Day 6
It seems that as a family we can only maintain our interest in something for five days. Sometimes in the UK we can use the weather as an excuse and go home early. Not here. So we all sit on the balcony overlooking the wooded slopes of beautiful Kefalonia as the goat bells jingle and the cicadas rattle, but our minds are all somewhere else. It feels like the holiday’s over, but we’re still here. That we’ve gone home in every sense other than actually going home. Which is going to happen tomorrow. Someone has switched the enthusiasm switch off: we do not want to eat, nor do we want to swim. And seeing as that is pretty much all we’ve done for the last five days, we’re at a bit of a loss.
To liven things up the youngest drops half an oregano crisp on the floor and we all watch the ants carry it off. I wonder what we’re going to do when it’s safely down the hole under the kitchen window.
There have been other signs that it’s time to go. This morning I drove, albeit fleetingly, on the left-hand side of the road. And put some toilet paper down the toilet. This was not so easily fixed, and I pressed the flusher with some trepidation, praying that this solitary piece of toilet paper wouldn’t single-handedly clog the entire Kefalonian sewerage system, leading, no doubt, to public disgrace and a lengthy custodial sentence. It didn’t (perhaps these things take time?) but still I get the feeling it's over.
I notice an injured ant next to my left sandal. I think I may have trodden on it; it’s clearly mangled and twitching slightly. Every now and again another patrolling ant comes across it. They seem to exchange a few words, then it moves on. If they can manage half a crisp I wonder why they can’t take the injured ant down the hole. But I know from Jeff Goldblum that the world of insects is a cruel one. The ant makes a final effort to stand up but succeeds in doing nothing more than simply revolving slowly on the spot.
Still, it could be worse. We could be here for a fortnight.
Later, on the way back to the apartment, I put diesel in the hire car. It was 3/4 full when we picked it up and has to go back the same. We’re down close to empty and based on our one previous experience of refuelling that week I estimate it’ll take €40 to reach the 3/4 mark - or a little over to allow for the drive to the airport. Julia says €30 will do it, but I override her as I’ve been doing the driving and so have more of a feel for it. And anyway, we don’t want to have to stop again to put more in. That would almost certainly result in over filling it, leaving us out of pocket and playing into the conniving hands of the hire company. The €40 fills it up. But that’s okay, I think. We’ve still got to drive back to the apartment. And then to the airport.
I can’t help it, but I find my driving technique changes almost immediately. I stop using fourth gear and select to take the long uphill hauls in second. In fact in every detail I begin driving exactly like my mother. I suggest we take a detour along some new roads to see if we can find Julia some more shrines. She’s only got eleven, and I suggest she needs at least sixteen for a good shrine montage. As if I know. So we meander uneconomically home, but still the petrol gauge refuses to fall.
When we got back I leave the engine running for a while, ostensibly to keep the air con on while I clean out the car. And then for a while after I’ve finished, for no good reason at all. But still the gauge doesn’t change.
The following morning I use Apple maps to calculate the best least direct route to the airport, taking us through the hitherto unvisited wine growing region of the island and, of course, to spot some more shrines. Finally, after an hour of what is supposed to be a 30-minute journey, one block disappears on the gauge in a sure sign that we are at last beginning to use fuel. But on the next uphill section it comes back. Damn it.
By the time we reach the car hire place next to the airport I’ve managed to coax away only one additional block and it will take another two to bring it down to 3/4. But unfortunately we’ve run out of anywhere else to go, and time to go there. I leave the engine running and go in to find the attendant. He’s busy outside handing out identical white Nissans to newly arrived Brits. He comes across and we perform the ritual of walking around the car together to check for damage. Then he gets in and checks the gauge.
“Thank God for that!” he exclaims. What? He’s got the bloody nerve to show pleasure in the fact that I’ve returned a car with more blocks of fuel than it had when we got it. Is it really such a big deal to him? As big as it was to me?
“Yeh, couldn’t get it down. Really tried…” I add, with irony. At this the eldest grimaces behind his braces and wanders off in embarrassment.
“Now I want you to go,” says the hire man. I assume he means we’re free to go rather than he can’t stand the site of us anymore. We’ve just played into his conniving hands after all. I pull the case out of the boot and catch up with the eldest, who seems to have taken it upon himself to get as far away as possible from what I thought was a very smooth and well executed transaction.
“He was talking about the temperature in the car - getting out of the heat. Not the fuel, dumb-ass! Why is it always so cringeful when you talk to a Greek?”
Normally I’d chastise him for calling me a dumb-ass, but I realise on this occasion I’m getting off lightly.
@jesoverthinksit
For more tales from Kefalonia take a trip to:
It seems that as a family we can only maintain our interest in something for five days. Sometimes in the UK we can use the weather as an excuse and go home early. Not here. So we all sit on the balcony overlooking the wooded slopes of beautiful Kefalonia as the goat bells jingle and the cicadas rattle, but our minds are all somewhere else. It feels like the holiday’s over, but we’re still here. That we’ve gone home in every sense other than actually going home. Which is going to happen tomorrow. Someone has switched the enthusiasm switch off: we do not want to eat, nor do we want to swim. And seeing as that is pretty much all we’ve done for the last five days, we’re at a bit of a loss.
To liven things up the youngest drops half an oregano crisp on the floor and we all watch the ants carry it off. I wonder what we’re going to do when it’s safely down the hole under the kitchen window.
There have been other signs that it’s time to go. This morning I drove, albeit fleetingly, on the left-hand side of the road. And put some toilet paper down the toilet. This was not so easily fixed, and I pressed the flusher with some trepidation, praying that this solitary piece of toilet paper wouldn’t single-handedly clog the entire Kefalonian sewerage system, leading, no doubt, to public disgrace and a lengthy custodial sentence. It didn’t (perhaps these things take time?) but still I get the feeling it's over.
I notice an injured ant next to my left sandal. I think I may have trodden on it; it’s clearly mangled and twitching slightly. Every now and again another patrolling ant comes across it. They seem to exchange a few words, then it moves on. If they can manage half a crisp I wonder why they can’t take the injured ant down the hole. But I know from Jeff Goldblum that the world of insects is a cruel one. The ant makes a final effort to stand up but succeeds in doing nothing more than simply revolving slowly on the spot.
Still, it could be worse. We could be here for a fortnight.
Later, on the way back to the apartment, I put diesel in the hire car. It was 3/4 full when we picked it up and has to go back the same. We’re down close to empty and based on our one previous experience of refuelling that week I estimate it’ll take €40 to reach the 3/4 mark - or a little over to allow for the drive to the airport. Julia says €30 will do it, but I override her as I’ve been doing the driving and so have more of a feel for it. And anyway, we don’t want to have to stop again to put more in. That would almost certainly result in over filling it, leaving us out of pocket and playing into the conniving hands of the hire company. The €40 fills it up. But that’s okay, I think. We’ve still got to drive back to the apartment. And then to the airport.
I can’t help it, but I find my driving technique changes almost immediately. I stop using fourth gear and select to take the long uphill hauls in second. In fact in every detail I begin driving exactly like my mother. I suggest we take a detour along some new roads to see if we can find Julia some more shrines. She’s only got eleven, and I suggest she needs at least sixteen for a good shrine montage. As if I know. So we meander uneconomically home, but still the petrol gauge refuses to fall.
When we got back I leave the engine running for a while, ostensibly to keep the air con on while I clean out the car. And then for a while after I’ve finished, for no good reason at all. But still the gauge doesn’t change.
The following morning I use Apple maps to calculate the best least direct route to the airport, taking us through the hitherto unvisited wine growing region of the island and, of course, to spot some more shrines. Finally, after an hour of what is supposed to be a 30-minute journey, one block disappears on the gauge in a sure sign that we are at last beginning to use fuel. But on the next uphill section it comes back. Damn it.
By the time we reach the car hire place next to the airport I’ve managed to coax away only one additional block and it will take another two to bring it down to 3/4. But unfortunately we’ve run out of anywhere else to go, and time to go there. I leave the engine running and go in to find the attendant. He’s busy outside handing out identical white Nissans to newly arrived Brits. He comes across and we perform the ritual of walking around the car together to check for damage. Then he gets in and checks the gauge.
“Thank God for that!” he exclaims. What? He’s got the bloody nerve to show pleasure in the fact that I’ve returned a car with more blocks of fuel than it had when we got it. Is it really such a big deal to him? As big as it was to me?
“Yeh, couldn’t get it down. Really tried…” I add, with irony. At this the eldest grimaces behind his braces and wanders off in embarrassment.
“Now I want you to go,” says the hire man. I assume he means we’re free to go rather than he can’t stand the site of us anymore. We’ve just played into his conniving hands after all. I pull the case out of the boot and catch up with the eldest, who seems to have taken it upon himself to get as far away as possible from what I thought was a very smooth and well executed transaction.
“He was talking about the temperature in the car - getting out of the heat. Not the fuel, dumb-ass! Why is it always so cringeful when you talk to a Greek?”
Normally I’d chastise him for calling me a dumb-ass, but I realise on this occasion I’m getting off lightly.
@jesoverthinksit
For more tales from Kefalonia take a trip to:
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