The grey days were spent alone, visiting glorious national monuments in the drizzling rain and wondering if various stone castle parapets were high enough to jump off. The early evenings were spent in the bath, cursing the groaning Scottish plumbing and tepid water. Still, I managed to keep myself nice and the gigs went well. So well that I’d picked up a solid timetable of extra bookings for the full three weeks.
By the end of week two, I was in the full grip of SCS (Sad Clown Syndrome). Much of my stand-up routine was about being single well into my thirties – a litany of romantic failures that got the big laughs. But the more they laughed, the worse it was for me. With a four-day gap in my diary, what I needed was an escape from my escape.
The Brits call them ‘mini-breaks’ and it was the Greek island of Crete that took my eye. Less than a hundred pounds for four nights in a villa on the beach just outside the capital, Heraklion. Sun, sand, azure waters. Yoghurt and honey for breakfast. Fresh salads with olives and feta for lunch. Slow-roasted lamb for dinner. A day trip to the famed Palace of Knossos. Shopping for blue and white ceramic treasures.
Sold!
If this didn’t lift my spirits, my next escape would see me off to the Arctic Circle.
The logistics of getting to Crete from Edinburgh and back in time for my next gig were … let’s say challenging. The worst leg would be the flight from Gatwick, which left at the god-forsaken hour of 4 am for the four-hour trip.
That I remember the ordeal of that flight some thirty years later is a testament to how truly horrendous it was – delayed for hours and packed to the gunnels with English tour groups that had been drinking solidly since last Thursday.
I’m not gunna talk their shit foreign language, or eat their crap food. Forget it. If I don’t get a full English … wif proper chips … I’m comin’ home, me!
Four hours of chucked beer cans, duty-free vodka passed down the aisles, and pub sing-a-longs saw me in the foetal position. And, predictably, I was coming down with a middle-ear infection. My poor ears have always been my Achilles heel when I’m run down. I’m afflicted with thundering headaches, nausea and dizziness – especially when flying. The descent into Heraklion had me sobbing. How I got to my accommodation is a blur. But I’ll never forget my first sight of that ‘charming Grecian villa’.
The joint was a bomb site. Half-built. Workers swarming all over it with concrete mixers and pneumatic drills; the ‘reception area’ was covered with a tarpaulin; half the ‘dining room’ was knee-deep in rubble. The two guest rooms that had been ‘finished’ were out the back – just bare concrete boxes with wires sticking out of the walls.
Too weak to protest, and by now running a galloping fever from the roaring inflammation in both ears, I collapsed into bed and spent the next forty-something hours in a delirium, wincing with every hammer blow and bone-shattering drill. Only shouts of ‘Kalimera’ or ‘Kalispera’ signalled that day was passing into night.
I wept for my sorry self, and wondered if anyone knew where I was, or if they cared. Except that, when all was quiet and still in the evening, I could draw the curtain on the window by my bed and see the hills and mountains. Lights twinkled up there, away in the darkness, and I longed to be spirited there, to spend a night looking out to the peaceful Sea of Crete and the endless wonders of the Aegean.
Perhaps I wasn’t fully conscious of it then … but a plan was forming.
With the departure from my Greek idyll looming fast and not one toe even dipped in the ‘azure’ waters, I rallied to totter over the main road to the beach that last, late afternoon, barely avoiding being skittled by tattooed Brit backpackers on speeding motorbikes.
Oi, watch where yer goin’, ya dozy bint!
A desultory stretch of sand awaited – not even as nice as St Kilda – and crowded with lithe, tanned, topless Dutch, Danish and German backpackers thumping volleyballs and furiously shouting … names of cheese?
Gouda. Havarti. Klemensker. Edam!
I trudged back to the bomb site, packed my bag, and left it in the foyer for the morning bus.
As the warm night descended, I asked for a taxi.
‘Take me there,’ I said to the driver, pointing to the lights in the mountains.
‘Where?’ Without a name for the destination he was puzzled.
‘Just up there.’ I pointed again to a string of pink tinsel glinting in the dusky sunset.
Up and up the narrow winding road we went. On one side the hillside fell away into woody ravines and beyond that the magnificent Sea of Crete. The driver slowed on a bend to trail an elderly fellow walking the road ahead, shepherding his flock of goats and sheep, each one with a tinkling tiny bell strung around its neck. I hadn’t heard such a soothing sound in, what seemed like, forever. Exactly what I’d been seeking to balm my savage soul.
I got out and watched the taxi’s tail lights disappear back down the mountain. On wobbly legs I followed the shepherd to the small village just ahead.
The heady scent of rosemary and lemon led me to a roadside kitchen where a few locals sat on the balcony. Without much Greek, except for a grateful ‘Evcharisto poli’, a feast magically appeared of delicious olives, feta, slow-cooked lamb (sorry, lambs) and a tumbler of rosé retsina.
Watching the sun drop below the edge of the world and with a profound, blessed quiet closing in, my equilibrium was being restored. All I needed was a bed for the night and I’d be on my way. Ready to head back to the fray.
When the kitchen closed, I walked further up the hill to where I supposed the main village must be. But no, turning back, this was it. A single street light, a handful of modest houses and all the curtains drawn. I cursed myself for being so stupid. This wasn’t a proper plan. I’d fled my concrete box on a whim and hadn’t thought anything through. Typical.
No matter, I decided. I’ll just walk back down the mountain. And if it took all night? Then, that’s what it would take. How far could it be? No more than 10 kilometres, I estimated. Maybe fifteen?
Setting off with gravel crunching underfoot and the tang of pine trees hanging in the warm night air, my spirits were high. I imagined regaling all my friends back home with my great nocturnal adventure in the forests of Crete!
A mere 100 metres or so down the road and I stopped dead. All was pitch black. No moonlight. On one side a precipitous cliff. Still dizzy and unbalanced from my illness, I could so easily stumble and plunge over the edge.
I had to turn back to the village and beg for a bed.
The first door I knocked on opened just a tiny crack and quickly slammed shut. And the one after that.
With only a few houses left it looked like I’d be spending the night on the footpath or sneaking into a pen with the sheep and goats for the warmth. It was getting chilly now and I’d only brought a fresh shirt and socks in my tote bag.
Stupid. Dumb. Me.
The next door, mercifully, was opened a little wider by a tiny, elderly lady.
‘Yassas. Kalispera,’ I gabbled.
An elaborate mime ensued that I hoped translated as: ‘Please, please. Do you have a bed I could sleep in? I will pay you for your troubles. Please say yes because I am a desperate idiot and I …’
I could see she was thinking, who is this crazy woman? as the door started to creak to a close.
‘I’ve come from Melbourne in Australia … I …’
She paused then, held up one finger that I translated to mean, ‘Just one moment,’ and called over her shoulder.
A young man appeared in the doorway. Tall, bearded and imposing.
‘You from Melbourne?’ he asked. A gruff and rough inquiry.
‘Yes. Melbourne.’
He paused for a long while and then asked, ‘So … what team you barrack for?’
There was only one answer. The correct answer. ‘Richmond. The mighty Tigers, of course!’
He beamed from ear to ear. ‘Richmond! Richmond! Tigerland! Come in! Come in! Welcome to you, friend!’
As we shared a cup of
herbal tea in his family’s small kitchen, the young man told me his story. He’d lived in Melbourne for some years and had only recently returned to his ancestral home in this tiny, picturesque rural village. His family was opening a B&B, just next week, as it happened. The tourist trade in Crete was booming and I certainly wasn’t the first who’d come looking for a place to stay. They had only one room ready. Would I like to be their very first guest?
I said I would. Thank you very much.
His mother scurried off to make everything ready.
Just as, even now, I can vividly recall that bomb site down the mountain, the details of that wonderful room abide in my memory.
Whitewashed walls with little nooks where candles glowed. A wooden dressing table set with a blue and white ceramic jug of water with slices of lemon. Creamy, soft, flokati rugs on the floor. A big bed topped with a bright, striped woven spread. And, most magnificently, two wooden doors that opened to the vast expanse of the Cretan sea, where a thousand points of light twinkled into infinity.
As I slept that night on Mount Olympus, I could only think that Zeus Xenios – the Greek god of hospitality and travellers – had guided me there. Perhaps the son of Apollo, Asclepius, and his five famous healing daughters ministered to me in my dreams too.
I only know that upon waking to a breakfast of fresh yoghurt, honey, eggs and bread, I was restored. Ready to head down the mountain again and to all that awaited.
My very ordinary (by most standards), adventure that year often comes to mind. I can only think it’s because, during my heartache, I’d limited my world to a tiny frame. Couldn’t even cross the Punt Road Bridge back then. But with a scrap of courage, more than a little luck and a foolish, trusting heart, the whole world was mine again.
Many have since asked, what if you’d answered ‘Collingwood’ or ‘St Kilda’ to the young man’s question?
I’ll leave you to ponder that.
I never have.
PS: I did return to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Next time with a one-woman show called Love Gone Wrong, all about the travails of the broken-hearted. It was nominated ‘Pick of the Fringe’ and transferred for a short run in London’s West End.
So there’s that.
Och, aye!
The Ninja Star, the Federal Police and Me
Andrew P. Street
THERE ARE PEOPLE who see the glass as half full. There are people who see the glass as half empty. And there are people who see the glass as full of poison and about to explode in their faces.
All those people are, in my opinion, adorable optimists.
For much of my life, at least until I discovered that a small and regular dose of specific chemicals helped prevent it, my constant and overwhelming anxiety would reassure me that everything was always about to come crashing down around my ears, almost certainly because of some stupid thing that I, like an idiot, had overlooked.
For the most part, that feeling was both unhelpful and incorrect. And yet the one time it would have been absolutely on the money I was blithely standing at Adelaide airport, watching the security personnel scanning and re-scanning my bag, and inexplicably not experiencing my usual sinking feeling that things were about to go stupidly awry.
It was March 2006, and I was eager to leave Adelaide for the weekend to visit my then wife. She had just been headhunted for a project in Sydney and was being put up in Woolloomooloo by her new company until she secured accommodation. Meanwhile, I was in Adelaide trying to pack up our life. She had told me that I didn’t actually need to follow her if I didn’t want to leave A-town, a statement that probably should have registered a little more strongly with me than it did.
At that time, I was working as the music editor at dB Magazine, a free street-press magazine. Also working there a year or so earlier had been a designer named Anthony, whom we had nicknamed ‘Ninja’ for reasons my memory has obscured.
After leaving us and the entire badly listing South Australian publishing industry, he travelled to Japan to teach English, where he met a local girl and they fell in love. In December 2005, he brought his beloved to Australia to meet his family, and popped into the office with some fun novelty presents for each of us: ornamental ninja stars made of metal and looking entirely authentic. We all laughed at them, and I put mine into my shoulder bag and completely forgot about it.
And thus a few months later I was initially confused when a sheepish-looking security guard came over and asked a question that I’m betting he didn’t often get the chance to ask. ‘Excuse me, sir, but is there any reason why you would be, um, attempting to carry a throwing star on to this flight?’
I laughed. ‘Of course not!’ I confidently declared. ‘Why on Earth would I be carrying … Oh my dear god.’
‘Come with me, sir,’ said the suddenly rather less pally security guard.
In the guard’s defence, he absolutely believed my breathless story about why this object was in my bag, since it made a lot more sense than any of the alternatives. For one thing, ninjas are notoriously stealthy. The fact that I was now sitting in a small office with three members of airport security whose day had just got a lot more interesting, instead of having done a backflip into an air vent before vanishing, ghostlike, into the night, was a bit of a giveaway that I was probably more disorganised idiot than master assassin.
I did learn that the reason they were scanning and rescanning my bag was because the system occasionally threw up fake scans to ensure that the airport security guards were still paying eagle-eyed attention after days and weeks and years of zero terrorist threats in Adelaide. When the object remained after two scans, they started to take seriously the possibility that it was real and … well, there we were.
The other thing I learned was that the actual police had been informed and now we were waiting to hear if the guards had decided whether it was an honest if stupid mistake, or they wanted to interview me and check that I wasn’t, in fact, a covert saboteur from feudal Japan.
At this point I was more embarrassed than worried. I’d arrived unnecessarily early for my flight, a paranoid trait connected with my aforementioned anxiety, which infuriates my travel companions to this day. I figured I’d soon be sent on my way, one ninja star down but compensated with exciting new knowledge and experience. Actually, it would be a relief: anxiety might be a hellish burden most of the time, but the wave of relief that washes over me when I realise that my fears were absolutely justified – that stuff is intoxicating.
Just as the guards shrugged and said I might as well go, the phone rang. Why yes, the South Australian Police told them, they would very much like to have a chat with me after all.
The looks on the faces of the guards made me aware that the shit had just got a little more real.
The two men from SAPOL were less impressed with my apologetic charm and goofy tales about the nicknames attributed to former colleagues. This, they stressed, was Very Serious Indeed and maybe I should call a lawyer.
Despite this sage counsel I did not, for several reasons. One was that I still hoped to catch my flight. Two was that I didn’t actually have a lawyer or any clear idea of how one was found. I felt this was a point in my favour – the sorts of people that needed lawyers would immediately know how to get hold of one, and therefore my story was even more plausible. This, the police assured me, was incorrect on several levels.
Finally, after twenty-five minutes or so, the police were convinced that I wasn’t a threat, or perhaps too dumb to be dangerous. I was told that I was free to go but might be called back for further questioning, especially if the Federal Police were intrigued.
With an agility that I now realise was perhaps a little too ninja-y I leapt to my feet, thanked them, and proceeded to race down to the concourse.
The flight was closed but the rep from the airline was certain that we could still make it provided that he yelled into an intercom and that I ran like Tom Cruise in every goddamn film of his.
And thus, with two people from t
he airline at my flanks, we ran like a pack of dogs were pursuing us down to the gate, where they opened the door to the about-to-disconnect airbridge and alerted the cabin crew to halt the door arming and crosschecking process.
I raced panting onto the plane to face row after row of unimpressed-looking passengers, found my seat and sat down. The doors were shut and secured. The engine revved up.
Sweating, panting, I relaxed.
And then the engines revved down again.
The doors became unarmed, un-crosschecked and un-shut in order to welcome two different uniformed police officers on board, who strode up to me, took my bag from the overhead compartment, and loudly invited me to escort them off the plane in order that we might go have a chat with the Federal Police.
This was about the point where I realised that I wasn’t going to Sydney after all.
The feds kept me waiting for about ninety minutes before they began their chat, which was either a killer psychological trick to ensure that I was feeling thirsty and emotionally fraught, or it was a Friday and they really couldn’t be arsed rushing through anything.
Either way, their line of questioning was not as warm and welcoming as that of the police. Who had given me the ninja star? What did I mean, I didn’t have a contact for Anthony in Japan?
‘He’s a friend and you can’t even name the city he’s in?’
No, email wasn’t good enough, they needed a number. No, I couldn’t have my phone back. Why was I bringing a ninja star on a flight? Did I expect them to believe that I’d simply forgotten? No, really, Why was I bringing a ninja star on the flight?
A tiny little part of me really wanted to say, ‘What possible answer are you looking for? That I planned to overpower the cabin crew using a piece of costume jewellery and then force the pilots to bow to my commands, lest I poke them with the edges of the cellophane wrapping in which the thing was still sealed? That I planned to commandeer this domestic flight and demand the pilots fly me to Heian-kyō, seat of feudal power in the Heian period? How much are you fuckers getting off on this pointless exercise of power?’
The Full Catastrophe Page 11