Day 5
We’re on the sun deck of the morning ferry to Ithaca waiting to depart Sami. The family next to us take out hotel breakfast boxes and start rifling through to see what they’ve got. Presumably they ticked a box the previous night, alongside the one asking if they’d like a knock on the door so they don’t have to think about having to wake themselves up either. I can’t see what they’ve got but I don’t care, because I’m too busy thinking how stupid they look, and how great I am for holding out for an indigenous Americano and pasty in Vathi.
This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed the propensity some people have for eating the moment they set foot on public transport. Especially trains. It’s not just something they do to pass the time after a spell of looking out of the window. No, it’s immediate. As if their life depends on it. When the first steam locomotives were introduced people thought they might suffocate over 30mph. I wonder whether these people think they might starve. That the train will drain every scrap of energy from their sorry arses and discard them like spent Duracell's at the next station. So it’s sit down, crack the Coke, pop the Pringles, rip open the Honey Roast Ham and get gorging.
The father is wearing a turquoise polo shirt and has a small and perfectly spherical head. There’s very little above the eyes, as though the bit that normally houses the brains has been left off. If it weren’t for the mature female mate and two normally proportioned children sitting beside him, you could easily pass him off as a grotesquely over-sized toddler. He’s bald and shiny except for a narrow shaved strip at ear height, and a couple of fleshy folds around the back. Around the front there’s a little beard-moustache combo, circling the mouth area like the muzzle of an unimaginative soft toy. His paws fumble with the play food in the box wedged in his groin, and it looks like he’s found something good to eat. By the time we pull out of the harbour they’re all munching happily; daddy bear, mummy bear and both baby bears.
On our way to Vathi, the island’s capital, we take a detour via the highest part of the island to visit Kathara Monastery. Generally speaking I never pass over an opportunity to be taken in and shown enlightenment by a spiritual community. However, when we get there we find the spiritual community has decided to hide, and there’s no one there. Save one brave soul who lingers long enough to try and sell us some organically reared goat soap before she too disappears.
Unenlightened, we move on to Vathi. Here we eat breakfast - that we have both chosen and sourced - consisting of chocolate crepes and toast with marmalade.
The marmalade turns out to be apricot jam. Julia points out that this isn’t a mistake, as in other countries marmalade often means just jam, without meaning anything to do with oranges. And actually, if you bother looking carefully at jars of marmalade you will see that it says 'orange marmalade', never just 'marmalade'.
“In that case," I ask. “Why don’t you ever get strawberry marmalade? Or blackcurrant marmalade?”
She has no answer. It seems that somewhere along the line the orange people have managed to secure exclusivity with the marmalade people, yet both have elected to keep their names on the jar. This is all very interesting until Julia points out that here we are in one of the most idyllic places in all Greece - the birthplace of Odysseus for God’s sake! - and all we can do is talk about spreads. She has a point.
On our way North from Vathi we encounter a brown sign pointing to some caves. A quick check of Google suggests they’re well worth a visit, offering caverns of Cathedral-like proportions, etc., so we go down the snaking concrete road to the bay below. At the bottom we’re greeted by a snack bar and a beach with pedaloes. Another brown sign points along the beach and, with hope firmly in my heart, and the family staying firmly put in the air conditioned car, I continue in the direction of its bidding. But there’s nothing there, other than a beach. I return to interrogate the woman in the snack bar.
“It’s a cave," she says. “You can’t see it. It’s underground.”
I withdraw for a moment. The universe she is positing is one where anything that is underground and calls itself a cave cannot be seen. Which I know, having already visited a number of caves on Kefalonia, is not the one we inhabit.
“Can’t we go inside?”
“No, way too dangerous.”
Which raises the question of why there are brown signs pointing to it in the first place. I decide it’s probably a devious ploy to attract pedalees. So we head for lunch in a pretty seaside village where, caught in one of those excursion bubbles, we come across the bear family sat under a tree looking dangerously under nourished. I wonder whether they've been given a packed lunch too, or are going to have to source their own sustenance. Presumably their rate of consumption falls when they’re not moving - just hope they've got something in their bags for the way back. I ponder offering them the remains of our cheeseburger and club sandwich to avoid any awkward decision making scenes. But decide I’d prefer to sit in the shade and watch them starve to death.
On the way back to the ferry we stop by a pebbly beach and I strip off for a swim while the family languishes under an olive tree.
“Look,” observes the youngest. “Dad’s body looks like E.T.”
“No he doesn’t,” counters my wife, defensively. “His legs are much longer.”
E.T. on stilts. I’ll take that.
Later, when we’re waiting on the pier, I see daddy bear getting off his tour bus and chatting with the rep. We’re clustered around the ice-cream machine in something resembling a giant bus stop, and can’t hear what they’re saying. I decide I need to know what nationality he is and send the eldest to scan the horizon for the ferry and have a secret listen. He returns telling me the ferry’s coming and they’re not English. One of those obscure northern European languages that nobody English knows because it's not French or German. Probably ‘Scandinavian'. Which means he’s probably got slightly more to him than I thought. He knows a foreign language for a start. And no doubt eats cold meat-based products for breakfast and lives in a house with no carpets.
We’re herded onto the ferry by a bunch of swarthy deckhands dressed like secret service operatives, complete with boots, combat trousers and dark sunglasses under a peaked cap. Luckily someone’s taken their guns off them and given them whistles instead. If it’s possible to get loaded into Guantanamo Bay, this is how it must feel.
Safely incarcerated, we head upstairs to the lounge. We don’t normally sit inside, of course, preferring to lean over the rail grinning inanely and watching where we’ve been recede into something resembling a scrubby slag heap. But this afternoon it’s too bloody hot, and our standards have slipped. I’ve even bought a Cornetto from the guy at the cafe who seems to be getting a hard time from a couple of deck hands for making shit coffee. I don’t want it, you understand, it’s just that I haven’t had one since the eighties, and so far we're failing to spend our daily Euros budget and I’m trying to get us back on track.
Bear family staggers in with what looks like the weekly shop and gets down to ingestion. They eat quickly and efficiently, with minimal talk. Like roadkill scavengers taking advantage of a momentary lull in the traffic. I watch them surreptitiously from behind my Cornetto, trying to keep track: Pork Souvlaki, fries, Greek yoghurt, ztatziki, a large bag of oregano crisps, cheese puffs, sausage rolls, Fanta and ice lollies to finish.
I’m hoping our bubble parts ways and we don’t run into them again. Given that they only eat whilst moving, I guess it’s unlikely we’ll come across them in the fashionable tavernas we frequent most evenings. I watch them role down the gangplank, still wiping the crumbs from around their muzzles. Presumably they’ll go back to their hotel and lie on their beds waiting for someone to organise another trip. And someone else to give them some food so they can go on it.
We’re on the sun deck of the morning ferry to Ithaca waiting to depart Sami. The family next to us take out hotel breakfast boxes and start rifling through to see what they’ve got. Presumably they ticked a box the previous night, alongside the one asking if they’d like a knock on the door so they don’t have to think about having to wake themselves up either. I can’t see what they’ve got but I don’t care, because I’m too busy thinking how stupid they look, and how great I am for holding out for an indigenous Americano and pasty in Vathi.
This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed the propensity some people have for eating the moment they set foot on public transport. Especially trains. It’s not just something they do to pass the time after a spell of looking out of the window. No, it’s immediate. As if their life depends on it. When the first steam locomotives were introduced people thought they might suffocate over 30mph. I wonder whether these people think they might starve. That the train will drain every scrap of energy from their sorry arses and discard them like spent Duracell's at the next station. So it’s sit down, crack the Coke, pop the Pringles, rip open the Honey Roast Ham and get gorging.
On our way to Vathi, the island’s capital, we take a detour via the highest part of the island to visit Kathara Monastery. Generally speaking I never pass over an opportunity to be taken in and shown enlightenment by a spiritual community. However, when we get there we find the spiritual community has decided to hide, and there’s no one there. Save one brave soul who lingers long enough to try and sell us some organically reared goat soap before she too disappears.
Unenlightened, we move on to Vathi. Here we eat breakfast - that we have both chosen and sourced - consisting of chocolate crepes and toast with marmalade.
The marmalade turns out to be apricot jam. Julia points out that this isn’t a mistake, as in other countries marmalade often means just jam, without meaning anything to do with oranges. And actually, if you bother looking carefully at jars of marmalade you will see that it says 'orange marmalade', never just 'marmalade'.
“In that case," I ask. “Why don’t you ever get strawberry marmalade? Or blackcurrant marmalade?”
She has no answer. It seems that somewhere along the line the orange people have managed to secure exclusivity with the marmalade people, yet both have elected to keep their names on the jar. This is all very interesting until Julia points out that here we are in one of the most idyllic places in all Greece - the birthplace of Odysseus for God’s sake! - and all we can do is talk about spreads. She has a point.
On our way North from Vathi we encounter a brown sign pointing to some caves. A quick check of Google suggests they’re well worth a visit, offering caverns of Cathedral-like proportions, etc., so we go down the snaking concrete road to the bay below. At the bottom we’re greeted by a snack bar and a beach with pedaloes. Another brown sign points along the beach and, with hope firmly in my heart, and the family staying firmly put in the air conditioned car, I continue in the direction of its bidding. But there’s nothing there, other than a beach. I return to interrogate the woman in the snack bar.
“It’s a cave," she says. “You can’t see it. It’s underground.”
I withdraw for a moment. The universe she is positing is one where anything that is underground and calls itself a cave cannot be seen. Which I know, having already visited a number of caves on Kefalonia, is not the one we inhabit.
“Can’t we go inside?”
“No, way too dangerous.”
Which raises the question of why there are brown signs pointing to it in the first place. I decide it’s probably a devious ploy to attract pedalees. So we head for lunch in a pretty seaside village where, caught in one of those excursion bubbles, we come across the bear family sat under a tree looking dangerously under nourished. I wonder whether they've been given a packed lunch too, or are going to have to source their own sustenance. Presumably their rate of consumption falls when they’re not moving - just hope they've got something in their bags for the way back. I ponder offering them the remains of our cheeseburger and club sandwich to avoid any awkward decision making scenes. But decide I’d prefer to sit in the shade and watch them starve to death.
On the way back to the ferry we stop by a pebbly beach and I strip off for a swim while the family languishes under an olive tree.
“Look,” observes the youngest. “Dad’s body looks like E.T.”
“No he doesn’t,” counters my wife, defensively. “His legs are much longer.”
E.T. on stilts. I’ll take that.
Later, when we’re waiting on the pier, I see daddy bear getting off his tour bus and chatting with the rep. We’re clustered around the ice-cream machine in something resembling a giant bus stop, and can’t hear what they’re saying. I decide I need to know what nationality he is and send the eldest to scan the horizon for the ferry and have a secret listen. He returns telling me the ferry’s coming and they’re not English. One of those obscure northern European languages that nobody English knows because it's not French or German. Probably ‘Scandinavian'. Which means he’s probably got slightly more to him than I thought. He knows a foreign language for a start. And no doubt eats cold meat-based products for breakfast and lives in a house with no carpets.
We’re herded onto the ferry by a bunch of swarthy deckhands dressed like secret service operatives, complete with boots, combat trousers and dark sunglasses under a peaked cap. Luckily someone’s taken their guns off them and given them whistles instead. If it’s possible to get loaded into Guantanamo Bay, this is how it must feel.
Safely incarcerated, we head upstairs to the lounge. We don’t normally sit inside, of course, preferring to lean over the rail grinning inanely and watching where we’ve been recede into something resembling a scrubby slag heap. But this afternoon it’s too bloody hot, and our standards have slipped. I’ve even bought a Cornetto from the guy at the cafe who seems to be getting a hard time from a couple of deck hands for making shit coffee. I don’t want it, you understand, it’s just that I haven’t had one since the eighties, and so far we're failing to spend our daily Euros budget and I’m trying to get us back on track.
Bear family staggers in with what looks like the weekly shop and gets down to ingestion. They eat quickly and efficiently, with minimal talk. Like roadkill scavengers taking advantage of a momentary lull in the traffic. I watch them surreptitiously from behind my Cornetto, trying to keep track: Pork Souvlaki, fries, Greek yoghurt, ztatziki, a large bag of oregano crisps, cheese puffs, sausage rolls, Fanta and ice lollies to finish.
I’m hoping our bubble parts ways and we don’t run into them again. Given that they only eat whilst moving, I guess it’s unlikely we’ll come across them in the fashionable tavernas we frequent most evenings. I watch them role down the gangplank, still wiping the crumbs from around their muzzles. Presumably they’ll go back to their hotel and lie on their beds waiting for someone to organise another trip. And someone else to give them some food so they can go on it.
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