, where all those lovely pictures were from last year. My jaw is set, my mind is prepped for the task. I remember the surge in feeling as we went over the mountain.
The only thing I know for sure is: THIS year we are not going to drive through Agios Nikolaus, like last year. A winding, hilly seaside town which is impossible to navigate - no. We are determined to take the road that goes PAST it and straight on to Elounda.
Needless to say, we fail utterly. I see the sign to Elounda. I follow. I press repeat on this until the road seems to have taken us....wtf! Straight into the town. I have a minor rage fit. This town consists solely od impossible roundabouts, unclear signing, dubious u- turns and angry motorists. I miss my turn and have to go down and up tiny roads which are steep as the last push climbing Everest, and only keep it together because the Englishman remains calm and guides me through, almost giving himself a heart attack in the process. We end up where we were last time - a seaside road, leading onto Elounda. How we managed to do it again I have no idea, but at least it took less time this time round. I got so angry though. That kind of anger that is so pointless and righteous: I SAID I didn't want to come here...now we're HERE. WHY are we here? I'm not yelling at you, I'm yelling at...the person who put the signs up! Gaah!
We have another minor delay when the Englishman blanks at a petrol station and puts his PIN number in wrong 3 times, which incurs another 30 minutes in a hot car calling the UK. I am calm. He deserves me being calm after the other scenario.
The good thing is, after this, going over the mountain is a breeze. We stop over at the wonderful beds on the jettys again, only this time they want to charge us 30 Euro. We beg an hour for free and enjoy it to the full.
But it's to Plaka we want, and to Plaka we go. We locate the place we ate last year, and have a plate of fresh grilled prawns (omg) and greek salad.
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Before.
After.
We then browse a local, wonderful jewellery shop where local artists have displayed their goods - the Englishman ends up buying me another bracelet. It's ostentatious, but we comfort ourselves it's for Cannes.
We nearly miss the boat to Spinalonga Island. This is a small islet outside Plaka, once a leper colony. It has wonderful ruins and an even more wonderful view. Upon arrival we are informed the last boat is at 4. 4?? That's 20 minutes...
We speed through the attractions, The Englishman helpfully taking a leak in some of the ruins whilst I have to cover him up when some american tourists enter, so he can hastily tuck his manliness back in his pants and confess, loudly, what wonderful detail was over in that corner.
We run in inappropriate footwear to the top of the island. The view is spectacular indeed.
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The last boat is - shit. Down there!
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As we jump on the last boat back, there is one family left who are assured there will be another boat. They have a tired 3- year old. I don't envy them. We imagine what it would be like after an hour...two...how long before the dad will try swimming?
We made our mark.
Deciding to have dinner in Elounda, we set off back again. That's when the rain comes. Torrential, tropical showers. The clouds had looked ominous for some time, and they didn't disappoint.
We park the car in Elounda, and have a nice moment just sitting in the drumming rain, safe in our little Panda.
When the rain stops, we go exploring and find an art gallery - abolutely wonderful pieces involving metal and local wood, much inspired by the sea.
We also find an English elderly couple who have moved here permanently and bought a bookshop. Do pop in if you go there. They have tea and great books. "Eklektos" shileded us from the rain for at least an hour.
Dinner is had at a fine dining place, the only one we visit. I don't really think it's worth it. Greek food is hearty, salty and fresh. Trying to do much fancy stuff with it doesn't really work in my experience, unless it's to lather on the price. A very nice seafood risotto though, it has to be said. And - a melting chocolate pudding.
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Easy to please.
On the way back, someone has pissed off Zeus again. We drive through Greece's only hailstorm, ever. I say we. I did. At one point, it was pitch black, on a off- motorway road, with trucks thundering past, in the rain and hail, and my phone was ringing. It was good to get back.
Day 8 - The coach
The Englishman resolves to get as burnt as possible today. I can practically see him changing colour. We have a farewell dip in the sea, and the rest by the pool. As wonderful as it's been, it does feel like a weekend more than a holiday, due to the extreme weather and late arrival of the other 'aff.
We have a farewell meal at Neromilos - they are more than happy to serve us a massive meal with too much wine. I down it with a most excellent moussaka. Lamb is so, so good in Greece. Oppa, there's some Raki.
The coach picks us up at eight. I don't think flying at night with Easyjet is a repeatable experience, for me.
The bus driver consistently speaks on his mobile whilst driving. The one greek speaking woman informs us he has left someone behind at a hotel and they are not happy about it.
Then: The Gang arrives. We are in Malia, of course, on on board rolls no less than 6 girls, all with the same identical eye- watering shade of bleach blonde, all northern accents, all sunburnt, and most with a whooping chesty cough, signifying multi alcoholic intake and no sleep.
As far as I can gather, their trip has consisted of
A. Drinking as much as humanly possible and
B. No, that was it actually.
They laugh about how one of them was assailed by a thief and punched in the face, and how the thief eventually hobbled off, not able to handle the 6 screaming, angry northern gals. At this point, a gang of gentlemen also step on the bus. These gentlemen are older than I am, unlike the girls. They have been to a stag do. The girls greet them familiarly, having seen them about on their stumble through the streets of Malia. "How lovely you're getting married,", croons one with a hoarse whiskey- voice of a much older woman. "Didya stay faithful then?". Pause where the blokes smile and nudge each other.
"Well", the groom- to - be- answers, "I mean, what happens in Malia and all that. There was a girl I was kinda with for the week." The girls express small signs of dismay, but on the whole, agree that what happens in Malia etc. And, as this fine example of humanity himself put it, "That was the past, this is the present and my wife is the future." The girls "aahhh'd." I did not. Sure as hell glad I'm not the "future" of this prime dickwad.
By the time we reach the airport it is late. I sleepily stumble through Duty Free to get several jars of honey, the Englishman hunting for "Some sh*t that'll make me look younger."
The flight is long, and the journey home through London at 4am longer. Never has a bed been more longed for.
Though we fall asleep with the knowledge we are heading to Cannes in 2 days. Rest is for later.
So for those who didn't know, The Englishman booked a job last minute before we were due to go on our much- needed holiday. This is actually a natural law as far as I've gathered; sort of like gravity, but less fun.
We tried it all - rebooking (No go - bank holiday weekend leading up to the departure date left less than 24 hours before departure, which travel agents don't get excited by as a rule. Insurance - nope. Not unless the job involved the army and nation safety. Uhm...how about filming an advert?)
So off I went - on my tots! We unimaginatively chose Crete again. We felt uninventive, but then, only if you hate crystal blue seas, good food, cheap wine and excellent customer service.
Day 1 - Ahhhhhhh.
The taxi driver is chatty. Why is anyone chatty at 4.30 am? I'd have liked to snooze, except his GPS keeps blasting out "AT THE NEXT JUNCTION TURN RIGHT THEN TURN RIGHT MY GOD AM I CHIRPY" at an abnormally high pitch." In addition, he seems to have cheerfully ignored the sleepy bald dude that helped my bags into the car and continues chatting me up, including the phrase "us black guys you know - we love strong women from scandinavia!" I like cute black guys too. But not when I have a dude already, and it's BLOODY 4.30 AM. He had some good banter though, resulting in a very bleary- faced Kat heading into Gatwick.
Faced alone with Duty Free section, something no woman should ever be allowed, I promptly nearly miss my flight. But - the lady offered me a FREE mini facial with Sisley products! I mean, hello? That floral hydrating mask was like silk, like a sweet drink for the skin, and she thought I was 22, and oh shiiiiiiiiiiit! How did the boarding call come up? How? I haven't even got a book or any food yet!
I scramble to Pret and get a tub of porridge and a bottle of water. Why I chose a porridge, maybe the least edible food on the run or aboard a plane ever, is up for questioning. I also speed- chose books, landing on Caitlin Moran's "How to be a Woman" (Hilarious and true- read it. Read it!) and the book version of "Life of Pi." (Beautiful. As sad as the film, unsurprisingly.)
The flight is quite good, for me. Of course I sit in the bumpy tail section with a dour eastern european flight attendant, but this is immideately improved by a flamboyant, darkly tanned, gay attendant who recognises slight fear when he sees it and spends a lot of time telling me things I already know, which exactly what I want. I still don't sleep a minute of course, and we hop and bumb all across Europe. The view of the Alps is very nearly worth it.
Ah, Crete. I do love you. Mountainous ranges, worthy of the mythical Mount Olympos...olive groves, lapping seas and...rain? Rain. Rather a lot of rain.
The bus does not take "45" minutes. Much like the Easyjet desk attendant earlier, the bus company can't find my reservation either without 15 minutes of phone calls. When they do, the rain is coming down in torrential sheets and the bus driver, disgruntled, adds my hotel to his list. I'm the only one going there. By the time we reach it, it's just me and an elderly couple who I suspect died about two miles back.
Now, the hotel - nice. Fresh peach drink on arrival. Unpretentious exteriour, as most greek buildings, but modern, sleek inside with beautiful, shifting wall lighting and open bar.
The room as a huge balcony with sea, pool and mountain view. I'm now quite excited about being on my own. No man? Hah! I can fanny around without worrying about makeup, closing the loo door OR matching underwear! I can be as antisocial as I like! I can eat ice cream in bed! I can spend all day in the spa! Mwo- haha.
The "amazing spa" consists of a tiny pool submerged underground, with none of the "waterfalls" advertised active. No steam or sauna - I quickly discover they are "private" and you pay extra to use them. Aha.
Bah well - the rain has stopped now. The sun is emerging. I pack my bikini and go exploring. Sisi is a tiny town, one that for sure 50 years back relied on nothing but a modest catch of fish to get by, and maybe some olive fields. Now there are little tavernas and souvernir shops jostling for space, but it all looks affected by the recent economic troubles. It's not as prosperous as the Greece I remember as a child. Several shops are closed down and boarded up; it seems only the ones who can support themselves have lasted.
I manage to locate the local beach - there are three - and there's not one person there. All for me. It's rocky, but beautiful. It's a bit nippy to put my toe in, but it soon melts away into a velvety warm.
I enjoy my first taste of salt. The smell of the late sun on the salty water is something that always reminds me of my mum. She would be collecting shells on the beach whilst keeping a keen eye on her diving daughter. I close my eyes and remember the warm smell of her skin with suntan lotion.
I find a suitable beach view taverna, and order "Gyros". This delight, if you remember last year's description, is either lamb or chicken on skewer, fatty and crisp, shaved onto fresh pitta bread with heaps of onion, tomato and tzatziki. And chips. I devour it all, watch the sunset and read my book. London is far, far from my mind.
Day 2 - Zeus
Day 2 dawns with sun, so I go on a trek to find the sandy beach. I'm informed after a long walk that this entrance is for club members only, but I'm able to trek back again and enter via the seaside. "Entering" requires scaling a little mountainside with no discernable path. This is fine for me, but not for anyone with any mobility issues whatsoever. Though if it discourages large, noisy families, I'll be thrilled at this moment in time.
The beach has some noisy families - but this is posh white people's territory. This "club" has tennis courts and private pools. The families are german and dutch and italian, but mainly German. The greatest sign of riches: The mothers all have at least 3 children, but not one of them have put on more than 1 cm of bodyfat. They are bronzed and their children all seem to be called "Linus".
It's bliss. The ocean is still and endless, only Thira can be faintly glimpsed on the horizon.
Whilst diving, curiously observing a large fish munching algae, a rapid darting motion out of the corner of my eye grabs my attention. Ignoring my reptile brain saying SHARK SHARK FUCK SHARK I soon realise it's an octopus. Rather a large one! It had made itself look not only like the colour, but also the texture of the surrounding rocks. How marvellous and ingenious nature is.
I walk to a recommended restaurant not to far from town. They serve in a lovely garden. The food is proper peasant fare, lamb, also with chips(damn!) but for dessert I'm offered fresh strawberries and strong, honeyed Raki. Free.
I still fancy chocolate. Hmm. A long walk reveals nothing tempting, so I walk back to the hotel and order ICE CREAM TO MY ROOM. Ha ha ha ha ha. I eat it on the terrasse, gazing down onto the pool, which has starlights in it at night. The sky rumbles faintly - in fact it has done all afternoon. Some hot air meeting cold the other side of the island, I could see lightning forking over the water. It seems to be coming closer. I go to bed.
BAM! BOOM! The thunderstorm has not so much come closer as moved directly over the hotel. I jerk out of bed thinking that the spanish inquisition has personally come to my room to make me atone for all my sins. The rain cascades down, spattering the balcony and my clothes like drumming needles. Jesus actual christ. Or Zeus. I think Zeus must have been genuinely pissed off. The clouds have rolled down from mount olympos and he's taken all his basket of lightning buddies with him. The light shatters the darkness like an epileptic fit and the thunder growls like a raging tiger for half the night. I lay in bed, feeling like a very small piece of nature and quite happy the Englishman isn't flying out tonight, as previously planned. Though having him in the bed would have been nice.
Day 3 - "Dugnad"
Cold this morning. Like the island has to breathe out after that weather. I'm wracked with Raki hangover and no sleep. I go down to wolf my thick- as - wall- glue yoghurt and honey, observe the chill and momentarily panic. I should be doing something sensible! Go on walks! See things! But...I'm tired. No deal ,you HAVE to- wait, no. I don't. I'm not at work. I go back to bed.
At noon, I wake, dry mouthed. I'm sure the cleaner was in earlier, saw me drooling and swifly exited.
The sun is out now. That will do nicely.
I explore the third beach today. Here, I'm less thrilled. Rocky again, but also absolutely littered to fuck with plastic shit. I mean- toothbrushes, straws, bottles, buckets, balls, even SHOES - which idiot took his shoes off at a party and thought "To hell with it! I've had enough! These are going IN THE OCEAN!" If it was a pair of heels I would have undestood. Jesus, there are actually as many colourful bottletops here as shells. And plastic bags curling under sand. And...is that a red shopping bag drifting ashore?
I sit in seething silence for a while, wondering whose job it is to clear this shit up, it's tourist beach for heaven's sake, and humanity's utter disregard for the nature we're so happy to use, then abuse. What does it take for us to actually get that if we want to be here and enjoy our life, we're gonna have to stop behaving like planet- molesting fucktards?
It dawns on me. Everyone looks at this and thinks "what a pile of shit, somebody should do something."
Right. I strap my sandals on, fold up my imaginary sleeves and get to it. That plastic bucket with only a broken lid and a wooden fruit box (wtf?) will do as receptacles. I spend an hour combing the beach, filling both to bursting, and still not even remotely a quarter there. And the beach is small.
With 20 people we could have done it in an hour, but I doubt I'll find may inclined tourists. That's the "dugnad" spirit I've been raised on in Norway - people coming together to do something for the community; picking litter, painting a wall, buliding a fence for an elderly neighbour. I love it. It's a warmth and a togetherness rarely seen these days.
So I was "dugnading" on my own, but at least the front part of the beach has no plastic shit now, and it won't wash out to sea. "Somebody should thank me for this" I thought to my smug ego. But even as I did it, I knew nobody would. You're just happy "someone" has cleared it away. And I'll know it's a tiny bit better. And maybe that's enough, and maybe I should think like that more often.
In the evening, I check out the second recommended restaurant. It does dawn on me that they are quite healthily supplied by the hotel's recommendations, these guys - I ask where greek people eat - but the answer to that is mostly "at home." They come out to have coffee maybe, or eat later. 11pm is not an unreasonable dinner time in the medeterranian. So I share time with Germans and Australians. The female owner takes pity on my lonesomeness and is very lovely. I get practically a 6- course meal that I pay about 10 quid for. Velvety beetroot salad, pork cooked in wine and mushroom and garlic bread as a starter. (Free.) I order Fried courgettes, stuffed vine leaves and a saganaki cheese,which I immedeately realise is way too much. I manage all but the cheese.
I'm feeling stuffed - and then they bring over a plate of fruit, Raki, and a massive - MASSIVE- piece of greek cheesecake. Oh my god. My belly is taking on herculean proportions, and not in the good way. Sod it. mmmmmm.
Day 4 - Arrival of the Englishman
I admit that panic nearly seized me when he announced he wasn't coming till Saturday. This is a dilemma we actors get ourselves in- we accept jobs that can't tell us when we are working, how long we will be working or what our exact pay will be. No other job would ever offer such terms; though I think we are ourselves responsible here. If we all said no to these jobs, these companies would not be able to offer such gross terms, but which actor do you know who would turn down paid work? At all?
Anyway, I couldn't get hold of him. In man fashion, I had received none of the things I asked for (Such as flight arrival and flight number) from him, and his phone promptly died and Heraklion airport was not able to tell me whether an Easyjet flight had indeed landed at 12.10. You would think this was possible, but naw.
When he arrived, we committed the devastating London crime of demolishing the journey in a moany howl, spluttering our aggreivances instead of enjoying that we we're both here, and both on holiday. It was quickly remedied though, by bringing him to the sandy German beach.
In the evening I bring him to Neromilos, they of the extended tummy sinfulness, and the hostess happily exclaims "Aha! I wait to meet you!" to the Englishman, who is happily supplied with carafs of red wine and fried courgettes. A success. We continue with cocktails at the hotel. The barman is wasted on this half empty hotel, and should work the most glamorous places in Monaco, New York or similar. His Mojito is an absolute killer. I have the brilliant idea we should seek our Crepes for dessert. We find it, but are too drunk to think and order two. Of course, this is not the point where the crepes turn out to be tiny things with a slick of sad Nutella as an afterthought, but two huge, thick pancakes with oceans of the hazelnut spread, cream, sprinkles, sparkles and god knows what else. We can't remotely finish them and I was too drunk to remember the taste. All in a night's fun though.
Day 5 - Company
Mmmmmm.
Day 6 - CAR AGAIN
So we arrived at the conclusion that we should rent a car again. What, after that death machine experience of last year, you say? Of course. A car involves freedom to explore.
The benefits of 5 stars is an extremely helpful staff (Though in Greece you often get that anyway) who get us a car for next to nothing, for 2 days. It even says it has "open top". We get excited, as the sleek sportscar transformer wonder of last year made us the coolest cats around. (Except when we stalled the engine repeatedly and snagged a moped's tyre.)
Open top meant a Fiat Panda with a sun roof. The car is functional but, suffice to say, when we ask another British couple to take a photo of us, the male guwaffs, "What? With the car?" and hoots all the way to his hyundai. (As if he were any better.)
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Our first point of order is the Aqua Park in Hersonissos. I know what you're thinking - screaming kids, expensive shitty food, complete tourist trap- and you would be right. But the water games are awesome and we are pre season - an Aqualand all to ourselves with no queues? Come aaawn.
We start off with great gusto and promptly get lost. There are several roadsigns, just none that seem to point in the right direction in relation to the map. The Englishman claims there was one for sure, but I ingore his pleas and sail on down the main road until we arrive in Gouves. I seem to remember Gouves is not where we were supposed to be. We trot down to a taverna down a sleepy side street and find ourselves being the only patrons there. We share a table with a little lizard that looks like a comodo dragon, and a very talkative cat.
We intrude on the owners just as they're having their own lunch, (one elderly lady with a giant plate of meat and prawns...) but this doesn't seem to be a problem. They dish up a big bowl of greek salad, tzatziki and a plate our Souvlaki and chips, chicken charred black but tender on the inside.
"The aqualand? Ten minutes. That way" the man says, pointing in the direction we just came from. Smashing.
After some careful guidance from the Englishman, the Aqualand opens up before us in a deserted vale of golden mountains and dark green olive trees. As we thought- almost not a soul there.
The rides are fabulous, though I'm sure some of them can't possibly be safe. Now that I've arrived, I remember tall slides and crazy spinning things actually scare me. What am I doing here?
It does turn out to be great fun though. A whirlpool slide, where you're catapulted through a tube and then circle a huge drain like so much shaved hair in a tub, becomes a favourite. So are the "black holes", twisty tubes with sparkly lights inside where we ride on double rubber rings, yelling all the way down.
At the end we are battered, laughing and my elbows are blue from scraping the bottom of multicoloured slides.
In a humorously metaphorical battle, we attempt going against the current in the "lazy river" game, where you are supposed to float leisurly through a gentle river along with everybody else. Me and The Englishman decide we want to go the other way. This is harder than you think, because the current is strong that way and we have to be both inventive and have some serious stamina to get where we wanted to go. (Geddit?). We get there, though. Eventually. Oh yes.
We decide we want to go to the restaurant we fell in love with last year- David's. The faint call of a massive meal of delicious freshness with wine and dessert, all for 20 Euro for both, seems suddenly very strong.
It's surprisingly easy. We only stop once due to confusing roadsigns (Sort it out!), and are told we are in fact IN Hersonissos, where we want to be. For a moment we imagine a nightmarish journey through the winding, tiny streets of the Old Town, but we haven't driven 5 minutes when the restaurant is- THERE. Just straight in front of us. Hah! I panic about parking, but when we ask, people shrug and gesture to the road - "anywhere?" I realise I have a London mindset. Free parking along any bit of road is like a dream.
We have a walk in the sunset, The Englishman buys me a bracelet. But we can't really wait. David recognises us from last year. Or rather, if we understand his gesticulating correctly, he recognises the Englishman's bald head. Oh well!
Apart from the fact I can't drink (my tiny glass of wine has never been so enjoyed), the food is spectacular. Stewed rabbit, veal in tomato, saganaki cheese, beetroot salad, fried courgettes, grilled octopus. He brings little desserts that look inconspicuous but hide the most sumptuous amazingness; thick yoghurt with some sort of home made cherry compote and blanched almonds, (I don't even like cherry compote), and little squares of honeyed semolina tarts. I am too full to drive. But I'm going to have to; and in the dark nonetheleast.
The road proves uneventful except for a very sudden turn. Of course there is no sign to Sissi, but one to "Sissi camping" and "Malia." Doing a u- turn proves a wise decision, because by now it's pitch black. A triumphant fist is raised when we discover we are indeed on the straight path back to our hotel. Hah! Kings and queens of driving without GPS on a Greek island!
Day 7 - Some serious driving skills.
Up and about early to get to Elounda, where all those lovely pictures were from last year. My jaw is set, my mind is prepped for the task. I remember the surge in feeling as we went over the mountain.
The only thing I know for sure is: THIS year we are not going to drive through Agios Nikolaus, like last year. A winding, hilly seaside town which is impossible to navigate - no. We are determined to take the road that goes PAST it and straight on to Elounda.
Needless to say, we fail utterly. I see the sign to Elounda. I follow. I press repeat on this until the road seems to have taken us....wtf! Straight into the town. I have a minor rage fit. This town consists solely od impossible roundabouts, unclear signing, dubious u- turns and angry motorists. I miss my turn and have to go down and up tiny roads which are steep as the last push climbing Everest, and only keep it together because the Englishman remains calm and guides me through, almost giving himself a heart attack in the process. We end up where we were last time - a seaside road, leading onto Elounda. How we managed to do it again I have no idea, but at least it took less time this time round. I got so angry though. That kind of anger that is so pointless and righteous: I SAID I didn't want to come here...now we're HERE. WHY are we here? I'm not yelling at you, I'm yelling at...the person who put the signs up! Gaah!
We have another minor delay when the Englishman blanks at a petrol station and puts his PIN number in wrong 3 times, which incurs another 30 minutes in a hot car calling the UK. I am calm. He deserves me being calm after the other scenario.
The good thing is, after this, going over the mountain is a breeze. We stop over at the wonderful beds on the jettys again, only this time they want to charge us 30 Euro. We beg an hour for free and enjoy it to the full.
But it's to Plaka we want, and to Plaka we go. We locate the place we ate last year, and have a plate of fresh grilled prawns (omg) and greek salad.
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We then browse a local, wonderful jewellery shop where local artists have displayed their goods - the Englishman ends up buying me another bracelet. It's ostentatious, but we comfort ourselves it's for Cannes.
We nearly miss the boat to Spinalonga Island. This is a small islet outside Plaka, once a leper colony. It has wonderful ruins and an even more wonderful view. Upon arrival we are informed the last boat is at 4. 4?? That's 20 minutes...
We speed through the attractions, The Englishman helpfully taking a leak in some of the ruins whilst I have to cover him up when some american tourists enter, so he can hastily tuck his manliness back in his pants and confess, loudly, what wonderful detail was over in that corner.
We run in inappropriate footwear to the top of the island. The view is spectacular indeed.
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Tomb Raider 3.
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As we jump on the last boat back, there is one family left who are assured there will be another boat. They have a tired 3- year old. I don't envy them. We imagine what it would be like after an hour...two...how long before the dad will try swimming?
Deciding to have dinner in Elounda, we set off back again. That's when the rain comes. Torrential, tropical showers. The clouds had looked ominous for some time, and they didn't disappoint.
We park the car in Elounda, and have a nice moment just sitting in the drumming rain, safe in our little Panda.
When the rain stops, we go exploring and find an art gallery - abolutely wonderful pieces involving metal and local wood, much inspired by the sea.
We also find an English elderly couple who have moved here permanently and bought a bookshop. Do pop in if you go there. They have tea and great books. "Eklektos" shileded us from the rain for at least an hour.
Dinner is had at a fine dining place, the only one we visit. I don't really think it's worth it. Greek food is hearty, salty and fresh. Trying to do much fancy stuff with it doesn't really work in my experience, unless it's to lather on the price. A very nice seafood risotto though, it has to be said. And - a melting chocolate pudding.
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On the way back, someone has pissed off Zeus again. We drive through Greece's only hailstorm, ever. I say we. I did. At one point, it was pitch black, on a off- motorway road, with trucks thundering past, in the rain and hail, and my phone was ringing. It was good to get back.
Day 8 - The coach
The Englishman resolves to get as burnt as possible today. I can practically see him changing colour. We have a farewell dip in the sea, and the rest by the pool. As wonderful as it's been, it does feel like a weekend more than a holiday, due to the extreme weather and late arrival of the other 'aff.
We have a farewell meal at Neromilos - they are more than happy to serve us a massive meal with too much wine. I down it with a most excellent moussaka. Lamb is so, so good in Greece. Oppa, there's some Raki.
The coach picks us up at eight. I don't think flying at night with Easyjet is a repeatable experience, for me.
The bus driver consistently speaks on his mobile whilst driving. The one greek speaking woman informs us he has left someone behind at a hotel and they are not happy about it.
Then: The Gang arrives. We are in Malia, of course, on on board rolls no less than 6 girls, all with the same identical eye- watering shade of bleach blonde, all northern accents, all sunburnt, and most with a whooping chesty cough, signifying multi alcoholic intake and no sleep.
As far as I can gather, their trip has consisted of
A. Drinking as much as humanly possible and
B. No, that was it actually.
They laugh about how one of them was assailed by a thief and punched in the face, and how the thief eventually hobbled off, not able to handle the 6 screaming, angry northern gals. At this point, a gang of gentlemen also step on the bus. These gentlemen are older than I am, unlike the girls. They have been to a stag do. The girls greet them familiarly, having seen them about on their stumble through the streets of Malia. "How lovely you're getting married,", croons one with a hoarse whiskey- voice of a much older woman. "Didya stay faithful then?". Pause where the blokes smile and nudge each other.
"Well", the groom- to - be- answers, "I mean, what happens in Malia and all that. There was a girl I was kinda with for the week." The girls express small signs of dismay, but on the whole, agree that what happens in Malia etc. And, as this fine example of humanity himself put it, "That was the past, this is the present and my wife is the future." The girls "aahhh'd." I did not. Sure as hell glad I'm not the "future" of this prime dickwad.
By the time we reach the airport it is late. I sleepily stumble through Duty Free to get several jars of honey, the Englishman hunting for "Some sh*t that'll make me look younger."
The flight is long, and the journey home through London at 4am longer. Never has a bed been more longed for.
Though we fall asleep with the knowledge we are heading to Cannes in 2 days. Rest is for later.
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