I’ve run out of exciting stories from Rhodes last week and am now back to the usual day-to-day with whatever photos I can find lying around. Oh, I found this one…

That was as I was about to leave Rhodes, which was, at that time, under a heavy, dark cloud. I don’t think it rained, though. It’s all very quiet here now. I say that, but yesterday, I popped down to the bar in the afternoon and managed to grab more or less the last seat. Then, more people arrived, and I had to help Neil put out more tables and chairs. Maybe because today is Oxi Day, a national holiday, and people have come over for a couple of days to see the parade later this morning. Maybe it was the extended family who were visiting for a night or two, I don’t know, but late afternoon in the square was busy – and there are still day boats coming across from Rhodes.

I was told that the road has now been fixed at the ‘new’ port at Petalo, but don’t quote me on that as it was kafeneion chatter. What is for real, though, is that the layout guys have sent back the first copy of the new book, so I must now go and search through that for any last minute fixes, and hopefully, there will be none (or only a few as there is always a widow or orphan wandering lost among the pages), and I can start publishing it. Which reminds me, I must remind the designer to send over the full cover so I can also put up the paperback version. And on to the next one…

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Continuing the adventure begun last week with 29 hours in Rhodes, and including some random images.

Tuesday.

I had two appointments that morning, and the first was at the new H-pad at nine, where I had been invited for coffee. So, after I’d breakfasted on a banana (because at the hotel breakfast was €12.00 extra, and I could get a coffee and large baguette for less at the café (but I didn’t)), I headed a few blocks down to St Nicholas Square, arriving ten minutes early. I sat and watched the world, and Michaelis who reads our water meter, go past until nine, when I called at the apartment. We had one coffee (black, no sugar), an inspection of the H-pad revealed all was well, and after some last minute and unneeded fatherly advice, I headed off for my next appointment, while he headed off to his indoctrination day, or whatever it’s called at colleges these days.

My appointment was at Stavroulis, a private diagnostic centre two more blocks down the street. I had set this up via email the previous week, and it was for an X-ray of my teeth, because my dentist wanted to see what was what. Nothing urgent, just checking up. The centre had emailed me on Monday afternoon to remind me of the appointment at 10.00, and later in the day, the nice lady on reception phoned me to suggest I come ten minutes early as there is always paperwork to do. I arrived at 9.40, and introduced myself to Stella, who seemed delighted to see me, took my passport and tapped away on her keyboard. ‘Do you have an AMKA number?’ she asked, and I gave over my card. (It’s like National Insurance in the UK.) ‘Ah,’ she said with delight. ‘You are entitled to a free blood test. Would you like one?’ Oh, really? Today? ‘Yes, now. It’s for cholesterol and a general check of the usual.’ I’d had one in February under my private health insurance, but this was free, so why not have another? ‘Ah.’ She paused. ‘Have you eaten today?’ I fessed up to the banana. ‘I’ll make a call,’ she whispered as if we were now co-conspirators. A quick chat to someone upstairs, and I was allowed to continue my adventure because I hadn’t had milk or sugar in my coffee.

Stella did some more tapping and handed me two sheets of paper. ‘This is for the X-ray, and after, you are going to the next floor for blood. Take a seat and your number will be called.’

Off I go to the waiting area, where I just had time to arrange myself on a sofa and was settling in for some daytime TV, when my number was called. So, I heaved myself back out of the sofa, and staked my claim, to be led past where we usually go for X-rays and deeper into the mysteries of the Stavroulis. A young lady appeared from a doorway and invited me into her lair, where stood a machine into which I was asked to step. Chin there, look here, keep very still for 15 seconds… She bustles into her antechamber and reminds me to keep still. The machine buzzes around my head, and two panels sweep past left to right to left, and before you know it, done.

‘I will email the image to your dentist, and you can collect your CD before you leave.’

All this was before the time of my appointment, and wow! I got a souvenir too. A few paces to the lift and up to the blood letting department, there to hand over my piece of paper. I was just sitting down when I heard the name ‘Tobias’, and realised they’d already called my other three (in Greece, it’s surname first, then the others). I hovered in that semi-squat, pre-sit position as I waved, and, having righted myself, followed another nice young lady into the bleeding chamber. ‘English or Greek?’ she asked, and I thought, ‘Here we go…’

The usual reply in such a circumstance is English, with the excuse that my Greek isn’t good enough for technical or medical matters. Well, nice young lady #2 had other ideas, and when it transpired that I had lived in Greece for 23 years, that was it. Full-on Greek chat as she sought a vein, with me trying the second excuse: but it’s difficult to learn it on Symi, because they speak Symiaka. At this point, I did my rather naughty impression of the old men outside the bar and rambled along the lines of, ‘Ella, re (indistinct mumbling), punto, re (more indistinct gobbledegook), malaka, mumble, mumble, spitou.’ Laughing, she found a vein and the withdrawal began.

A pleasant chat and a piece of sticking plaster later, and it was back downstairs to wait for my papers. That took about ten minutes, and there I was with a receipt (€40.00 for the X-ray, €0.00 for the full blood test) and a CD. Not of Celine Dion or anyone, not even from K-tel, but an image of what lurks beneath my teeth.

That, I dropped off at the dentist last Thursday, and at some point soon, I will need a root canal, eek. Still, at least, by the time I got home Tuesday evening, my blood results were waiting for me in an email. Nothing outrageous in there, the same as in February, actually, but still, it was free.

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In Horio, as you might know, we have three very good supermarkets. Except they are ‘super markets’, unless, that is, you are an officious holiday rep supervisor who once insisted the rep tell the guests they are ‘mini’ markets. Whatever. One of them, closest to us, is Sotiris’ Super Market, a place known for its frivolity, cats and caged birds. It’s the sort of place where the cleaning products encroach on the wines, and sometimes this or that is there or there, and next time over there, and mind the boxes on the floor, and ‘Hey Mrs, do you want a cucumber with that?’ Because you are never very far away from a double entendre at this shop, and I am sure some people only go for the entertainment. It’s also the kind of traditional place where you don’t need to use a basket. Instead, you wander about collecting seemingly random objects which you then place on the counter with everyone else’s oddments, and block up space while you go a wandering again. Alternatively, you can use a basket.

The last time H and I went shopping in Pappou in Kanadas Street was either late 2020 or early 2021, when we were obliged to wear masks. On entering the supermarket that time, H admitted to me that he was scared, and I don’t think he meant of covid. I think he meant because of the size of the place.

It’s still just as big, but this time, there was no fear. ‘I will need a trolley,’ he declared, and not only because, unlike in Horio, you can use a trolley, but because he had a shopping list made some weeks ago, and there was a lot on it. First, though, ‘How do I get this out?’

Supermarket lesson one: You put a Euro in the slot, and pull. There you go. ‘How does that work, then?’ Simple lesson in mechanics followed.

Inside, via the automatic doors, and it’s first on the list: bread for toast. What a choice. Too much of one. Advice: buy a double, as they are in two halves, and you can freeze one half. It’s also cheaper. Done. Moving on, I was tempted by the abundance of Tetley tea but declined as this wasn’t about me. The next item, ‘one tomato’ was on the other side of the super supermarket, so more advice came, and this time it was to go up and down each aisle, pausing, a) to think if there is anything on the list in that aisle, b) to get in the way.

Things became more successful after that. ‘I need ice.’ That bag won’t fit in your freezer. Buy an ice cube tray and you will never run out, nor need to run home with a bag of ice melting down your trousers. ‘Is that aisle all children’s things?’ I doubt it, mate, those are tampons. Mind you, you could invest in some adult nappies and never again have to get up during the night. (I got a filthy look at that point.) On to the fresh veg.

Now, here’s a thing. Up here, you put what you want in one of many plastic bags and have it all weighed, with one person shouting out the price across the shop floor, and George saying, ‘What? Speak up,’ and Sotiris or whoever, saying, ‘Turn your hearing aid on. Hello, Mrs. Need a cucumber? Fwah, fwah.’ You’ll not be surprised to learn things work differently in the real world. ‘Do I put them all in the same bag?’ No, because they are not all the same price. One tomato here, a different bag for the potatoes. ‘Which are best?’ Well, those ones are covered in mud, and those ones aren’t, so it’s up to you, but as you only have the bathroom sink to wash them in at present, I’d go for those… Do you need a cucumber? ‘Yes.’ Godfather holds up two in a most impolite fashion, one big and one small. Are you a size queen or don’t you mind? ‘That one, and shut up…’ And so on, with several trips back to the nice lady (one pepper), and the fresh veg was done and priced. ‘Oh, I need a garlic.’ The nice lady didn’t even bother with a bag for that one, she just stuck the price tag on my hand as if my godson’s shopping style was my fault. And back to the list.

‘A tin of tomatoes.’ You could have said earlier… Back to the other side. ‘Mince.’ Off to the butchery counter, and a wink from Sotiris’ cousin who works behind it. ‘What do I ask for?’ Whatever it is you want. (Children must be made to read more books, and does no-one play ‘shop’ anymore?) ‘Mince.’ Then ask for kima, you’re the one who’s fluent in Greek. ‘How much?’ Kilo, half? ‘Half.’ Don’t tell me, tell him…

Then, there’s the checking out. Card or cash? Phone, of course. Do you have a loyalty card? ‘Do I?’ I doubt it. ‘Next time.’ Do you want a bag? ‘Yes, please, four.’ (Note: a decision of his own making.) Here’s a thing we pondered. Having collected veg and fruit in individual bags, and bought bread in plastic wrappers, milk in a plastic carton, and cheese that’s been put through a laminator, we’re then charged for plastic bags? To add insult to injury, we have to pack the bags ourselves. ‘It’s not Sotiris’ place, is it?’ No, and don’t put the eggs at the bottom.

This might make H sound like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, when he does, of course. He’s quite capable of shopping and cooking, but there sure is a large adjustment to make from Sotiris’s cucumber and entendre super market to driving your first supermarket trolley while making your own decisions in a place that gives too many choices compared to where you have always lived. We came out with everything needed, though I couldn’t find an ice cube tray, and it was back to the room, up the six flights of stairs, this time carrying one tin of tomatoes, one pepper, and a cucumber (large).

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As you may know, I spent Monday and part of Tuesday in Rhodes to help H move into his digs for two years at college. In fact, from setting foot on the island to taking foot from it, I was there for 29 hours. In that time, I met five people I knew from Symi (not including those on the boat). That’s not odd, you might think, and usually it isn’t. If it’s a Friday and the Blue Star is taking cars (which is currently isn’t), you can see loads of Symi folk in Rhodes, and as for the Friday before Christmas, well, you might as well stay home and have Symi to yourself.

Ah, yes, but, you see, I wasn’t in the usual place. That is, I wasn’t spending my time around the New Town area, in and out of Zara, or calling on one of the many private doctors and medical places for an affordable checkup. I was in the area of Ag Nicholas, towards the other end of Kanadas St. There, in a quiet, car-lined side street, I was seen helping the teen collect his belongings from the back of the taxi, including a full-length mirror, which made it across on the Sebeco without incident. Good boy. As long as you have the essentials, eh? Indeed, he does: X-box, driving wheel, pedals, speakers, monitor… Washing up bowl? Ah.

Anyway, none of that was odd, but as I was limping up six flights of stairs carrying three bags of don’t ask and box of something else, I thought I recognised one of the inquisitive and guarding Yiayias who had gathered in the hall to introduce, welcome, and generally make a fuss of probably the youngest man they’d ever had live in their small block. The odd thing was, if the lady was who I thought she was, then it was scary because her son-in-law told us she had passed beyond the veil some time ago. A little later, as I limped past with a garden bench, I joined the conversation and sure it enough, it was Kiria Anna who some of you might know. She used to live beside Neil’s Symi Dream shop, sit on her step by the gallery door, and watch the wine nights, or just sit and watch. She was being visited by someone else I knew from back then, so the photos came out, there was a long old chat, and H was welcomed to the block. Anything you need, you ask me, were Mrs Anna’s parting words as we got on with the work.

Later that morning, we bumped into Sotiris-the-supermarket’s cousin, but then he works in Pappou where we were shopping (more about that another time), so maybe he doesn’t count. Nor do Aris and his sons, who run the Nimmos Garden Restaurant, where we ate three times in two days (teens). However, on Tuesday morning, while sitting in Ag Nicholas Square waiting until the appointed hour to take coffee at the godson’s new ‘pad’ at nine, who should come past but Michaelis, who reads our water meter and wins marathons. We exchanged a smiley hello as if we always passed each other at that time in that place, and on the day went. Even later, when having lunch, I saw a friend’s son wheel his suitcase past the taverna.

So, to me, that makes one random Symi-related person just about every six minutes. A bit like buses.

It was very humid in Rhodes on Monday, so I was dripping wet by the time we reached the flat, let alone after carrying everything up. That done, though, and the garden furniture delivered for the area of flat roof H has the use of as he’s alone on the top floor, we took in the view. We also noted the escape routes in case of fire, because I am like that, and then went shopping, which is a story for tomorrow.

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