On Saturday, Neil opened a humorous yet important can of worms on social media which, today, I am going to spread on toast and pass around for general amusement. I’d like to thank Neil for giving me the idea for this post, and Ola, who put up an image that inspired me to do the same thing, as you will see. The subject of today’s nonsense?

Google Maps. Don’t bother.

As Neil said in his original post, “To anybody who comes to Symi on holiday. Please stop using Google maps.” He then goes on to recount a couple of episodes where, for example, this kind of scene plays out:

A tourist appears outside the bar, head down over his phone, giving the occasional glance upwards but not looking at the views, and by he passes. A few minutes later, the same creature returns, only with more of an expression of bewilderment than before. He stands looking at the door to the upstairs apartments and compares it to his phone. We watch awhile, knowing full well what is taking place. The tourist completes a 360° turn and continues to stare at the door. Neil offers assistance, and the tourist swears blind there should be a path where the building stands. Obviously, there is not. ‘There is,’ he insists because his phone has told him so. Well, clearly there is no path here, nor has there ever been – at least not in the 20+ years we have worked at the bar. Perhaps it is the lane beside the next bar? That exists. No. he is adamant. Google clearly shows a lane directing him to reach Pedi via either the Rainbow Bar or Noufris’ front room above. Oh, fair enough then. Good luck.

Similar incidents occur in other places. For example, a young couple on a hired moped arrive outside the Kali Strata restaurant having reached the end of the lane, and realise they are faced with 300 + steps, not, as their Google maps promises, a road. ‘Can we drive down there?’ Well, over the years, I’ve seen Lefteris when younger go down on his trials bike, but it did it no good, and I’ve seen a digger coming up the steps (which did the steps no good), so yeah, go for it. Alternatively, you could use an accurate paper map which you can buy online before you leave home, or perhaps from some local shops (I’m not sure, tbh).

Here’s what Ola inspired me to do for you. I asked Google Maps the best way to drive from the Kali Strata restaurant where one godson works, to Pavone café, where the other one is the chef, and here’s the route:

So, drive down 300 + steps (completely misnamed on Google Maps) until you squeeze your vehicle past the Old Markets and the accountant, and drive along the harbour front, past the town square, up the slope towards Nimborio, then around the bend, across the hillside, and down 89 steps to the back of the police station, and there you will be able to take advantage of the ample parking facilities. Not. You will, though, be able to take advantage of one of the island’s car mechanics and get your vehicle put back together. As they say in social media speak, wtf?

To be fair, the fault lies within the map, but to be even fairer, people should know better, and not rely on their phones for guidance. Can you imagine saying that a few years ago? ‘Dad, how do I get to Romford?’ ‘Ask your phone.’

Not long after I passed my driving test, I wanted to drive to Clapham, London, to visit my uncle. I’d done this journey several times as a passenger, but never before on my own. Nor had I driven on a motorway before, and I was to attempt the journey in a beaten-up Renault 4; ambition enough for any man. I asked my dad (who’d been a rally driver in the TAP/RAC rallies among others) for directions, and he did that dad thing: ‘Across the marsh to Ashford, A20, M20, keep the sun on your right and turn left at Lewisham.’ And off I went with a visual map in my head. Simple. (The Renault 4 managed a bone-shaking 55 miles per hour on the motorway. I was well impressed.)

I just typed New Romney into Google Maps, having Pavone café already selected, so I unwittingly got the route from my home town to Sam’s work place. Some details: I drive to Dover and from there, apparently, I drive across the channel to Calais, thence to Bruges where I stop to admire the architecture, and continue on to Brussels, which I skirt. Thence, to Bonn, Frankfurt, Nurenberg, and 20 hours later I reach Graz. Maribor, Zagreb, Slavonski Brod, Belgrade, and somewhere unpronounceable follow, then Nis, Sofia, Tekirdag, and once again, FAB 1 takes me across the water, this time the Sea of Marmara to Bandirma. From there, through Turkey to Izmir, Bodrum, water wings out to skim over to Kos, thence to Nisiros and Tilos (Say hello to Maria), round the back of Nimos and into the harbour. The last leg is simple: past the town square, up the hill, turn left and… oops! After 2,231 miles and 41 hours, those darn 89 steps foil me at the last moment.

As they will you if you rely on your phone to guide you around a village/town which hasn’t been very accurately mapped by the Geographical Society or anyone with real intelligence, let alone artificial.

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Maybe the title should be, ‘Not wishing to open old wounds.’ I don’t want to take sides either, merely observe, because that is what I do, and perhaps, to offer a warning. Well, I’ve been unusually vociferous these past few days, so in for a penny, in for a bag of them, I say.

Wednesday this week. I went down to wave some people off on the boat. I mean, they were on the boat, not me. I waved from ashore. This was where the Sebeco boats pull in at the bottom of the miss-named Lazy Steps (which are actually further along the harbour). The boat was due to leave at 10.40 and arrived about 15 minutes before this packed with day-trippers and tour groups. I stood in the shade behind the parked cars away from the road, which was half taken up by minibuses waiting for passengers and pilgrims alike, as were a few transfer cars, and a small gathering of departing visitors.

The port authorities had all this under control, with a barrier behind which the departing can wait on the pavement. As the boat arrived the keen rushed to be first in the queue, only to spend the next 20 minutes in the glare of the sun while waiting for the boat to empty.

Here’s a Symi tip: It’s not going to go without you. Wait in the shade until you are called across, or at least until the last of several hundred people have alighted. That’s one thing, the next is what happens there at this time of day.

The boat empties and confusion ensues. Mainly confusion among the arrivals, looking to see where they are going, looking for their rep, wondering which bus might be for them, and meanwhile gawping at the scenery while those in the know try to herd them away. All this blocks the road, much to the annoyance of drivers trying to get into and out of the harbour, and in that, I include mopeds, private cars, working vehicles, taxis, and at the height of scrummage, the bus.

Madness. Complete and unavoidable. Or is it? (That’s the debate I don’t want to get into.)

That’s one thing, and apparently, this happens on Mondays and Wednesdays but is not so bad on other days. Another thing, though, is what Alan Sillitoe might have called, ‘The Ignorance of the Long-Distance Tour Guide.’ No disrespect, mate, but if you are going to herd 60 people, all wearing identical blue caps, around an island, and you want to gather them in one place before setting off, don’t use the bloody bus stop, yeah? And if you do, when you see a great big yellow thing reversing gradually towards you and your charges, take the bleedin’ hint, yeah? No good saying, ‘I won’t keep you long,’ when the bus is at an angle across the street, blocking the cars and trucks, and it’s pretty obvious this isn’t a cattle pen but a parking space for a necessary service. Sheesh! It took Neil a good bellow of ‘It’s a bus stop, malaka!’ before some dared break off from the herd realising they would soon be beneath the wheels, and yet you still say, ‘I shan’t keep you much longer.’

It’d be funny if it so wasn’t.

This observation, of course, raises the thorny issue of cars, roads, and traffic in general, and how there is too much of it. I hate to return to the visiting Armitage Shanks family of Reformton, but we have, for years, listened to complaints of how ‘Cars are ruining my island,’ trilled as a threat, and ‘There are too many vehicles now. I shan’t be coming back.’ Trilled as a promise. (That’s one less vehicle we’ll need then, bravo.) In the winter? Not a problem. In the summer when off-islanders pour in and bring their cars… Well, that is a different matter. Add in the nine or more day-trip boats a day, the multitude of hire cars and mopeds, the fleets of new tour busses, and the day-to-day deliveries and working of the island, and subtract the amount of road space and parking space, and what we have is a recipe for a disaster of some sort, and certainly one for the climate.

Which then raises the next question of what can be done about it? Ay, there’s the rub.

If you ban traffic at certain hours, you cut off deliveries and supplies. You can’t say, ‘Deliveries only between 8.00 and 16.00’, for example, because deliveries often rely on boats, and not all go to the Petini port. You could widen roads and somehow make more parking spaces, but that only invites more vehicles until you’re forced to do it again, and the island becomes nothing more than a motorist’s convenience.

I don’t know what the answer is, and I don’t want to debate it. It’s up to the municipality, and I am sure they are doing what they can. I don’t drive, I don’t live in the harbour, and I spend most of my time up here, so it’s not my place to say the ubiquitous ‘They’ should do this or that. I can only sit and watch, as I did on Monday night, while someone parked on a corner causing an instant tailback in both directions, police involvement, flared tempers and quite a spectacle which, although I enjoyed the entertainment, would have done nothing to impress visitors.

It reminded me of a radio play I once didn’t write because I didn’t know how, but it started with the premise: What if there was more length of vehicle on the road than there was length of road? Well, at times, it looks like that’s what we’re soon going to have, if we don’t have it already.

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Dear, gentle reader…

I find myself in the unenviable position of having what is now commonly known as an ‘early start.’ That is, being woken at a premature hour from sounds within the household which, due to their persistence, have kept me from sleep since one o’clock this morning. My condition of insomnia has not, as some might think, been caused by the controversy yesterday’s eatery discussion has caused among the Ton, but by a rather talkative husband unable to differentiate wakefulness from hypnagogia.

That aside, I find myself at your most early convenience, alert of mind and aural capacity, and taking tea at a most unusual hour in the drawing room. This, being the ‘season’, all households of decent society must throw wide the windows and French doors to accommodate the heat, and thus, I lay myself open to the sounds from without the house: the sounds of very early morning. One might say the sounds of the children of the night. What music they make.

Music, that is, as pours forth from what we shall call White’s, the gentlemen’s club across the harbour, so enthusiastic in its revelry at two in the morning. This, however, is not unpleasant or cause for alarm, being only audible when the doors are flung wide, and even then, the ensuing music is reticent. It must be, for I can also hear the lap of waves against the quayside some two-hundred feet below to the north, a most comforting sound. Or, it would be, if not accompanied by the inescapable strains of ‘Happy Birthday’, and I speak here not of the established rendering, but of an altogether more modern (and some would say, failed) attempt to refashion the trusty favourite.

I do not have to sit listening for long before the unmatched sounds of a society ball and the movement of the sea are overcome by something of even more interest, that of an unusual bird call. At first, one might be forgiven for thinking it is the ‘Manos Parot’ of Yialos fame, but it is more local. It is also repetitive and clearly the call of a night bird, though not of the owl. Had we them on the island, I might venture a fox, though only half a fox cry, as I remember them from my rural youth. I tried, dear reader, to capture the sound on the Samsung phonograph, but alas, as is often the way of fortune, no sooner had I readied the machine to record, than the unusual sounds ceased. I am reminded of the words from Sondheim’s entertainment, ‘Into the Woods’: Opportunity is not a length visitor.

This interruption of the bird’s song may have been due to youth. Not the youth of the bird in question, but the no-doubt male youth and his conviction that the louder the thing between one’s legs, the larger the general public assumes it to be. I can assure the child in question, that not only is one not impressed with the volume of his motorised velocipede, but one is also unimpressed by the lengths to which he goes to advertise his lack of manners and manhood. To cause carburettish clamour for one length of the harbour wall may be considered excusable, but to repeat the unnecessity at length sounds like affliction. A disorder that suggests the youth in question needs more attention than he deserves. To this author’s mind, he deserves the indispensable attention of our most diligent of authorities to, perhaps, take away his new toy and replace it with something that would endear the offender to public respect rather than ridicule. They have plenty of opportunity to advance upon the being, for his chorus of cacophonic clamour begins on the far side of the harbour, and seemingly lasts until he has reached the upper village some fifteen minutes later.

After this nocturnal nuisance, now since faded, we are left with the gentle lapping outside, the unwanted persistence of a mosquito inside, and the ramblings of the sleeping husband in the next room. Thus, I turn my attention to the page and pen, aware that this is not my usual quick note on events of the day, but something far more pompous written in a state of somnambulistic stupor. Rest assured, dear reader, that a more traditional service will be resumed on these pages before long.

Ps. Yes, I have been watching Bridgeton. Yes, only three hours sleep. Yes, the photos are unrelated.

Pps. I don’t care.

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Following on from yesterday’s taster, let’s again talk food.

Of late, on Facebook groups and probably others to which I am not privy, there has been some dissent in the ranks, concerning this fact: We now have an Indian restaurant on Symi.

Oh my word/days/life/god/whatever! You’d have thought it was the end of the world. I can’t remember the last time the blue skies over the island were so filled with the sounds of weeping and wailing, the gnashing of dentures, and the rustle of crinoline as pearls are clutched so tightly to the bosom. An Indian restaurant… on Symi? ‘We don’t want this.’ ‘It’s only for the English.’ ‘Never before has such a crime against my personage been so been foisted upon…. I can hardly speak for outrage.’

Get over it, people.

You know, I don’t often sound off about naysayers, but when you hear (or when, as has happened, you are confronted as though everything was your fault), that this spells the end of Greekness, and when you have to listen to things such as the above and ‘We don’t want Indian food on holiday in Greece’ there comes a point when one cracks like a poppadom.

Right. If you don’t want something different when on holiday, don’t go there. No disrespect to any of the fine eateries on the island, nor to the nation’s cuisine, but if you actually lived on the island 24/7/365 rather than thinking you own it for your two weeks a year, you crave for something other than meat and chips, Greek salad and bread.

Which is what George and I did on Monday; we wanted something different for our evening out and so, booked a table. We weren’t the first to arrive, although we were early, there were four Greek people on one table… read that again you would be Reformers… four local, Symi-Greek people were there enjoying their dinner. Later, a table of ten very regular visitors arrived, plus others. My godson was there, and apart from being born and brought up on the island, he’s also a chef for another establishment, and he was having a great meal. As did we.

I’m not one for photographing me dinner, but I got a quick snap before the other dish arrived. Each one was perfect, very tasty, and well presented, the meat was succulent, and had I been a judge on Australian MasterChef, or a pretentious food critic, I would have said something like: The combination of spices played a complicated yet satisfying polyphony which underscored the moistness of the meat, itself a symphony of harmonic taste agreement which resulted in a perfect cadence of gorgeousness… or some other such claptrap. It was lovely, and not costly either.

It’s at the back of the town square, so not on the harbour front affronting grumpy casual visitors, it’s opposite the children’s play park, next to the courier, ACS, which you can’t miss because that building is a lovely vibrant red. If you’re thinking of going, I’d advise booking because it’s already a very popular place, and the phone number is on the menu which I’ll post below. (English is spoken, so even Mrs Armitage-Shanks of Reformton will be able to make herself understood, not that she’ll go there.)

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Yesterday seemed to be all about food, floods and feasting. Oh, and fabulous things. After a morning at home with me hassling Amazon to get on and release the next book (and being told it will happen, just be patient), I prepared myself for my piano student’s end-of-season recital. This year, he was to play for his dad for the first time ever, so we were both a little nervous, even if a) I didn’t say so because I didn’t want to add to his nervousness, and b), he didn’t say so because he’s a teenager. We had a play through, decided there was nothing more to do, and talked about boats and the view while we waited for the audience. It (they?) arrived, we started with a swing duet, then he went solo for a grade four exam piece still in progress, the song he wrote during our theory and song-writing sessions, and finished Beethoven’s Fur Elise. The result: a proud teacher/god dad, proud dad, proud student and rightly so. Fabulous.

This, btw, was after the flood of the morning when I did some washing and had to empty the machine manually because the pump wasn’t working. Every spare towel in the house is now hanging up to dry as the only way to empty the thing is to drain it on to the floor. Strangely, when I did a second wash, the thing worked perfectly, just like it used to, but like it hasn’t for the last two weeks. We’ll try it again later and see what happens. Hopefully, it was a blockage that’s now moved on ‘cos there’s no way I can afford another machine. Strangely, the laundry room now smells of drains, which it’s not done for a while, so it seems we either have a non-functioning machine, or we have the smell of the drains. You can’t have everything.

As for the food and feasting, that was a trip to the new Indian restaurant in Yialos. My nephew and I went there last night while Neil entertained Mother in the village, allowing us some ‘Neph & Unck’ time. I will do a longer post about this tomorrow. Apart from the food, which was amazing, it was also good to see godson two was in town with his dad, and we were able to have a quick chat, which included me telling him off for not wearing a crash helmet when on his moped.

I’m not sure what’s going to be on the menu today, as it’s a stay-home day and there’s nothing much left in the fridge. A shopping expedition might be on the cards…

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