So, it’s been a while, guys, hasn’t it? Sorry.
Babe came down with foot and mouth when we got back from holiday. Well, the nurse at NHS direct said it wasn’t actually, but the spots on his mouth, soles and palms were exactly like the ones I found on the web (so to speak), and he really wasn’t very well. So as far as I’m concerned, that’s what he had – especially as I know there have been one or two outbreaks at nursery recently. Nice.
I am writing this against the clock, as Other Half has taken Babe off while I cook the tea, to find me a hot water bottle. God knows how I lost the two I had, but I have, and I am freezing. In fact I have been ill and shivery for nearly a fortnight, and going to bed very early every night. Hence the absence of blogging. Now Other Half is feeling ill and acting as though he’s on death’s door, despite absence of temperature and ability to go to gym for ‘medicinal sauna’ and watch TV ‘til the early hours each night.
Why are most men so utterly crap when they’re ill? It’s like they’re goading you into telling them they are annoying, useless idiots so that they can slink off with the hump and end up watching TV in bed. Grrrrrrr, I don’t know. (Any men reading who feel annoyed by this, please search deep into your innermost beings and then tell me, hand on heart, that it’s not true.)
Now Babe is unwell again too. It’s all go. Incidentally, my sister gave me a ‘bloggers egg-timer’ for my birthday, to help encourage me to write more often and limit how long I spend on it.
So, what of import do I have to share with you? Precious little actually. I have, as usual, been questioning my life’s path and the obvious mistakes I have made. I’ve been having quite a lot of anxiety dreams about work, including one particularly nasty one in which I was back at Uni – in Italy, for some reason, thinking I should jack it all in and start afresh, studying law as my mum had wanted me to. I woke with an exhausted groan, wondering where and how I should start, before I realised that I am a wife and mother with Responsibilities, and a career path that has not been without direction if not hugely successful.
A very dear friend and honorary sister (we both consider ourselves honoured) has moved from working as a volunteer supervised by me, to writing GB’s answers for PM’s question time. So, suffice to say that news of this has urged me to once again consider what I am doing with my skills and talents, and wonder in what new and exciting direction I and my appendages could move.
The construction industry has frozen up and Other Half has not worked since we got back from holiday. He can’t find anything at all, and to say we are stressed about money would be an understatement. Given the fact that I feel nothing short of a red hot poker is going to get me making a career move, that some unhappy decisions are making me feel unhappy at work, the fact that Other Half is without work, and the fact that I am so unbelievably bloody cold, I am wondering if we should rent out our house and move to Greece, where it’s easier to live in poverty and one can at least stay warm. Although I fear that if I left the UK job market, I wouldn’t know how to return to it. There are plenty of people half my age at work who could do my job much better than I can. Motherhood has robbed me of so much more grey matter than I care to admit.
I am in the meantime, considering becoming one of those people who lead humanist funerals, on the advice of another dear friend whose opinions I admire and respect. Incidentally, these references to ‘dear’ friends must be quite annoying, but I feel that in these days of meaningless Facebook friendships, I need to draw some distinctions in the terminology I’m using.
So, while you all smile at the thought, or groan, or whatever, I am going to google that very thing, for more info, before the men in my life (god, I wish there were a few more) return.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Mad cows and Albanianmen
Apologies for not sticking to my 'two posts per week' promise lately. As you might have guessed, our holiday got pretty hairy, and Babe has had mad cow disease since we got back.
When I left you last, I was hoping that our car would be fixed when I got home. It nearly was, but we didn't know this, we were just worried sick as Other Half had left the house three hours earlier with a restless Babe and not yet returned. So his mum - who can barely walk and stops every three paces and jolts backwards, arching and pawing at her spine and gasping for breath - grabbed me by the arm, put her best jacket on and grabbed her huge, black, patent (and empty) handbag, and announced that we were going to look for him. She had an idea that if we walked up a particular road far enough, we would find him.
I didn't have the energy to refuse, so off we set. You can imagine what we looked like. I'm sure her grimaces and stretches were particularly exaggerated that day, so that she could explain to the many onlookers that the blonde with her was her English daughter-in-law. And add the entire story of our holiday so far that lead us to be walking up the road we were. And then ask at the end if anyone knew of a mechanic.
It wasn't filling me with confidence, I have to say, but eventually we did arrive at the top, and there was our car. Result! I understood the mechanic to say that Other Half had left half an hour earlier, but that the car was now ready for me to drive home. Bravo! Before I had time to explain that I hadn't actually driven on the right before and wasn't familiar with the one-way system and that I'm not really a confident driver, my mother-in-law had jumped in. Whatever. I joined her and started the car up. Three wrong turns and two jumped sets of red lights and a lot of shouting later, we arrived home, triumphant! And beeped the horn a lot :).
The next day we went off on our own to Other Half's dad's hometown. Not a day too soon. Saturday was spent with more family members who'd arrived to see us. And that evening, Other Half drove off to the border (the nearer crossing, to see where it was) to collect two nephews that wanted to see Babe.
I knew when he drove off, that something would go wrong. He got back close to midnight, the clutch having played up again, and he'd had to drive for two hours in second gear. It was supposedly fixed on the Sunday (by same mechanic - I forgot to mention that his breath stank of alcohol). And went again on the Monday. On the Wednesday, he re-fitted the old cylinder, saying that the new one was too small. For Pete's sake! (I am trying to reduce the number of expletives I use.)
He invited me to wait in his home and see some technical documents of car engines that his grandfather had drawn. (That 'honourary man' thing was kicking in again...) I embarrassed Other Half by saying in very basic Albanian: 'Look. I am not happy. I now have three clutch cylinders and the two new ones it seems I don't need. You told me to buy them. Now I have no money. I have a long journey ahead of me, to endure with a small child and a moron. This has not been a holiday, it has been a trip into hell. I beg you to fix my car now and I will send you a full set of Manchester United T-shirts when I return to my homeland.'
He got the drift and the car has got us home, but I dread to think what the service it is due will reveal.
We left on the Friday. I won't bore you with the intermittent detail. It includes a few happy hours on the beach, too much socialising with family members, and I spent four nights alone in a hotel across the road which was sheer bliss. I think we were all ready to leave, and I think the family were glad to see the back of me. Other Half said I had been a total pain in the arse, as usual. I think I did well to survive.
The journey home was 'seat of your pants' style - as is it tends to be, when Other Half is involved. Driving to the Greek border at dawn was incredibly beautiful though - through tiny villages, the scent of wild tea, thyme and origano in the air, and you even have to use a raft to cross a river at one point. Then we were hurtling along Greek roads - I've always thought of Greece as the back of beyond, but by comparison, it's like entering the gardens at Buckingham Palace. We joined the queue for the ferry to Venice with 20 mins to spare, but were told as we handed our tickets over to board, that we needed to drive back to the terminal building as we hadn't reserved our cabin. More sodding charges later, we ended up with a lovely cabin at the very front of the ship. In fact the captain called me at night-fall, asking me to close the curtains, so it seems we weren't the only ones with a good view.
The drive back was hell - although we did stop at Lake Como for lunch which was nice. And saw our friends in Switzerland which was wonderful but too brief, and before we knew it we were home again. And despite my fears, the trip does come highly recommended. If nothing else, because it felt like we were away for months, and boy, was I glad to get back...
More soon, on Babe. He's fine ;)
When I left you last, I was hoping that our car would be fixed when I got home. It nearly was, but we didn't know this, we were just worried sick as Other Half had left the house three hours earlier with a restless Babe and not yet returned. So his mum - who can barely walk and stops every three paces and jolts backwards, arching and pawing at her spine and gasping for breath - grabbed me by the arm, put her best jacket on and grabbed her huge, black, patent (and empty) handbag, and announced that we were going to look for him. She had an idea that if we walked up a particular road far enough, we would find him.
I didn't have the energy to refuse, so off we set. You can imagine what we looked like. I'm sure her grimaces and stretches were particularly exaggerated that day, so that she could explain to the many onlookers that the blonde with her was her English daughter-in-law. And add the entire story of our holiday so far that lead us to be walking up the road we were. And then ask at the end if anyone knew of a mechanic.
It wasn't filling me with confidence, I have to say, but eventually we did arrive at the top, and there was our car. Result! I understood the mechanic to say that Other Half had left half an hour earlier, but that the car was now ready for me to drive home. Bravo! Before I had time to explain that I hadn't actually driven on the right before and wasn't familiar with the one-way system and that I'm not really a confident driver, my mother-in-law had jumped in. Whatever. I joined her and started the car up. Three wrong turns and two jumped sets of red lights and a lot of shouting later, we arrived home, triumphant! And beeped the horn a lot :).
The next day we went off on our own to Other Half's dad's hometown. Not a day too soon. Saturday was spent with more family members who'd arrived to see us. And that evening, Other Half drove off to the border (the nearer crossing, to see where it was) to collect two nephews that wanted to see Babe.
I knew when he drove off, that something would go wrong. He got back close to midnight, the clutch having played up again, and he'd had to drive for two hours in second gear. It was supposedly fixed on the Sunday (by same mechanic - I forgot to mention that his breath stank of alcohol). And went again on the Monday. On the Wednesday, he re-fitted the old cylinder, saying that the new one was too small. For Pete's sake! (I am trying to reduce the number of expletives I use.)
He invited me to wait in his home and see some technical documents of car engines that his grandfather had drawn. (That 'honourary man' thing was kicking in again...) I embarrassed Other Half by saying in very basic Albanian: 'Look. I am not happy. I now have three clutch cylinders and the two new ones it seems I don't need. You told me to buy them. Now I have no money. I have a long journey ahead of me, to endure with a small child and a moron. This has not been a holiday, it has been a trip into hell. I beg you to fix my car now and I will send you a full set of Manchester United T-shirts when I return to my homeland.'
He got the drift and the car has got us home, but I dread to think what the service it is due will reveal.
We left on the Friday. I won't bore you with the intermittent detail. It includes a few happy hours on the beach, too much socialising with family members, and I spent four nights alone in a hotel across the road which was sheer bliss. I think we were all ready to leave, and I think the family were glad to see the back of me. Other Half said I had been a total pain in the arse, as usual. I think I did well to survive.
The journey home was 'seat of your pants' style - as is it tends to be, when Other Half is involved. Driving to the Greek border at dawn was incredibly beautiful though - through tiny villages, the scent of wild tea, thyme and origano in the air, and you even have to use a raft to cross a river at one point. Then we were hurtling along Greek roads - I've always thought of Greece as the back of beyond, but by comparison, it's like entering the gardens at Buckingham Palace. We joined the queue for the ferry to Venice with 20 mins to spare, but were told as we handed our tickets over to board, that we needed to drive back to the terminal building as we hadn't reserved our cabin. More sodding charges later, we ended up with a lovely cabin at the very front of the ship. In fact the captain called me at night-fall, asking me to close the curtains, so it seems we weren't the only ones with a good view.
The drive back was hell - although we did stop at Lake Como for lunch which was nice. And saw our friends in Switzerland which was wonderful but too brief, and before we knew it we were home again. And despite my fears, the trip does come highly recommended. If nothing else, because it felt like we were away for months, and boy, was I glad to get back...
More soon, on Babe. He's fine ;)
Thursday, September 25, 2008
"Sh*t happens"
..So a friend of Other Half's said yesterday, as he put a huge fish he'd caught that morning on the grill and opened a bottle of wine. We were sat under the awning outside the bar he's built in their home town.
I suppose he's right. And things could be worse. We could be seriously injured or dead. God, I wish I had a babysitter and little pile of spliffs with me.
I am losing track of the days, but Tuesday I think it was, that we spent in a whirl of maddeningly unclear conversations and confusion. The mechanic (a friend of one of Other Half's brothers) had told us the parts we required. Which I now know are the clutch cyclinder and 'the bit that goes underneath it, which is not broken but might break...' ???. An apparently reliable parts dealer told us this was not available in Albania so I found myself on the phone to a VW dealer in Corfu who told me said parts are not available in Greece either, as diesel golfs are rare there, and that they would have to be imported from Germany. This would take ten days, so we'd be lucky to get the car fixed before we had to leave to go home, and that depends on the borders being open again, as they are still closed to vehicles.
My euphoria at finding a solution, albeit a shitty bloddy solution, was dampened when the guy on Corfu then said he needed a cash deposit to order the parts. Bumpkin! So we then had to make another load of phone calls to find a relative (a nephew of Other Half's) who had to leave work to find the village and the shop and pay said deposit so that parts were safely ordered. Phew!
Older brother then gets back and says he's found the parts in Albania. What the f*ck?!! He had gone to a parts shop three minutes from the family home, and the owner had looked up the part in a catalogue, phoned Tirana, ordered it and it arrived last night. We went to collect it (he said we don't need the other part that was 'nearly broken' so I hope he is right, and wasn't covering up the fact that he'd forgotten to order both) and as I write, Other Half is with the mechanic, getting the car well again, I hope. I'll believe it when I see it and am resigned to the awful journey being the best part of this holiday, as long as we get back on the road somehow or other.
In the meantime, I am trying to get back on track, behaviour-wise, and hiding my irritation and frustration with being stuck in family home with a truculent Babe who has had enough of being poked and prodded and smothered in kisses by people he cannot understand. Two neices are staying with us who speak English and he loves playing with them, but he has definitely had enough of the rest of the crowd. As, frankly, have I. It took Auntie Eleni (who is a bit of a wild cat herself) less than an hour to teach him to pummel her with his fists, bite her (on the bum, so god knows what she was doing with him) and stab her with a fork. He can't stand the food, and ate nothing until yesterday when I took charge of the chaotic kitchen and made him chips. Getting him to bed at night amist the noise and excitment is near impossible, as is keeping him occupied in our room from 6am while the bodies strewn about the place lie in until ten-ish.
Gah! On the sunny side, they say that a change is as good as a break and I'm getting that, in spades.
And Saranda is a place of character and a certain beauty. Walking around is like being on some weird kind of demolition site, with huge concrete edifices in varying stages of completion towering above you everywhichway you turn. In between them are decaying old buildings, some with semi-wrecked entrances and street-level rooms full of rubbbish, but with upper-floor flats fitted out with air conditioning and brand new double-glazed windows and doors.
The seafront is a short walk from the family home and it is lovely to be by the water, although the beaches are litter-strewn and stony and I'm not sure how clean the water here is. The first two days were sunny, and I took Babe down and let him paddle. He is not afraid of the water at all and wanted to pull his clothes off and splash around.
Also on the sea front is a very old merry-go-round. It is, I think, from the USA, but instructions on the vehicles are in French - so Canadian maybe? It is an amazing piece of social history - hand painted images of men carrying out agrictultural tasks surround the outside of the top, and the vehicles include a tank (!), Harley Davison-type bikes - complete with leather saddles, an amazing fire engine, an old flying Mickey Mouse, a weird pig and a lion... It has bits that would have lifted and spun in the old days - I suspect it arrived here second-hand, and may try and find out more - and these days would fail to comply with health and safety regulations on many counts. Babe loves it, especially when his dad rolls his sleeves up and manages to push it around.
So we are having some happy moments amidst the chaos, and who knows, when I head back home now, there may be some happy news about the car awaiting me.
More soon! Miropafshim!
I suppose he's right. And things could be worse. We could be seriously injured or dead. God, I wish I had a babysitter and little pile of spliffs with me.
I am losing track of the days, but Tuesday I think it was, that we spent in a whirl of maddeningly unclear conversations and confusion. The mechanic (a friend of one of Other Half's brothers) had told us the parts we required. Which I now know are the clutch cyclinder and 'the bit that goes underneath it, which is not broken but might break...' ???. An apparently reliable parts dealer told us this was not available in Albania so I found myself on the phone to a VW dealer in Corfu who told me said parts are not available in Greece either, as diesel golfs are rare there, and that they would have to be imported from Germany. This would take ten days, so we'd be lucky to get the car fixed before we had to leave to go home, and that depends on the borders being open again, as they are still closed to vehicles.
My euphoria at finding a solution, albeit a shitty bloddy solution, was dampened when the guy on Corfu then said he needed a cash deposit to order the parts. Bumpkin! So we then had to make another load of phone calls to find a relative (a nephew of Other Half's) who had to leave work to find the village and the shop and pay said deposit so that parts were safely ordered. Phew!
Older brother then gets back and says he's found the parts in Albania. What the f*ck?!! He had gone to a parts shop three minutes from the family home, and the owner had looked up the part in a catalogue, phoned Tirana, ordered it and it arrived last night. We went to collect it (he said we don't need the other part that was 'nearly broken' so I hope he is right, and wasn't covering up the fact that he'd forgotten to order both) and as I write, Other Half is with the mechanic, getting the car well again, I hope. I'll believe it when I see it and am resigned to the awful journey being the best part of this holiday, as long as we get back on the road somehow or other.
In the meantime, I am trying to get back on track, behaviour-wise, and hiding my irritation and frustration with being stuck in family home with a truculent Babe who has had enough of being poked and prodded and smothered in kisses by people he cannot understand. Two neices are staying with us who speak English and he loves playing with them, but he has definitely had enough of the rest of the crowd. As, frankly, have I. It took Auntie Eleni (who is a bit of a wild cat herself) less than an hour to teach him to pummel her with his fists, bite her (on the bum, so god knows what she was doing with him) and stab her with a fork. He can't stand the food, and ate nothing until yesterday when I took charge of the chaotic kitchen and made him chips. Getting him to bed at night amist the noise and excitment is near impossible, as is keeping him occupied in our room from 6am while the bodies strewn about the place lie in until ten-ish.
Gah! On the sunny side, they say that a change is as good as a break and I'm getting that, in spades.
And Saranda is a place of character and a certain beauty. Walking around is like being on some weird kind of demolition site, with huge concrete edifices in varying stages of completion towering above you everywhichway you turn. In between them are decaying old buildings, some with semi-wrecked entrances and street-level rooms full of rubbbish, but with upper-floor flats fitted out with air conditioning and brand new double-glazed windows and doors.
The seafront is a short walk from the family home and it is lovely to be by the water, although the beaches are litter-strewn and stony and I'm not sure how clean the water here is. The first two days were sunny, and I took Babe down and let him paddle. He is not afraid of the water at all and wanted to pull his clothes off and splash around.
Also on the sea front is a very old merry-go-round. It is, I think, from the USA, but instructions on the vehicles are in French - so Canadian maybe? It is an amazing piece of social history - hand painted images of men carrying out agrictultural tasks surround the outside of the top, and the vehicles include a tank (!), Harley Davison-type bikes - complete with leather saddles, an amazing fire engine, an old flying Mickey Mouse, a weird pig and a lion... It has bits that would have lifted and spun in the old days - I suspect it arrived here second-hand, and may try and find out more - and these days would fail to comply with health and safety regulations on many counts. Babe loves it, especially when his dad rolls his sleeves up and manages to push it around.
So we are having some happy moments amidst the chaos, and who knows, when I head back home now, there may be some happy news about the car awaiting me.
More soon! Miropafshim!
Monday, September 22, 2008
Strange but true
In case any of you are doubting the integrity of the last entry, sadly it is all true.
Clutching the cold night air
SO! I was hoping to regale you with happy stories in this blog entry, as intimated by the tone of my last Facebook status update.
Stories about how, despite setting off late after Other Half insisted on giving the car a quite unnecessary clean that took three hours on Friday afternoon, I didn't threaten him with murder over it; about how we argued about taking the buggy and I won and we squeezed it in, again without losing our cool completely; about how he drove like a Trojan from Calais to Venice, stopping briefly just twice, through the night, and caught our ferry with twenty minutes to spare, and then ate our evening meal as we floated past the sun-soaked old city...
Boy oh boy, teamwork of the utmost was required and we made it, with no arguments whatsoever. We nearly lost the plot around Basel, missing Germany by inches and only hitting Switzerland thanks to my linguistic prowess (all signs in German and no English) and a well-timed swerve by Other Half. Switzerland was a dizzy swirl of mountains, waterfalls and tunnels and quite overwhelming. Italy was beautiful - Lake Como, Verona and gorgeous fields of corn but marred by drivers who frankly take possesion of the road they way they do a football and it was a disconcerting experience.
Babe was amazing. Slept through the night, and was as good as gold- given that he woke in his seat at 6am and we didn't arrive at the port until 4.30 pm. I am in awe of his patient and sunny nature. The ferry journey was wonderful - nice cabin, and we slept like logs and ate well, and took turns sunning ourselves on the desk as we wafted past the countries that touch the Adriatic Sea.
All was very well, in fact, until we arrived at the Greek port of Igoumenitsa. The last leg of the journey was the part I had made the mistake of assuming Other Half would look after. But as we drove off (after pissing everyone off for forgetting on which deck our car was left- but then we'd had to grab a couple of bags and scramble when we parked it in the ship in Venice as it was leaving) and Other Half took the first sign for Ioannia and ignored my suggestion that we stop and ask for directions (to a new border crossing that has opened, that would put just 40 mins between the ship and his home town), I had a bad feeling in my bones. Twenty minutes later we were asking an old guy and his donkey for directions, ten minutes later we had phoned one of his brothers (Other Half's, not the old guy with the donkey's), ten more minutes later we were returning to where we started, ten more minutes later we were heading for the new crossing, ten more minutes later we were heading back up the road we had started out on, because brother had called back saying he thought it crossing closed at 8.30pm and it was already a quarter to nine.
Which is why we found outselves at a border crossing called Kakavia at about 11pm, after an extremely stressful and tedious journey through mountainous northern Greece, which consists of long winding and narrow roads, and junctions which say the place you're going to requires both a left and a right turn. All not-at-all fun in conditons of extreme darkness, which is what mountainous and unpopulated areas are like on moonless nights.
We were both dead nervous about crossing the border. The Greeks make your life hell if you're an Albanian, or interested in going to Albania, and I was steeling myself for some kind of horrendous body search, or a prolonged interrogation that would leave Babe in tears. Other Half was dreading the Albanian side, and the random taxes our visit might result in.
But we were in luck - The Greeks simply commented that we were lucky to have arrived that day (yesterday) because they're on strike from today for an in definite period of time during which it will be imposible to return home. So if I'm not back at work on 6 October, that might be why. On the Albanian side we were charged the grand sum of one Euro each and that was it, we were on our way.
Once we'd reached the crossing where signs for Other Half's home town started, I called Other Half's brother, to tell him we were safely homeward bound. As I picked up the phone five minutes later, to tell his parents we were nearly there, a pack of wild dogs crossed the road, and we commented on what a dark and cold night it was. And fairly bleak and deserted; not much in the way of settlements. Then there was a clunk, Other Half said, 'oh my God', and we ground to a halt.
'What is it?' I said.
'Look,' he replied.
The clutch pedal had popped off, and part of it was on the floor by his feet.
'Fuck my old boots,' is what I'm afraid I said.
'Don't start!' he said. And Babe woke up.
Thank God my phone had signal, as these are the kind of roads that have two cars pass along per night. I got his sister.
'Margarita,' I said. 'This is Viola. We have a serious problem! Please get in a taxi and drive to the border road. We're about an hour away, the car is buggered and the baby is hungry. We have money, please come now.'
'Yes,' she said.
I saw a car approaching from behind, and got out fast and made star jumps in front of our headlights. It carried on.
Then we started flinging all the travel debris from our initial journey into bags, as we knew we had to be ready to empty the car completely if we got help, as we couldn't risk leaving it with stuff in it. I could see my breath, it was freezing. We then started to discuss the possibility of Other Half staying in the car, to protect it. Not a nice thought. Babe, meanwhile, sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket, playing with his bear. What an angel!
Not long after, a jeep drove by and stopped. They were headed for the same destination as us, and took Piers and I without question. They had no English and my Albanian is dire, but their little girl was two and called Stacey, you may be interested to know. And had been throwing up all day, so I hope we haven't caught a nasty bug from her. I feel dodgy but it's probably stress. The driver also gave our car a shove, and Other half managed to coast downhill for about fifteen minutes ahead of us. At which point Margarita appeared, bless her, with a neighbour who towed us home. Blinking heck. We arrived at about 1am, not at all in the style in which Other Half had imagined.
Today was spent looking for a mechanic who is trying to track down the parts we need, which are probably only available in Greece - and the borders are closed! Which leaves us stuck in the family home, and no way of getting around. And pretty much all our spending money already gone. Luckily I have some plastic with me.
Bloody hell. I am taking this amazingly well, I think. Keep me in your thoughts.
Internet cafe playing awful music. I am so outta here.
Stories about how, despite setting off late after Other Half insisted on giving the car a quite unnecessary clean that took three hours on Friday afternoon, I didn't threaten him with murder over it; about how we argued about taking the buggy and I won and we squeezed it in, again without losing our cool completely; about how he drove like a Trojan from Calais to Venice, stopping briefly just twice, through the night, and caught our ferry with twenty minutes to spare, and then ate our evening meal as we floated past the sun-soaked old city...
Boy oh boy, teamwork of the utmost was required and we made it, with no arguments whatsoever. We nearly lost the plot around Basel, missing Germany by inches and only hitting Switzerland thanks to my linguistic prowess (all signs in German and no English) and a well-timed swerve by Other Half. Switzerland was a dizzy swirl of mountains, waterfalls and tunnels and quite overwhelming. Italy was beautiful - Lake Como, Verona and gorgeous fields of corn but marred by drivers who frankly take possesion of the road they way they do a football and it was a disconcerting experience.
Babe was amazing. Slept through the night, and was as good as gold- given that he woke in his seat at 6am and we didn't arrive at the port until 4.30 pm. I am in awe of his patient and sunny nature. The ferry journey was wonderful - nice cabin, and we slept like logs and ate well, and took turns sunning ourselves on the desk as we wafted past the countries that touch the Adriatic Sea.
All was very well, in fact, until we arrived at the Greek port of Igoumenitsa. The last leg of the journey was the part I had made the mistake of assuming Other Half would look after. But as we drove off (after pissing everyone off for forgetting on which deck our car was left- but then we'd had to grab a couple of bags and scramble when we parked it in the ship in Venice as it was leaving) and Other Half took the first sign for Ioannia and ignored my suggestion that we stop and ask for directions (to a new border crossing that has opened, that would put just 40 mins between the ship and his home town), I had a bad feeling in my bones. Twenty minutes later we were asking an old guy and his donkey for directions, ten minutes later we had phoned one of his brothers (Other Half's, not the old guy with the donkey's), ten more minutes later we were returning to where we started, ten more minutes later we were heading for the new crossing, ten more minutes later we were heading back up the road we had started out on, because brother had called back saying he thought it crossing closed at 8.30pm and it was already a quarter to nine.
Which is why we found outselves at a border crossing called Kakavia at about 11pm, after an extremely stressful and tedious journey through mountainous northern Greece, which consists of long winding and narrow roads, and junctions which say the place you're going to requires both a left and a right turn. All not-at-all fun in conditons of extreme darkness, which is what mountainous and unpopulated areas are like on moonless nights.
We were both dead nervous about crossing the border. The Greeks make your life hell if you're an Albanian, or interested in going to Albania, and I was steeling myself for some kind of horrendous body search, or a prolonged interrogation that would leave Babe in tears. Other Half was dreading the Albanian side, and the random taxes our visit might result in.
But we were in luck - The Greeks simply commented that we were lucky to have arrived that day (yesterday) because they're on strike from today for an in definite period of time during which it will be imposible to return home. So if I'm not back at work on 6 October, that might be why. On the Albanian side we were charged the grand sum of one Euro each and that was it, we were on our way.
Once we'd reached the crossing where signs for Other Half's home town started, I called Other Half's brother, to tell him we were safely homeward bound. As I picked up the phone five minutes later, to tell his parents we were nearly there, a pack of wild dogs crossed the road, and we commented on what a dark and cold night it was. And fairly bleak and deserted; not much in the way of settlements. Then there was a clunk, Other Half said, 'oh my God', and we ground to a halt.
'What is it?' I said.
'Look,' he replied.
The clutch pedal had popped off, and part of it was on the floor by his feet.
'Fuck my old boots,' is what I'm afraid I said.
'Don't start!' he said. And Babe woke up.
Thank God my phone had signal, as these are the kind of roads that have two cars pass along per night. I got his sister.
'Margarita,' I said. 'This is Viola. We have a serious problem! Please get in a taxi and drive to the border road. We're about an hour away, the car is buggered and the baby is hungry. We have money, please come now.'
'Yes,' she said.
I saw a car approaching from behind, and got out fast and made star jumps in front of our headlights. It carried on.
Then we started flinging all the travel debris from our initial journey into bags, as we knew we had to be ready to empty the car completely if we got help, as we couldn't risk leaving it with stuff in it. I could see my breath, it was freezing. We then started to discuss the possibility of Other Half staying in the car, to protect it. Not a nice thought. Babe, meanwhile, sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket, playing with his bear. What an angel!
Not long after, a jeep drove by and stopped. They were headed for the same destination as us, and took Piers and I without question. They had no English and my Albanian is dire, but their little girl was two and called Stacey, you may be interested to know. And had been throwing up all day, so I hope we haven't caught a nasty bug from her. I feel dodgy but it's probably stress. The driver also gave our car a shove, and Other half managed to coast downhill for about fifteen minutes ahead of us. At which point Margarita appeared, bless her, with a neighbour who towed us home. Blinking heck. We arrived at about 1am, not at all in the style in which Other Half had imagined.
Today was spent looking for a mechanic who is trying to track down the parts we need, which are probably only available in Greece - and the borders are closed! Which leaves us stuck in the family home, and no way of getting around. And pretty much all our spending money already gone. Luckily I have some plastic with me.
Bloody hell. I am taking this amazingly well, I think. Keep me in your thoughts.
Internet cafe playing awful music. I am so outta here.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I had a dream
I must tell you about the dream I had last night.
I was on the road in London where the HQ of the charity I work for is based, with my mum and sister. We needed the loo, and decided to use the extensive public facility attached to a huge Peacocks retail outlet that is not located there. On entry, there was a large room to the right, and one to the left. They were both filthy. Rubbish and loo roll all over the floor, grotty dirty basins and WCs, and very smelly. While I was on the loo, a giggling French girl harangued me through the window in the door (?!) crying because she was desperate to use it. Hum!
After washing my hands, I walked to the centre of each room in turn, and yelled very loudly (I am known among friends and family for making complaints and a fuss about things I’m not happy with. I fear men would describe me as a Ball Breaker),
‘Can everyone in the loos and queue please complain to the management about these toilets. They are a disgrace, and unless we complain, nothing will be done about them.’
I then went off in search of the Management’s office. It was a bit like a ticket booth at the train station. I asked the woman at the window if I could speak to said Management. She looked at me (I think my face spelt Trouble) and said ‘Yes, I’ll just get her for you.’ Another woman appeared at the window and I asked if we could have a meeting. She came outside.
I was expecting a battle. ‘Your toilets are disgusting!’ I said. ‘No-one should have to use them. Will you come with me and see what I mean?’
‘Yes, alright then,’ she smiled, and off we went.
On entering, she looked around. ‘Hum. Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right, they’re awful. I can’t believe no-one has said anything before now.’ Before I could interject and quiz her on how frequently she takes a tour of her empire, she had called over one of the cleaners (who wasn’t there before, may I add, and who was wearing a cook’s hat) and said,
‘Beryl, when will Tom and Jack be finished on the dining room project?’
‘Today, I think.’
‘Great, that leaves tomorrow and Friday to give this place a proper clean and lick of yellow paint. What am I doing for the rest of this week?’ It seems the cleaner was also her PA.
‘Your diary’s clear. In fact you were going to take annual leave tomorrow.’
‘Of course I was, silly me! Well, I’ll come in and give them a hand,’ and she turned to me and smiled again. ‘Is that alright?’
‘Well, yes, thank you very much,’ I said. ‘Thank you for listening and acting so fast. That’s wonderful, I’m really grateful.’ I left the toilets and caught up with my mum and sister in the street.
I don’t know what to make of a dream like that. Could changing the world be this easy?
PS Holiday packing going well at home, although we have reached deadlock on whether we’ll need to take the buggy or not. Other Half thinks not, as he wants space in the car for his diving gear. I think so, as I’m worried about my knee complaint and Babe’s need for peace and somewhere to crash during the day. And what we’ll do with him if we end up spending hours at an Italian port.
Otherwise, excitement is veritably mounting.
‘Are we going on holiday, Babe?’ I ask him.
‘Yes! Hooooooooray!’ he cries. ‘Butterfly!’.
I have been humming as I blitzed the house this weekend. Areas of my brain that were previously filled with Led Zeppelin and early pink Floyd are now awash with the theme tune to CBeebies Lazytown. (The hero of which, it happens, wears a blue leotard thing and is HOT.) How times have changed.
I was on the road in London where the HQ of the charity I work for is based, with my mum and sister. We needed the loo, and decided to use the extensive public facility attached to a huge Peacocks retail outlet that is not located there. On entry, there was a large room to the right, and one to the left. They were both filthy. Rubbish and loo roll all over the floor, grotty dirty basins and WCs, and very smelly. While I was on the loo, a giggling French girl harangued me through the window in the door (?!) crying because she was desperate to use it. Hum!
After washing my hands, I walked to the centre of each room in turn, and yelled very loudly (I am known among friends and family for making complaints and a fuss about things I’m not happy with. I fear men would describe me as a Ball Breaker),
‘Can everyone in the loos and queue please complain to the management about these toilets. They are a disgrace, and unless we complain, nothing will be done about them.’
I then went off in search of the Management’s office. It was a bit like a ticket booth at the train station. I asked the woman at the window if I could speak to said Management. She looked at me (I think my face spelt Trouble) and said ‘Yes, I’ll just get her for you.’ Another woman appeared at the window and I asked if we could have a meeting. She came outside.
I was expecting a battle. ‘Your toilets are disgusting!’ I said. ‘No-one should have to use them. Will you come with me and see what I mean?’
‘Yes, alright then,’ she smiled, and off we went.
On entering, she looked around. ‘Hum. Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right, they’re awful. I can’t believe no-one has said anything before now.’ Before I could interject and quiz her on how frequently she takes a tour of her empire, she had called over one of the cleaners (who wasn’t there before, may I add, and who was wearing a cook’s hat) and said,
‘Beryl, when will Tom and Jack be finished on the dining room project?’
‘Today, I think.’
‘Great, that leaves tomorrow and Friday to give this place a proper clean and lick of yellow paint. What am I doing for the rest of this week?’ It seems the cleaner was also her PA.
‘Your diary’s clear. In fact you were going to take annual leave tomorrow.’
‘Of course I was, silly me! Well, I’ll come in and give them a hand,’ and she turned to me and smiled again. ‘Is that alright?’
‘Well, yes, thank you very much,’ I said. ‘Thank you for listening and acting so fast. That’s wonderful, I’m really grateful.’ I left the toilets and caught up with my mum and sister in the street.
I don’t know what to make of a dream like that. Could changing the world be this easy?
PS Holiday packing going well at home, although we have reached deadlock on whether we’ll need to take the buggy or not. Other Half thinks not, as he wants space in the car for his diving gear. I think so, as I’m worried about my knee complaint and Babe’s need for peace and somewhere to crash during the day. And what we’ll do with him if we end up spending hours at an Italian port.
Otherwise, excitement is veritably mounting.
‘Are we going on holiday, Babe?’ I ask him.
‘Yes! Hooooooooray!’ he cries. ‘Butterfly!’.
I have been humming as I blitzed the house this weekend. Areas of my brain that were previously filled with Led Zeppelin and early pink Floyd are now awash with the theme tune to CBeebies Lazytown. (The hero of which, it happens, wears a blue leotard thing and is HOT.) How times have changed.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Road trip of the decade
Apologies for the lack of updates following last week’s beautiful moment.
Other Half and I have been busy arguing furiously about our impending holiday. I have agreed – how could I refuse? – to holiday with his family, as he hasn’t seen them for nearly two years, and they have only met Babe once since he was born. But these holidays are, frankly, hell on earth from my perspective, and over the years I have found excuses to miss out on them occasionally. Now that we’ve got a child, instead of wanting us to have lovely family holidays together, Other Half is keener than ever to visit his. Bugger! What did I expect? Perhaps once we are off the bread line we’ll be able to have more than one holiday a year and it will be less of an issue. We can’t wait to get Babe on skis!
Now, there is a lot I could tell you about visiting Other Half’s family, but there are two salient points to note:
1 There is a f**k of a lot of them – he is the penultimate of 13 kids. All married, nearly all with kids. And extended families...
2 On these visits, I am proffered the metaphorical role of Honorary Man. This means I am plied with alcohol and sweetmeats, and generally treated like royalty, which is very nice. But in return I am expected to regale the assembled company with stories and evening-upon-evening of entertainment. When I’m in the mood, I achieve this to outstanding ovation (not a small feat, as they don’t speak any English at all, apart from some random phrases: ‘Hello, baby!’; ‘I like to move it, move it’ and ‘How you like you eggs?’). But when I’m not in the mood, it pisses me off that I can’t easily get out of these numerous visits to the homes of all and sundry. And now that I am a mother and have less patience and energy than before, I am dreading spending my holiday hanging around with hundreds of people I actually have precious little in common with.
The other issue is that of transport, which gets me back to the subject of this post.
We have had some utterly shitty times in Other Half’s home town. The part of the world he comes from is beautiful. Paradise beaches; goats, grapes and polyphonic singing; healthy fresh food, and lots of sunshine. But the roads are shit, and there are no car rentals because the rental companies wouldn’t see the vehicles they hire out for dust, once they’d driven off the forecourt. For the last few years, we have stayed in a beautiful four-star hotel on a mountain top, courtesy of one of Other Half’s brother’s girlfriend’s brothers (see what I mean?). But not even taxis will drive you up there because of the incline, so we usually have to walk. Not amusing, in 40 degree heat and six months pregnant, I can tell you.
So, this year, having both sworn we would never go back without transport of our own, Other Half is determined to drive. This involves driving to a certain Italian port that shall remain nameless, and then taking a 26-hour ferry to a destination that is about an hour from his home-town. My cunning plan was to fly out there with Babe. But when Other Half got lost again driving to Dorset last weekend, I realize that despite his protestations, I probably need to go with him, to read the map. He wants to drive through the night while Babe sleeps, resting for an hour here or there in lay-bys, as we haven’t got any free cash for hotels.
I am a nervous wreck! And the thought of a night without sleep – or worse still, a journey that Babe rejects wholly and completely as I suspect he will – is making me tremble, and it's still ten days until we leave. I will attempt to update you on our packing progress before we leave, and hope there will be Internet access on the ferry. I am taking my laptop, and have just bought two CBeebies DVDs for Babe, as I don’t think he can live without a daily TV fix in a language he understands.
In the meantime, I have a lot of lists to write. How many torches and blankets will I need in the car? Should I take a tent and plastic sheet for emergency situations? Will I need a whistle? Arm bands in case the ferry sinks? Biros and chocolates for bribing the police on the border, so that they let us through without insisting on playing 20 questions first? Can I manage without a buggy? Our hatchback is quite small.
So many questions and so many arseholes in the world. Oops, sorry, distracted by the news. Excuse my French. Bonsoir!
Other Half and I have been busy arguing furiously about our impending holiday. I have agreed – how could I refuse? – to holiday with his family, as he hasn’t seen them for nearly two years, and they have only met Babe once since he was born. But these holidays are, frankly, hell on earth from my perspective, and over the years I have found excuses to miss out on them occasionally. Now that we’ve got a child, instead of wanting us to have lovely family holidays together, Other Half is keener than ever to visit his. Bugger! What did I expect? Perhaps once we are off the bread line we’ll be able to have more than one holiday a year and it will be less of an issue. We can’t wait to get Babe on skis!
Now, there is a lot I could tell you about visiting Other Half’s family, but there are two salient points to note:
1 There is a f**k of a lot of them – he is the penultimate of 13 kids. All married, nearly all with kids. And extended families...
2 On these visits, I am proffered the metaphorical role of Honorary Man. This means I am plied with alcohol and sweetmeats, and generally treated like royalty, which is very nice. But in return I am expected to regale the assembled company with stories and evening-upon-evening of entertainment. When I’m in the mood, I achieve this to outstanding ovation (not a small feat, as they don’t speak any English at all, apart from some random phrases: ‘Hello, baby!’; ‘I like to move it, move it’ and ‘How you like you eggs?’). But when I’m not in the mood, it pisses me off that I can’t easily get out of these numerous visits to the homes of all and sundry. And now that I am a mother and have less patience and energy than before, I am dreading spending my holiday hanging around with hundreds of people I actually have precious little in common with.
The other issue is that of transport, which gets me back to the subject of this post.
We have had some utterly shitty times in Other Half’s home town. The part of the world he comes from is beautiful. Paradise beaches; goats, grapes and polyphonic singing; healthy fresh food, and lots of sunshine. But the roads are shit, and there are no car rentals because the rental companies wouldn’t see the vehicles they hire out for dust, once they’d driven off the forecourt. For the last few years, we have stayed in a beautiful four-star hotel on a mountain top, courtesy of one of Other Half’s brother’s girlfriend’s brothers (see what I mean?). But not even taxis will drive you up there because of the incline, so we usually have to walk. Not amusing, in 40 degree heat and six months pregnant, I can tell you.
So, this year, having both sworn we would never go back without transport of our own, Other Half is determined to drive. This involves driving to a certain Italian port that shall remain nameless, and then taking a 26-hour ferry to a destination that is about an hour from his home-town. My cunning plan was to fly out there with Babe. But when Other Half got lost again driving to Dorset last weekend, I realize that despite his protestations, I probably need to go with him, to read the map. He wants to drive through the night while Babe sleeps, resting for an hour here or there in lay-bys, as we haven’t got any free cash for hotels.
I am a nervous wreck! And the thought of a night without sleep – or worse still, a journey that Babe rejects wholly and completely as I suspect he will – is making me tremble, and it's still ten days until we leave. I will attempt to update you on our packing progress before we leave, and hope there will be Internet access on the ferry. I am taking my laptop, and have just bought two CBeebies DVDs for Babe, as I don’t think he can live without a daily TV fix in a language he understands.
In the meantime, I have a lot of lists to write. How many torches and blankets will I need in the car? Should I take a tent and plastic sheet for emergency situations? Will I need a whistle? Arm bands in case the ferry sinks? Biros and chocolates for bribing the police on the border, so that they let us through without insisting on playing 20 questions first? Can I manage without a buggy? Our hatchback is quite small.
So many questions and so many arseholes in the world. Oops, sorry, distracted by the news. Excuse my French. Bonsoir!
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