The Lamb Chop, the Lemon and the Tablecloth Clip

"I happen to have a lamb chop in my purse," I say to the man in the English bookstore. A couple of dogs sniff my handbag; they don't beg, just glance hopefully in my direction. The shopkeeper doesn't seem surprised. I tell him I brought it from a restaurant to give to the first dog I saw without a collar, i.e. dependent on the kindness of villagers and strangers. "If only I could split it," I say. He produces a knife, and we divide the meat between the grateful dogs.

A lemon wedge lies in my purse as well, meant for a cup of tea in our tiny white adobe-like house hanging off the side of a cliff overlooking the caldera.


My husband Ron and I are in Oia on the island of Santorini, Greece, a quiet village with fewer services, and more peace, than the main port of Fira. Santorini is a volcano that blew its top about 1500 B.C., leaving a bowl-like body of water that empties into the sea. It is this caldera that we gaze down on from our balcony at the beginning and end of each day.

Walking for miles along the edge of the bowl, we see why they say "blue is the color of Greece." Blue water, blue sky, blue shutters and doors brilliant against the whitewashed houses and churches that climb up the hills behind us. Even our Fiat Panda is bright blue.

Oia is just waking up from winter as the villagers renovate shops and repair pathways, using donkeys to haul cement up and down the narrow passages. At one of the few open restaurants, we eat fava beans and feta and drink white wine as we listen to the strains of Greek music.

The tablecloth clip attaches to Ron's pocket as we get up from the meal. We return it to a laughing waitress the next day.

Hiccups

You wouldn’t expect to see a village next to London’s Heathrow Airport, much less a perfect 500-year-old pub.

Last month my husband Ron and I flew in from Seattle and were due on an early flight to Athens the next day. I didn’t feel well and crashed at the Thistle Hotel, but Ron trotted off to Langford and found the White Horse Tavern. He soon made the acquaintance of three middle-aged locals, civil engineers working on the construction of LHR’s Terminal 5.

So Ron’s new mates buy him pint after pint of Scrumpy Jack’s hard cider, which, it turns out, often produces hiccups. Ron once hiccupped non-stop for seven days and nights, so when they hit him this time he fears the worst.

“Vinegar!” cry his friends, and a waitress hurries over with the cure. Ron’s hiccups take a break, and those assembled lean in and hold their breath. But a few seconds later they return with enthusiasm.

The hiccups continued as he made his goodbyes, staggered back to the hotel and broke the news to me. I sighed, put in my ear plugs and went back to sleep. The hiccups were gone the next morning, but for all his pubmates know, he’s still hiccupping today.