by Sandy Barker
The woman didn’t ignore us, though. She fussed about, tutting at the state of us and eventually signalled for us to take a seat at one of the long tables. We filed around it, and I was delighted to see a heater affixed to the wall next to one of the chairs. I claimed that seat and slipped off my saturated sandals under the table in the hopes of warming up my poor toes.
Duncan explained how he always went there – every trip – because the food was so incredible and Martika – the smiling woman – was so nice. Martika had disappeared, and I hoped it was to get menus. I was starving. She returned, not with menus but with something better. A large stack of towels and clean, dry T-shirts. She motioned for us to dry off and get changed. Modesty was abandoned as we each did what was necessary to get into the dry shirts. I reminded myself that a bra was pretty much the same as a bikini top and that everyone had already seen me in one of those.
Drier – we were all still wearing our wet shorts – and warmer, we sipped the soft drinks Martika had brought to the table. It turned out there were no menus. She would bring food to the table – whatever she had prepared that day – until we were full. While she bustled around her tiny kitchen, we nibbled on her home-made bread, which we dipped in her home-pressed olive oil, and both were so good I nearly cried with joy.
Three large bowls of horiatiki appeared next. She pointed to the thick slabs of feta sitting atop the salads, each one drizzled in olive oil and sprinkled with fresh oregano. Then she pointed to her chest. Even though I knew she didn’t speak any English, I blurted out, ‘You made the feta?’ She seemed to understand and nodded. She smiled as she watched us take big helpings and then went back to the kitchen. ‘Holy crap, can you believe she makes her own feta?’ I asked my tablemates.
There were no replies; everyone was already stuffing their mouths. I did the same. Remember how I said that the Greeks grow the best tomatoes in the world? Well, as soon as I took a bite of that salad, I knew Martika grew the best tomatoes in Greece, which made hers the best of the best.
As we drew near to the bottom of the three bowls, she came back to the table with a vat of tzatziki, a pile of steaming hot pita bread, and an enormous platter of roasted meat. After a series of Old McDonald’s Farm-style noises and actions, and quite a bit of laughter, we arrived at the conclusion it was goat. It looked delicious and it tasted even better. I glanced over at Hannah who was on my left. ‘Gonna try the goat?’ She had screwed up her nose the last time we’d ordered it.
‘Hell yeah,’ she said, heaping a pile onto her plate. I must have looked a little shocked, because she added, ‘Starving!’ and then tucked in. She moaned shortly after, so I guessed she’d been converted.
‘So,’ I said to Marie and Gary between bites. ‘You guys are going to Paris next?’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Marie. ‘We’re having our do-over trip.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’ asked Hannah, coming up for air between bites of meat.
‘Last time we were there, it was a disaster,’ said Gary.
‘To start, I had the flu,’ said Marie. ‘I’d felt it coming on before we left London on the Eurostar, so I’d stocked up on cold and flu tablets and lots of the other good drugs. But it was bad. By the time we got to the hotel, it was coming out both ends, with snot everywhere. Sorry to say that while we’re eating, but not only did I feel like hell, I also looked horrendous – not exactly how you want to spend a Parisian holiday with your handsome husband.’
‘You didn’t look bad; you just looked sick.’
‘Thank you, honey, but as gracious as you’re being, you’re a total liar.’
‘In any case, just as Marie is starting to get well enough to actually see some of Paris—’
‘More than the hotel room—’
‘Yes, more than the room – I come down with food poisoning!’
‘The poor man! We’re pretty sure it was the crepes, right, honey?’
‘I think so, yes. We had stopped at this little café near Musée d’Orsay for crepes in the middle of the afternoon – and you know, I nearly told the woman “no cream”—’
‘I told her no cream—’
‘That’s right you did. Anyway, I didn’t, and I’m pretty sure it was the culprit.’
I was fascinated by how they told the story together, each of them performing their part as though the whole thing was scripted. Marie continued.
‘But of course, food poisoning doesn’t typically come on right away, so there we are at dinner that night up in Montmartre. And I’d pulled myself together for this dinner, because it was our last night and I was so desperate to have at least one romantic evening out with my husband, even if I still didn’t feel the best—’
‘You did look beautiful.’
‘Thanks, honey.’
‘Anyway, right after they cleared our dinner plates, it hits. I mean, full force. I had to excuse myself from the table.’
‘And the poor man is gone for ages, and I’m not quite sure what’s happening—’
‘But as soon as I get back to the table, I’m like, “Honey, we need to leave. Now!”’
‘I practically threw money at our waiter – didn’t I, hon?’
‘She really did. The waiter had to pick it up off the floor. So, we run out of the restaurant and hail a cab—’
‘Thank god there was one right on the street outside—’
‘And we get back to the hotel just in time, and then all hell lets loose.’
‘And he spent the rest of the night sitting on the toilet and vomiting into the sink. The poor man.’
‘And the next morning, we’re packing, because we’re taking the train back to London that day, and I am really struggling.’
‘And of course, we didn’t have any more of the good drugs, which keep things in check, so to speak, because I’d finished those off the day before,’ said Marie.
‘So, we finish packing, grab a cab from the hotel, and we have the cab driver stop off at a pharmacy on the way to the station.’
‘And there I am using my best high school French. “Mon mari est très malade” – my husband is sick – but beyond that, I haven’t got the vocab. So the pharmacist pretends to cough and we’re shaking our heads.’
‘And then Marie pretends to throw up, and the pharmacist seems to understand, and then she asks if I also have diarrhoea – but she does it with hand gestures next to her butt and farting noises.’
Even though it really wasn’t suitable mealtime conversation, the rest of us were laughing so hard it didn’t matter.
‘Anyway, we establish that, yes, he is vomiting and, yes, he has diarrhoea, and we get the drugs to stop both on the train ride back to London.’
‘So that was our tragically crappy first trip to Paris together.’ Gary emphasised the word ‘crappy’, and we all groaned. Marie laughed and looked at her husband adoringly.
My mind flicked to Neil the fuckhead. I searched my memory for any instance where we’d shared a story like that with our friends. There were none. For one thing, Neil and I didn’t share any friends, which was entirely his fault. Throughout our relationship, he baulked at any suggestion to get together with my friends, or even his. And he would never have taken me to Paris – or anywhere like it – because he couldn’t be adventurous or romantic to save his life. Also, Neil wasn’t remotely interesting enough to tell a good story.
I stifled a derisive snort, disguising it as a cough. No one seemed to notice, except Josh. He glanced in my direction, and I cleared my throat while tapping my chest. Sure that I’d sold my fake cough, I nestled into thinking about how much energy I had expended mourning my relationship with Neil. I had wasted a lot of time crying about a man who didn’t really love me, if I was completely honest with myself, and who didn’t deserve my love – a man who was, in fact, a dick. For months, my friends and my sister had been telling me that exact thing, but it was the first time I realised it for myself.
I swung my attention back to the table. They were flogging the dead hor
se with puns about defecation. ‘That is certainly the shittiest story I have ever heard,’ said Duncan. I joined in on a collective groan.
‘Okay! Enough!’ Marie cried out through her laughter.
‘But seriously, though, it’s the best reason I’ve ever heard for going back somewhere,’ Duncan added. The rest of us agreed – even Hannah who seemed way more messed up about love and romance than me.
An hour later, my stomach hurt and it was my own doing. I had eaten the bodyweight of a small child in delicious, home-grown, home-made Greek food. I sat back from the table and rubbed a hand over my food baby. Martika returned to the table carrying what I could only guess was more food. I would have shooed her away, but I could no longer lift my arms.
She placed a worn wooden cutting board on the table, and on it were several apples cut into eighths. Next to the pile of apple pieces was a block of hard, salted cheese. By this stage we didn’t need to ask – she grew the apples and she made the cheese. Despite my engorged state, I reached for a few slices of apple and a piece of cheese. They were both delicious, especially together. I told my groaning stomach to shush as I took another bite.
Even though the meal was winding down, the chatter continued in a lively manner, and I found myself watching the group, slightly detached. I knew I was stone-cold sober, because all I’d had to drink was Coke – albeit the diet version, which in larger-than-normal quantities can make me go a little loopy lala – but I felt all warm inside like you do after a couple of glasses of wine. And then I realised why. I was happy. Not only that, I loved these people – these irreverent, hilarious, caring, fun people – people who were strangers to me less than a week before. At that moment, those people became my family.
When we emerged from our three-hour-long lunch – yes, three hours is how long it takes to eat the best meal you’ve ever had – the clouds were gone, the sun was out, and all the flood waters had receded. It was like a completely different day. Martika saw us off, and I hugged her as a thank you for the lovely food. Of course, we paid her – a ridiculously small amount considering the feast she had served us – but she had shown us great kindness and had been a gracious hostess, so hugs were in order too.
The others then crowded around to give her hugs and she waved as we began the slow ascent back to our scooters. It took a little longer than you might expect for reasonably fit and relatively young people, but in our defence, we were all suffering from chronic overeating. I just wanted to take a nap. We finally made it to the top of the town and assembled around our scooters. Josh got his travel towel out of our scooter’s small storage compartment and dried the seat, the helmets and the handlebars.
‘Hey, Duncan?’ asked Gary.
‘Yeah, mate?’
‘So, are we heading back to the marina now?’ I could have kissed him right then for saying what I was thinking. Six pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Duncan, including Gerry’s. Thank goodness I wasn’t the only one who wanted to crawl onto my bunk and have an afternoon snooze.
‘You don’t want to go to Halki, to the distillery?’ Duncan asked, directing the question to the whole group.
A chorus of mumbled responses ensued. ‘Heading back would be okay.’ ‘Only if you wanted to.’ ‘The distillery’s okay if it’s just for a little while.’
‘It’s on the way back,’ he added as if to sway our decision.
‘You know what?’ said Gary. ‘If it’s on the way, we might as well.’ NOOO! Gary! You were doing so well, but then you betrayed us, brother. Needless to say, I no longer wanted to kiss him. I couldn’t place all the blame on Gary, though – the rest of us hadn’t exactly backed him up with a decisive, ‘Take us back to the boat now!’
‘What did you want to do?’ I asked Josh as he put his helmet on.
‘Truthfully?’
‘No, lie to me. I love it when men do that.’
He looked right into my eyes and whispered. ‘I want to go back to the boat – just us – and spend the rest of the afternoon making out with you.’
I gulped – actually gulped, like they do in cartoons – and I am sure my eyes were the size of saucers. He grinned and got on the scooter. It was a cool move, I’d give him that. ‘Making out’ – it so American, so high school – and for some reason, super sexy.
I climbed on the scooter and grabbed hold of his waist as he zipped off in pursuit of Duncan, mindful that no matter how many times I promised myself I would steer clear of the cute American, I literally couldn’t keep my hands off him. I concluded that I was truly pathetic and had the willpower of, well, someone who has no willpower.
Or maybe there was more to it?
As I pressed myself against Josh, I remembered what he’d told me the day that Patricia had said all those nasty things – that he wanted a bigger life. It had really struck a chord with me, and I’d thought about it a lot ever since. And every time I did, I wondered what it would mean for Josh. I also wondered what it would mean for me. I wanted my life to be bigger too; I’d been stuck in a rut for too long. Maybe those two bigger lives would be connected somehow.
We resumed our four-scooter formation and headed for our final stop of the day – at least I really hoped it was. I thought longingly about the foam mattress on my bunk. I thought even more longingly about how a sexy American boy would look on that foam mattress. Quite good, I decided as I tightened my grip on his stomach. He flexed his abs in response. Nice.
The distillery turned out to be rather fun. We were shown around by an older Greek gentleman who had limited English and an eye for the ladies; he grinned and winked at us the whole time. I was also fairly certain he poured us larger samples than he poured for the guys. Kitron, the drink they made, was tasty, but even the weakest variety was potent; they were not messing around with that stuff. To be polite, I bought a little bottle of the weakest one, which was bright green. At least the colour was nice.
‘You okay to ride?’ I asked Josh as we geared up to ride for the final time that day.
‘Yeah, I only had a few sips. I’ll be fine. Do you trust me?’
‘I trust you.’
I knew, with a pang in my stomach, I was commenting on more than his scooter-piloting skills. Sure, we were friends, but trusting him the way you trust a guy you’re romantically involved with – that was different.
Was I seriously reconsidering the whole ‘holiday romance’ thing?
No matter what I did to distract myself on the ride back to the marina – oh look, a Greek farmer on a donkey!! – I couldn’t stop myself from returning to this one thought. It was like when you get a sore in your mouth, and you keep touching it with your tongue. It kinda hurts, but it also kinda feels good?
Thinking about hooking up with Josh – for absolute real – was like tonguing a mouth ulcer.
*
Believe it or not, some of us actually wanted dinner that night, but only some of us. It was me of course – I have the appetite of a lumberjack – and Josh and Gary and Marie. Hannah was off with the people from the other boat – traitor – and when we invited them to dinner, Gerry and Duncan opted to stay on the boat. Alone time must be hard to come by when you’re sailing with five other people. I was more than happy to give them some privacy.
Sometime after nine, the four of us set off into the town with no clear idea where we were going. We eventually found somewhere off the main thoroughfare, which had more locals than tourists. We took a small table out front on the footpath – four chairs crowded around a table that would typically fit two. Cosy. Gary and Josh spent the first few minutes engineering a solution to the table’s rocking issue – we were on cobblestones – and by the time the waiter came, the table was stable. He placed a basket filled with bread in the middle.
‘English?’ he asked in a curt tone.
‘Ne,’ I replied, using one of my five Greek words. His face crumpled into what looked like a judgemental frown. He then rattled off a series of specials in thickly accented English, tossed a stack of laminated menus
on the table, and disappeared.
‘How much of that did you get?’ asked Gary.
‘None,’ admitted Josh.
‘Me neither,’ added Marie.
I picked up one of the menus. It was sticky. Yuk. What was with all the sticky laminated menus in Greece? This one was written in what I guessed was meant to be English. I held it up to the others. ‘It’s in English – sort of. I say we skip the specials and order from here.’
‘Good idea,’ said Marie. ‘It’s not like this is going to be anywhere near as good as what Martika served us today.’
‘That was the best meal I’ve ever had,’ said Josh. ‘And I’m from Chicago. And I travel all the time for work, and I get to eat in some high-end places, but that – that was … Actually, I don’t think I have the words for it.’
‘I agree,’ said Marie. ‘I don’t think I will ever be able to eat another tomato after today and not think of how it pales in comparison to hers.’
‘Or bread,’ said Gary.
‘Or cheese,’ I added.
‘Oh my god, the cheese,’ groaned Marie.
‘Okay, we need to stop reminiscing and order.’ I looked down at the menu and tried to concentrate. It wasn’t so much the memory of lunch that was making it difficult, but the feel of Josh’s thigh against mine – especially as we were both wearing shorts.
On the ride back to the marina earlier, I’d convinced myself that if I didn’t go straight to my cabin, Josh would make some kind of move on me. When we arrived, I went to my cabin under the pretence of taking a nap. I did eventually fall asleep, but not before I had imagined in great detail what making out with Josh would be like, and of course those thoughts had evolved into making love with him. Thank goodness Hannah was hanging out with some girls from the other boat. At least I could fret in private.
I’d emerged from my nap in a sleepy haze around six, knowing that only a shower would help shake it off. And, looking in the bathroom mirror, I’d discovered I looked more like a drowned rat than a woman. Why hadn’t anyone told me I had mascara smudges down to my chin, or that so much of my hair had escaped my ponytail it had formed a brown halo of fuzz around my face? I definitely needed to freshen up before I faced the world – well, Josh – especially if I wanted to feel remotely attractive.