Encounters on the Road

Social Climbers

2010-05-10T00:06:00.000-07:00

“We gotta find that bar,” said my husband Ron, soon after we landed on the Croatian island of Korcula. He had read about a place perched on an ancient tower, with 360-degree views of the city and the Adriatic Sea.

I was standing in our room with my backpack on, ready to settle in. But the lure of the tower was strong; I dropped my pack and followed him out the door.

Korcula expands by thousands in the summer, but in May it was quiet, with hardly any tourists. Ron and I wandered through narrow cobblestone streets set in a herringbone pattern, designed in the 15th century to circulate air among buildings while protecting the city from strong ocean winds.

We emerged from an alley to see a harbor off to the left, where sailboats and small cruise ships floated in the sunlit water. Turning right, we walked below the old town wall, taking in the afternoon sun and the scent of sea air.

“Look,” I said, spotting a sign with a picture of a tower. “That must be the place.”

We went up an outside staircase and entered a small room with bare stone walls and one tiny window. Several people sat in nooks against the round walls. We took more stairs to a second level, where half a dozen men were drinking beer and speaking Croatian.

One of them pointed to a ladder. I walked over, looked up and saw a hole in the ceiling and a circle of blue sky. The men stopped talking and watched.

Ron scampered up the 12-foot ladder to the roof. I followed, climbing hand-over-hand, with my purse looped over my arm. My coat was tied around my waist, and halfway up it slipped down to my ankles, entangling me so I couldn’t go up or down.

My husband peered through the hole. “C’mon, you can do it,” he said. What’s taking you so long?”

I clung to a rung with one hand, grabbed my coat with the other and kept on climbing. When I finally emerged, dragging my coat and purse, the drinkers on the roof looked relieved. Perhaps they had pictured a very old woman struggling up the ladder.

“This is NOT the grand entrance I had pictured,” Ron declared.

A ripple of laughter went around the dozen or so people sitting at tables, bundled up against the wind. They went back to conversing in four or five languages.

We sat at an empty table. A waiter came over and took our order, then clipped it to a basket with a clothespin and sent it over the wall. Ten minutes later the same basket brought up our cocktails without spilling a drop.

We relaxed with our drinks and watched others emerge through the hole in various states of relief and wonder. I tried not to think about going back down the ladder.

A young couple plopped down at our table and introduced themselves as Simon and Naomi from Australia. They were on their way to a family wedding in Scotland and bubbled over with stories about their trip.

Next Corbin and David popped out of the hole. They looked so lively that Simon invited them to join us. We spent hours trading swizzle sticks and travel stories, along with details of our lives back home.

David looked in his forties, Corbin ten years younger. They lived in the suburbs of Dallas, and I was captivated to learn that every fall, they planted over 2000 tulip bulbs, then threw a party for 150 when the flowers appeared in the spring.

Ron said we were retired and spent every spring in Europe. We planned to explore Montenegro before returning to Seattle.

“Montenegro? Really?” said Naomi. “What’s that supposed to be like?”

"Mountains, beaches.... We'll find out more and let you know," I replied.

David calmly described how he organized their trips. Meanwhile, Corbin ran around the roof introducing himself to the waiter and all the other customers.

With every round of drinks, our voices and raucous laughter got louder. Couples looking for a quiet evening left, and soon we were the only ones on the roof.

The group grew calmer as we watched the sun go down, painting the sky in shades of orange and rose. Through gaps in the tower’s castellated wall, I saw a small boat chugging from the harbor to a cruise ship several miles offshore. The last rays of sun were reflected in its wake.

We lingered over our drinks. None of us seemed ready to leave the crossroads that had brought us together. But by eight o’clock the wind had picked up and our group began to disperse. We hugged each other, Corbin hugged the waiter, and our new friends disappeared through the hole.

Ron and I were the last to leave. When I made it down, the locals I'd seen before glanced over and laughed. It was then I realized that we were the entertainment. Watching tourists climb up to the roof and down again was the highlight of their day.

Passion in the Dordogne

2009-06-02T01:00:00.000-07:00

I couldn't believe what I was reading on the door.

Ron and I were in Sarlat, a medieval town in the Dordogne region of France. Our B&B had been the barn of an 18th-century manor house, and we'd been welcomed by a cream-colored cat with black ears and tail, well groomed hair and brilliant blue eyes.

The room had wooden beams, antique furniture and a handmade quilt. At two in the morning, Ron was asleep after a long day of driving, while a constant chorus of croaking frogs and quacking ducks kept me awake. ("Don't you ever stop talking?" I thought to myself.)

I wandered over to the back of the door and read the practicalities. Some were in English as well as French: Breakfast served from 8 - 9:30, check-out time 10 a.m., "We are here to make your trip enjoyable," etc. The next part was only in French; I was able to translate but couldn't understand it. I walked around the room, came back and read it again. It said,

"Si vous voulez avoir la passion, s'il vous plait demander d'abord a la reception." Or, "If you want to have passion, please ask first at reception."

"OK-Dokey. Will do," I said as I passed out on the bed next to Ron.

Bye Bye Spain, Hello Geneva

2009-05-30T00:45:00.000-07:00

After our mountaintop adventure we headed for Santiago de Compostela and fell in love with the city's narrow, windy lanes, pretty squares and magnificent cathedral. Over the centuries, pilgrims have walked hundreds of miles to get there, formerly for cures or absolution, lately more as a personal challenge. When we arrived the city was filled with hikers of all ages wearing backpacks and walking gear. They were tired and weathered but full of relief and joy because they had made it. Add to that the four-day Festival of Ascension, with music and dancing in the streets, and the mood was electric.

Sunshine had found us and stayed through La Coruna, a city on the Atlantic coast with a crescent-shaped beach under rugged cliffs.

Then it was on to Geneva to visit with our friends of forty years, Jean Pierre and Carmen, and their children and grandchildren.

A Scary Drive

2009-05-18T00:28:00.000-07:00

In Teixidiello, northwest Spain, Ron and I had planned to drive to a different village every day and return to our cozy cottage at night. But the week didn't go as expected.

It rained a lot, and the five-mile road up to Teixidiello was steep, curvy and slippery. The first time up we followed our host. I remember thinking we might need him and his SUV to tow us out of a ditch.

Scary drives had never bothered me, but this road was daunting. I was sure we'd slide off the cliff or bottom out our car on the rough terrain. The path was filled with puddles and potholes, and we had to cross a stream coming from a small waterfall next to the road.

We drove down the mountain only twice that week; both days ended with a mad dash to buy groceries and make it up the hill before dark. Then we'd collapse, light a fire and let the cottage lift our spirits.

We didn't do what we'd planned, but we relished every minute in our little stone house, shutting out the rain and the rest of the world. Someday we'll return, with rain gear, four-wheel drive and an extra dose of courage.

The Rain in Spain....

2009-05-13T00:02:00.000-07:00

Everyone says it's damp in northwest Spain, but we have the proof.

Ron and I were spending a week in a cottage high in the Cantabrian Mountains. One night we sat in front of the fire and played Canasta. I could barely peel one card away from another as I shuffled and dealt; after the game, the decks were too big to fit in their boxes.

Our house was one of four in Teixidiello, a hamlet used for hundreds of years by farmers who herded their cattle up to graze in the summer. The village was abandoned in the 1950s when all the families left to work in the factories below. Forty years later, our hosts Max and Anna bought the remains and have been bringing the village back to life.

The stone cottage had artistic furnishings and modern conveniences, with a compact kitchen and wooden dining table and chairs. Stairs led to a loft bedrooom and bathroom with soft lighting and wooden floors. The fireplace in the tiny living room provided enough heat for the whole house.

From the patio and bedroom windows we could look down on miles of green hillsides, farms and forests. Even the ocean was visible in the distance.

We enjoyed the stunning spot with Max and Anna, who were as relaxed as the place where they lived. Ron's Spanish helped us share the details of our lives, and by the time we left they seemed like old friends.

An Evening in Santorini

2009-04-17T23:44:00.000-07:00

Ron and I were eating outside at a harbor restaurant when a young woman came over and introduced herself to my husband.

I saw your Nittany Lions cap," she said. "Did you go to Penn State?"
"Yes," he replied, "Class of '67."

"I graduated last spring. My name's Caitlin." They spent a few minutes sharing oddly similar memories.

Caitlin rejoined her friends at the next table, who were wearing colorful T-shirts and caps with the names of other colleges. As the evening wore on, they switched from beer to ouzo, getting more and more smashed. At one point the Penn Stater laughed so hard she fell off her chair.
Meanwhile, a refined young couple enjoyed a leisurely meal a few tables away. They were more dressed up than the other diners and seemed to be celebrating a special occasion.

Several friendly dogs wandered among the tables; one strolled over to them, lifted his leg and peed on their table. the young man looked stunned but didn't move, and neither did his companion.

Our jaws dropped. Caitlin and her friends were speechless, staring wide-eyed at the couple. "Did you see that?" she asked me, snickering. I nodded, trying to restrain my laughter.

During the dessert course the pup repeated his act, this time sprinkling a little on the man's legs. He and his date gulped their brandies, took pictures of each other and got out of there. Stone-faced, they looked away as they passed by.

Luckily, the dog didn't consider the rest of us worthy of his blessing.

Once upon a time, a hedgehog family lived in a garden...

2007-05-04T00:44:00.000-07:00

Maudlin Street was quiet except for a few pub crawlers on the weekend. But one Thursday morning about 2:00 a.m., we were awakened by ferocious barking that didn’t pause for almost an hour, coming from the yard next door. I had never heard such barking; the dog sounded desperate, panicked, as if he or his owner were being attacked. Ron trotted outside in his pajamas to find out what was going on, but he couldn’t see above the neighbor’s fence. He began clapping and shouting, hoping at least the owner would respond. We feared something criminal and were about to go for the police, when the neighbor’s light finally went on. Not long afterward the barking ceased.

The dog began yelping again the next night, but the noise was more intermittent and lasted for a shorter time. Still, we reported the incidents to our landlord Sean, who spoke to his neighbor, who promised it would stop. We heard barking a couple of other nights, but at a much lower volume.

A week later Sean called to report he’d heard from neighbor Joe, who had gotten to the root of the problem. “We have a family of hedgehogs at the bottom of the garden,” said Sean. “And of course the dog went ballistic over it.” In a half hour he appeared at the door with a pet carrier, the size you’d use for a cat, complete with a little towel dusted with cat hair.

Now it just so happens that for over twelve years, our traveling companion has been Henry, a 4”-tall hedgehog made of wool. As soon as I saw Sean, I presented Henry with a flourish, saying “We’ve found the culprit!” I received the blankest of looks. “Where did you find THAT?” he asked. I tried to explain, but he couldn’t get his mind around a traveling hedgehog (though he wanted his hedgehogs to do just that).

Sean sprinted out to the garden to capture the little family. He returned in roughly three minutes with his empty carrier. “I’ll try again on Sunday – at night, when they come out!”

The next day we had to say goodbye to Sean and the house on Maudlin Street. But we’re already planning our next trip to Ireland.

Mrs. Farrell's Corner House

2007-05-01T00:39:00.000-07:00

I first went to Dingle 17 years ago with my husband Ron and 14-year-old son Dan. We arrived late in the day and looked for Mrs. Farrell’s, a B & B mentioned in my guidebook. Unable to find it, we were about to give up when I noticed a small, worn sign: “Corner House.”

“I think that’s it,” I said, remembering the name from the book. I knocked tentatively on the door.

A woman’s face appeared. Fair skinned with grey hair and a small, pointed nose, she wore a hair net and held her hands clasped at her waist. “Hello,” I said. “We wonder if you might have a room for the three of us.”

She looked us over. “Indeed I do. A couple came by not an hour ago wantin’ my last room, but I said ‘I don’t think so, I have a feeling a family will come.’ And sure enough, here you are.” Mrs. Farrell bustled us in and showed us to a room on the second floor just made for three. The next morning she asked if we weren’t sick of full Irish breakfasts and wouldn't we like something else for a change? Perfect.

We stayed four days, and on the third, she took me aside. Hands clasped, hair net still on, she leaned forward and whispered, “Can I ask ya a question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“How is it your son is so civilized, being an American child?”

* * *

So we go back to Dingle this year, and two weeks later we're in Dublin for the day. Ron spends the afternoon at the National Library, researching his family’s history, while I walk around the city and stop at a couple of classic pubs. One of them, Long Hall, is decorated in Victorian style, unchanged for over a hundred years.

I go in and order a pint, sit down and start talking to a gent beside me, who introduces himself as Paul. I learn he grew up in Dingle and tell of my recent visit; then I mention Mrs. Farrell.

“Oh, Mrs. Farrell, is she still with us?” he asks, worried. I say she is, but she gave up her business last year. The lady we stayed with told us she’s fine, well turned out for church on Sundays. I relate our son’s encounter with her 17 years ago, including the question she asked me.

His eyes open wide, but he can’t keep from laughing. “Were you offended, then?” he asks.

“No, I took it as a compliment. And you know what?” I continue. “When we called Dan the other day and told him we’d been in Dingle, the first thing he said was “Did you see Mrs. Farrell?”

“Ah, he remembers, after all these years.” Then Paul tells his own Mrs. Farrell story.

Many years ago, his uncle and cousin went to visit Paul’s family, but their house was too small to hold them. The men inquired at Mrs. Farrell’s B & B. But as soon as she heard a Dublin accent, she said, “Oh no, I’m sorry, we’re full.”

The uncle, suspecting what had put her off, said, “Thank you anyway” and started to leave. But he turned around before she closed the door.

“Can you tell me, then, when mass is tomorrow mornin’? We’ll be wantin’ to...” he didn’t even get a chance to finish.

“It’s 9:00 a.m. sharp,” she replied. “And wait just a minute, let me check my book....” She had a room for them after all.

Jan's Big Day

2007-04-26T00:42:00.000-07:00

“If you want to see good races, go over to Punchestown. Their big one is on this coming week,” said the bartender.

I was in O’Riada’s pub on High Street Kilkenny and had been staring at a steeplechase on TV. The event, called National Hunt Racing in Ireland, is a distance horse race involving jumps over many fence and ditch obstacles. (The term “steeplechase” derives from early races in which courses went from church steeple to church steeple, with riders overcoming natural barriers in between.)

I am hopeless about horses and love to see them in any setting; Ron will stop the car at a moment’s notice if horses are spotted alongside the road. But to see them race in this kind of event... it was almost too good to be true. Ron, Karen and I were off to the races, specifically the 2007 Punchestown International Three Day Event & Horse Show.

We arrived to find hundreds of people milling about; many seemed more interested in watching each other than seeing the races. The ladies were dressed to the nines, from their fancy hats to their uncomfortable shoes, with long skirts (or hot pants) in between.

Before each race, a dozen sparkling horses and jockeys paraded close to us as they headed for the ring. Many spectators stayed outside the racecourse, placing bets and watching giant TV screens. Not for me – I wanted to see the horses run in “person.”

We went under an arch and emerged in front of the greenest race course I had ever seen, sprinkled with jumps and surrounded by beautiful Irish countryside, with trees, hills and fields. Close to the track were bookies taking last-minute bets; they sat in chairs with little umbrellas to ward off the sun.

We climbed into the stands and watched the horses from afar as they ran great lengths and jumped many hurdles. But my greatest thrill came when I weaved through the crowd and got to a rail near the finish line. At the end of the race, after leaping over the last jump, the powerful horses streaked by only yards away, giving their all as they headed for the home stretch. Indeed, they were stretching forward, horse and jockey together, with enormous skill and determination to win. I’ll never forget the sound of their thundering hooves on the grass, the smell of them, their beauty and their incredible spirit. As the hoofbeats receded, I could only whisper, “Wow.”

The Man in the Hat

2007-04-24T00:29:00.000-07:00

Our friend Karen has arrived from Seattle. We've just gone to the green grocer, which reminded me of the first one we met in Ireland.

On our way to Kilkenny, we stopped to buy food at a shop in Durrow. The grocer, a tall man in a butcher’s apron, ran around cheerfully and found what we needed: fresh butter and eggs, orange juice and tonic, a bottle opener, Irish cheddar, apples and a lemon. He put it all in a box for us to take away.

“That carton's the perfect size,” I said. He gave me a wink. “Good packer,” he declared with a hint of pride. A boy came up with a bottle of milk and gave the grocer his money.

Just then a small, elderly gent walked in and stood at the doorway. He was dressed in a tweed suit, plaid vest, tie and hat, with a cane hooked over one arm. The man looked around and smiled delightedly, hands clasped in front of his chest, enjoying all the action. I smiled in return, then turned to pay as Ron carried out our groceries.

Driving through Durrow again several weeks later, we passed the same shop. The grocer and his dapper friend, dressed just as before, were standing on the sidewalk watching the world go by. I pictured the old man dressing up each morning and ambling over to keep his friend company and get the latest scoop – such as a couple of foreigners with a boxful of groceries that once had been the highlight of his day.

The Dingle Peninsula

2007-04-15T00:37:00.000-07:00

Our friends Nancy and Mort have joined us in Kilkenny for Nancy’s school vacation. We all want to see the west coast of Ireland, so we book rooms in Dingle and take off for the weekend.

The Dingle Peninsula lies north of the larger Everagh Peninsula and the famous Ring of Kerry. One of its features is Connor Pass, the highest in Ireland and home to some of the thousands of sheep that inhabit the area. At the end of the peninsula, a circular route traces the coast, passing curving bays and dramatic cliffs above the sea. The landscape is barren except for scattered houses and stone beehive-shaped huts, built by monks who kept literacy alive during Europe’s Dark Ages.

Twenty years ago, the town of Dingle was a refuge from tourists. Now the crowds come in summer, but April is quiet – except for the music.

With only 1300 residents, Dingle has 50 pubs, offering some of the best traditional music in Ireland. I never knew there were so many kinds of Irish music, played with a variety instruments, including the fiddle, guitar, mandolin, Celtic mandola, flute, tin horn and accordion. Someone often plays the bodhran, a flat, circular drum held under the arm, or a small bagpipe, pressed but not blown and played like a flute. Most important is the human voice in all its ranges, rhythms and volumes.

The four of us stop at a number of pubs, including An Droichead Beag (The Small Bridge). We stand in the back and chat with a pair of Swedish golfers. Then the music starts in, and we think we hear four or five musicians. But upon moving closer, we see only two: a guitar player and a wild man with a large accordion. Near the band are four pairs of dancers doing a “set,” that is a number of dances with fixed steps; they look like whirling dervishes as they spin around a small area, hemmed in by the crowd. I’ve never seen anything like it.

After a lovely time in Dingle, we drive back through the lakes of Killarney. Irish music is waiting for us in the pubs of Kilkenny.

Hurling, you say?

2007-04-11T22:24:00.000-07:00

Some people think I mean “curling” when I say “hurling,” but hurling is a sport of its own.

The game has been compared to field hockey, but they’re related the way football is to ping pong. Hurling is a contact sport in which a small, hard ball is kicked, carried, thrown, or hit with an oversized hockey stick. A player may run down the field, using his stick to bounce the ball in the air as he goes. Or the ball may fly half the length of a football field, barely visible; then someone will lift his stick and send it sailing right back. When they’re not performing these tricks, the players tackle each other and pile on, not unlike the way soccer is played in Europe.

People in Kilkenny are wild about hurling and devoted to their teams; they worship their players more than any movie star.

Soft Water

2007-04-11T22:20:00.000-07:00

The water is soft in Kilkenny, and so is the air, and the people as well. You may not think so on a Saturday night when young Dubliners come to town, or when you're sitting in O'Riada's watching a hurling match on TV and a shy enough gent yells, "Jaysus, can't he get his feckin' stick behind the feckin' ball?"

But when you walk down the street and your neighbors greet you, or you stop by the grocers and get a warm welcome, you begin to see the sweetness of the people.

They’ll ask you where you’ve been and where you’re going and are pleased you're staying a month in their town. Then comes all manner of advice: a traditional pub you haven't noticed, where to go for a nice day out, how to find a drug store.

Surprisingly, some of the pubs are hushed. Men come in after work and murmur to each other, while the TV remains mute. Still, they'll chew your ear off and want the same from you: where you grew up, what you did for a living, what you think about this and that. They have opinions of their own: one man claims he never met a person from Seattle he didn't like; "they're so relaxed,” he says, “compared to New Yorkers." I ask them questions as well, just to hear them talk.

Outside the air is soft and warm. Locals tell you you’re lucky; they've never seen it like this, fair weather for months on end. But, “don’t expect the sun tomorrow.”

A New Day on Maudlin Street

2007-04-07T11:22:00.000-07:00

Ron and I have rented a house in Kilkenny, a small, vibrant city in southeast Ireland, halfway between Cork & Dublin and an hour north of Waterford. Known for a 13th century castle towering above the River Nore, the town features a medieval street plan, cobbled pedestrian passageways and 60-odd pubs (not incidental to our choice of destinations).

On the way into town we phone Sean Nolan, who owns the house. “When you get past Durrow,” he says, “Call me. It’s a bit confusing comin’ into town, I better lead you in.” Ron’s just getting used to driving on the left and dealing with rotaries, so we’re happy for the help.

Sean guides us to Maudlin Street and An La Nua (Gaelic for “A New Day”), the “cottage” where he grew up. A trim man of 40-odd years, he has a shaved head, a tattoo on his arm, and a small earring in his left ear. You can tell he’s proud of the roomy, renovated house. When we ask why his website makes it look much smaller, he says he wants to discourage hen (bachelorette) parties, whose noise would disturb the neighbors.

After showing us around the well-equipped house, Sean is out the door and we’re not far behind him, looking for our first pub supper. Walking outside, I notice the quiet street and the smell of turf, hard-packed peat moss that we’ll burn in our kitchen and parlor fireplaces.

In a few minutes we’re in the center of town. It’s Saturday night, and we’re dismayed to see hordes of rowdy 20-somethings in and around the bars, electronic music blaring. Worse, pubs on the main streets are multi-roomed and multi-leveled, not the cozy locals we hoped to call our own. We wonder if we’ve chosen the right town.

Donkey Time

2007-04-01T19:25:00.000-07:00

In the south of Europe time is relative, and Santorini is no exception. Oia prepares for tourist season, but no one's in any hurry. Pathways and buildings are repaired at a donkey’s pace, since they’re the ones who carry cement up the narrow, winding passageways.

I ask when the internet café might be open, expecting to learn the hours; someone answers “In a week, or two, maybe a month.” Our landlord Vasilis says "Tomorrow, perhaps” when we long for a meal on the balcony of his restaurant. “Maybe coffee we’ll have,” he says. Meanwhile, an old man bends over rounded stones hour after hour, placing them one by one to fit snugly into a mosaic he is creating in a church courtyard.

Driving along the caldera, we stop at a famous Mexican restaurant called Senior Zorba. The owner is inside and I ask if he’s open for business. He seems to be from a place like New Jersey but has clearly absorbed the spirit of Greece. “We’re trying,” he says, and we follow his gaze to a mountain of beer cases and flour sacks in the middle of a disheveled dining room. He sighs. “Maybe… well… I don’t know when we’ll open.”

Simple meals are offered at a few local hangouts, and we choose one for supper on Saturday. The owner does everything and seems like a John Cleese character as he strides through the small dining room, in and out of the kitchen. Suddenly all the lights go out except for a couple of small emergency exit signs near the ceiling. A few moments of silence, then everything goes on as before: people eat, drink, talk, place orders and pay checks in the dark. The waiter races out with a birthday cake, its candles lit for a happy child.

Leaving the restaurant, we realize the whole town has lost power. We encounter our bookstore friend standing in the square, hands in his pockets, looking up at the full moon. “What’s going on?” I ask. He shrugs. “Just happens every once in awhile.” He lends us his flashlight to negotiate the steep path down to our house, but as we turn to leave, all the lights come on. Now it’s our turn to shrug; we hand back the light and continue on our way.

The Lamb Chop, the Lemon and the Tablecloth Clip

2007-03-28T17:33:00.000-07:00

"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

2007-03-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

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.