There was another cruise ship in yesterday, smaller this time, and, by the looks, more exclusive. I watched it sending its tenders back and forth throughout the day, except for when I was varnishing furniture and painting a chest of drawers in the courtyard and the upturned kitchen, where everything is out of said drawers and piled on the table. Deserving of a break in the afternoon, I called down to the bar to find it doing rather well with locals and visitors alike, and there, I witnessed the classic, happy tourist behaviour we’ve come to know and love. Not.

A couple sits down and asks for a menu. Menu provided. After a few minutes of deliberation, they ask for mineral water (€0.50), and are asked, with or without gas? What? Repeat: With or without gas. Sparkling? I want this one. Pointing to where it says Aνθρακούχο, ‘sparkling mineral water,’ in both languages, even his own. He repeats for clarity, because the servant is not English. This one, and off goes the host to return with two bottles of sparkling mineral water (€2.50 each). Puts them down, toddles away.

Mrs and Mrs Armitage-Shanks dive merrily into their chosen drinks, speaking not a word to each other as a small part of the afternoon passes by, and then, when ready, ask for the bill. Which they then dispute, because, allegedly, they asked for still water (€.50) and they don’t want to pay the €5.00 bill for what they not only asked for, but also drank – not queried or returned, but drank. Naturally, there is some debate, the upshot of which is that Mr Armitage-Shanks flatly refuses to pay the bill, using, I suspect, that British attitude of brick-wall outrage that he could possibly be in the wrong. He was, and I’d be happy to take the stand.

It does rather make one’s blood boil when you witness stubborn, and dare I say, ignorant privilege come up against gentle Greek hospitality, especially when we are talking of €4.00. Mr Armitage-Shanks isn’t having it, though. Oh no, he expounds. We fought them on the beaches when they came ashore, and I’m out there every night with my searchlights looking for small boats, so I’ve done my bit for the invasion effort, and Johnny Foreigner no longer matters because without the Eastbourne Conservative/Reform Club, we’d all be speaking humanity and reason nonsense, and it’s high time they brought back the lunchtime entertainment at Tyburn. (All in one breath of exasperation, note.)

Of course, gentle Greek hospitality and ξενοφιλία (the appreciation of foreign people) mean nothing to Armitage-Shanks and his ilk; the Duravits from Twyford, and Miss Pyramid from number twenty-six are worse. He’s off, dragging the little woman behind, and basking in the glory of having got away with paying €1.00 for €5.00 worth of drinks.

Needless to say, I hurled some choice Anglo Saxon down the Kali Strata after them, but sadly, that’s water of a duck’s arse to the smug, and my Þū unsǣlīġe ǣrs! went unheard. Probably too busy gloating and agreeing, ‘That showed them, eh? Telling me I was wrong. Water is water…’ I expect they went muttering with glee all the way back to the harbour, and round to the tender, and back across the sea to their cruise ship. Or, maybe, to their own boat, or even to catch their day-trip ferry back to another island. To be on Symi means you have either swum very hard or spent money on a flight and a boat ticket, and what with criminals now running the world and the price of oil what it is, and thus, the price of flights what they are, to fuss over €4.00 while on a holiday millions cannot afford nor will ever know… Well, it says to me that someone’s either very twisted or very upset that the little woman dragged him away from his Sunday Sport and meat pies to try some of that foreign muck. Water with bubbles in it? Not seen that since bathtime at Dotheboys Hall.

What an utter niþing. (Excuse my Anglo-Saxon.)
Because you are in no way a gloating greed like Mr Armitage-Shanks, I will leave you with this lovely photo Neil took recently.
And breathe.

Share on Facebook

They say you never know what’s around the corner, and that’s certainly true here. You might think you know that when you pop out to the shops, spend your life savings and then head home, that as you round the corner, you’ll see the lane and the front gates, and thankfully, you do, but then, you also find the most unexpected things turning up. Last night, it was a set of shelves for the bathroom, the other day, it was this cheerful chappie.

When out for a walk, you can always find something discarded accidentally or on purpose, and single gloves appear to be popular. As our dustbin trucks take their collections up the hill and over the hill and around several next corners to the dump, things sometimes drop off the back, or are blown off. Anything substantial, and the guys pick it up on the way back, but transportation accounts for some of the whatnots you find by the main road. I think one of the most surprising things I’ve seen was a dead frog, completely ironed out and long gone to the great lily pad in the sky. The fact there was no fresh water for several miles might have had something to do with its condition, poor thing. I mean, a frog?

Not as surprising as an alien thing growing from a wall, I suppose:

Anyway… What was I going to say? Nothing of any consequence, I’m sure… We had another cruise ship in yesterday, and briefly met some of the crew who came up to the bar on a recommendation. They were a fun group grabbing a few free hours away from their passengers. I’ve not been down town for a while, so I can’t comment on how busy that may or may not be, but I have seen the day boats coming and going, and have spotted a few visitors on the lane during the mornings. The weather is heating up (24° in the courtyard yesterday), and the sun’s out. I have the rest of the chest of drawers to paint and varnish later, and now, possibly the nomadic cabinet things for the bathroom. That was, actually, expected. It’s come from Harry’s room now he’s moved out to Rhodes, and will replace the table we had in the bathroom, which is now in the courtyard, and has been temporarily replaced by the old TV stand, which we have promised to Sam, if he ever has a minute to come and pick it up, along with the TV that goes on top of it. Maybe that will finally be today because, as they say, you never know what’s around the corner.

Share on Facebook

Penny asked me the other day, ‘What’s happened to Roger?’
Roger, you may remember, is a young rock lizard living under our sofa, except now, he’s not. At least, I don’t think so. He appeared on the day we were first able to leave the front window and door open, when the weather had turned a little warmer, so I assume he wandered in, with his little rucksack on his back, and found a lovely collection of warm dust to snuggle into beneath the sofa where the vacuum cleaner can’t reach and where we rarely dare to venture. He spent a few days gathering mosquitoes about the room, inspecting behind my old trunk, behind the TV, and even exploring the kitchen. Now and then, he’d waddle across the carpet towards us, look up and around, and decide against conversation before waddling back to his home. His temporary home, because we haven’t seen him for about a week now. He’s either under the sofa sitting on eggs, or whatever they do, or has waddled four-footedly back outside into the, now, even warmer climate.

Wherever he had gone, I hope his stay hasn’t put us foul of these new temporary-letting rules, which I’ve heard about but, I am reassured, do not concern us. Electrical certificates, the number of days per year you’re legally allowed to Airbnb for (and who knows how many illegal days the personal touch leads to thereafter), and other restrictions intended to help long-term renters and first-time buyers alike. Anyone trying to find a sensibly priced long let on the island these days faces a lot of uncertainty, an uphill battle, and a greedy rent, from what I have heard. But at least Roger won’t have that to worry about as he finds a nearby rock to call home. We often see his clan from the balcony. There was one that used to compete in parkour events (solo) along the parapet of the house below, and another, larger, who used to guard the rocks covering our cat’s burial cist on the wasteland next door.

They are not the only wildlife we get to see. The swallows are back right now, as are some other migrating birds. We’ve had a pair of collared doves here for so many years they must be different pairs, but who can tell? There’s the little owl that sits on another nearby house and uses our balcony rail to watch from. Bats occasionally do a fly past as nothing more than quick, dark shadows against the night, and we’ve had a chicken raise her chicks in the inaccessible ruined garden beside the wasteland. Then, of course, there are the cats. Skulking, as they do, sleeping everywhere and anywhere, ditto digging for relief. Most of the time, though, they are hunting for something else and pass by wailing for a shag like teenage tourists in Ibiza.

As for insects and the like, yes, we have had to humanely remove Symi spiders to someone else’s property under the cover of darkness. (Only kidding, Louise.) The cockroaches (all called either Nigel or Donald) are more pesterous than lost tourists, but thankfully, less common, and they react less violently when sprayed with Teza or Raid. All manner of cute little flying things inhabit the courtyard. Although we have to dispense with the blackfly, we don’t mind the beetles, crickets or other well-known musical combos who play there, but the Ottoman viper was soon ejected. Don’t get me started on the flies. Inside the house, we have taken precautions against mosquitoes by rejuvenating the plug-in thing and keeping the hatch to the broken and now stagnant sterna closed against whatever is living down there. More roaches, probably; Linus, William, his son, James, et al.

But there we are, and here I am about to launch into chapter 18 of the next first draft, which means, it’s now time for me to bug off.

By the way, these are older, random photos because I just accidentally deleted my blog photos file, and am having to download them again from OneDrive, which will take days because that thing is so slow to do as it is told.

Share on Facebook

The weather has changed again, and yesterday, I had some things to do outside in the courtyard in the afternoon. This, of course, meant spending some time under the bed. That’s where my exclusive collection of summer clothes lives during the winter, away from dust and mould in a suitcase. I never knew I had so many pairs of shorts. I must have done some online shopping late last year and then forgotten about them, but the surprising thing is, the ones I was wearing last year still fit me this year, except, somehow, a couple of pairs have gone the other way, in that they are too big. Usually, the suitcase shrinks things over time, but not in this case. My jubilation was short-lived when I realised that I don’t have any summer shirts, only t-shirts and a couple of unrecognised ones that must have been donated at some point. If that was the case, the donor obviously meant to give them to the chandler as spares for a ship’s mainsail, because one alone could clothe half a rugby team. No idea where they came from, nor what I am going to do with them. Come to that, I’m not sure what I will wear when I can no longer leave the house in a hoodie or jumper because it’s too hot. I think soon, I will have to remind myself what is in the other suitcase, and what I can bring out of retirement from the spare wardrobe.

Of course, we do have some clothes shops on the island, but nothing at prices I can afford, and the days of wearing the latest tourist fashion are, for me, over. I simply don’t function in blue and white, or in t-shirts with my address plastered over them. Our address, according to my recent tax statement, is simply ‘Symi.’ We, like many others, live on a street with no name, and at a house with no number or title, other than that which we have invented for ourselves. I think, on one bill, the address, in translation, is ‘The house of Mrs Lady who died over 15 years ago,’ but at least I have the electricity bill in my name, although that also just says Symi.

The point of this nonsense is to address the thorny issue of having an address, which we do and we don’t. I needed to pay my graphic designer for some work, and she uses a payment thing/card/company that I don’t. Somehow, years ago, I managed to sign up for this payment method or processor, and all was fine until recently, when, for an unknown reason, they wanted me to reregister before I could access my little-used account. This means the proof of address thing has to start again, and who knows how I managed it last time. The utility bills are in Greek (and have no full address), the company wants a house number, but we don’t have one. They want something official, but won’t take things like PayPal account screenshots or other transfer and banking services. My Greek bank doesn’t print my address on the electronic statements, and the alternative there is to go to the bank and get a letter from the manager. The same goes for anything official, it’s either in Greek and the company want Latin characters, or the address is insufficient, being only ‘Symi 85600’, or the address only exists online, and screenshots won’t do. So much for paperless. My pension? Ah, now there, I can help you, except I can’t without having them send me a letter from Ireland or Malta, because my annual correspondence is now out of date (must be within the last six months). Health insurance and house insurance from Generali? In Greek. Anyway…

How I got to that from trousers under the bed, I don’t know, but that’s my early morning state of mind for you. This is just one of the issues when living on Symi permanently, and how others manage it, I don’t know. I am going to try again with my pension as that’s the only thing that has what this payment company want: a typical, normal person’s address of house number, street number and so on. I know I said we don’t have one, and we don’t, but there you go. I am sure all you helpful folk will rush forward with ideas, but I’ll save you the trouble, as I have already tried them or used them. Once, I even went to the mayor, and he signed a piece of paper, the Town Hall staff stamped it 12 times, and even that didn’t satisfy the organisation that wanted me to live at Number 1, Acacia Avenue…. Ah well, life goes on, and at least I am able to post pictures along with these first-thing rambles.

Share on Facebook

And welcome to Monday. I don’t know about you, but we get some kind of weather here every day, and this weekend was no exception. Thunder rolling around last night, some spatters of rain earlier, sunny skies before that, and not cold.

My goal for the week is to paint a chest of drawers. It will be while preparing for this and emptying the drawers that we will realise how much ‘stuff’ we keep in the kitchen. (That’s where the thing lives.) I know there are some spare sheets at the bottom, lots of baking paraphernalia, some Balti dishes, all the tea towels, and a couple of drawers full of things that might come in handy one day, which we’ve never used. I am sure I will let you know about the progress.

Meanwhile, I saw something at the weekend that helped put into perspective that age-old question, ‘What is it about Symi…?’ The answer, to my mind, is ‘All kinds of things,’ and here’s an example of what I think I mean.

Two tavernas, both alike in dignity, in fair Horio where we lay our scene… But not in grudge or at war with each other, just neighbours, and one young by comparison to the other.

The Kali Strata Restaurant has got new awnings, so diners are sheltered if it’s raining, and the place looks even smarter now, with fresh paint for the season ahead.

Next door, ‘Georgio’s (Taverna George and Maria), is a place where local workers sometimes order their lunch. If the taverna is closed when they break for siesta, they collect their orders from the Rainbow. Later, or the next day, or whenever they pass and the taverna and bar are closed, they return the packaging so it can be reused.

I just saw the two on my way to the shops the other morning, and it struck me as highlighting the wide variety of ‘things’ that make the island what it is. I don’t know, it’s six on a Monday morning, I’ve had a lie-in, and I’ve not woken up yet.

Share on Facebook