When we set off we were full of optimism. It was a nice day, the motorway ran through green countryside. It was a refreshing change from the city.
We played old tapes on the car stereo, the soundtrack taking us through memories of our University days.
'Have you seen the beginning of Four Weddings and a Funeral?' James joked.
'Oh, yes, when everyone is rushing, and late and only half dressed.'
'yes!'
'That won't happen to us,' I said, 'we'll be there in good time'.
------
We stopped at services to change into our wedding outfits. We'd been on the road for three hours and I hadn't wanted to crumple my best dress during all that sitting down.
I had to fix my make up in the flip down mirror in front of my seat. James was itching to get moving, I struggled with my eye liner, and started to get ratty.
-------
The last leg of the journey, negotiation of Glasgow city centre loomed ominous before us.
'Now it's time to get down to business' James announced.
The pressure was on.
I did my best to navigate, but at one point James panicked and turned off too early. We were trapped. We were on a one way system in a city completely alien to us, unable to find the right route to our destination. We drove around and around, passing the same landmarks over and over again, all the while, the digital clock on the dashboard moving closer towards 2pm, the start time of the wedding.
We arrived at the Church just in time and for a moment we were relieved. It wasn't long after this that we realised there weren't any parking spaces.
The Bride pulled up at the church, a Piper filled his bags with air and started to play, guests made their way inside....
------
We drove back onto the one way system. I started to go pink and get quite annoyed. Most of the street parking required permits, all of the other street parking spaces were short stay only so we couldn't stay at those either. Eventually we managed to squeeze the car into a spot on the top level of a multi storey. Our decent would have been aided considerably by using the lift. But this was not to be and we careered down six flights of concrete steps.
People moved out of our way as we fled across Glasgow City Centre. What an odd pair we must have looked, dressed to the nines, with me scowling, filled with fury, moving as fast as I could in my high heels, refusing to hold James' hand.
We arrived at the Wedding just before the vows. We tiptoed in and found a seat at the back. I began to relax. We'd arrived just in time and now we could enjoy the day.
-------
Relaxation was shortlived as we got rather lost on the way to the reception. I refused to navigate from this point onwards. The directions were hurled over my shoulder in a demonstration of my exasperation.
When we finally rolled up the gravel path towards the Hotel I was slightly the worse for wear. I had the beginnings of a headache, I was pale, with bags under my eyes. My hair had styled itself all on its own and was sticking up at the front, and frizzing at the back. I didn't mind too much though, perhaps now I'd get to have a rest and relax. We made our way into the bustling reception and found the necessary people. We said our hellos and I smiled and put on a brave face. I was just about to reach for a canapé when I was marched outside for family photographs.
------
The Bride was perfection in Ivory. I was most impressed at the way her teeth were as bright and sparkling as her pearl earrings and as clean and pale as her dress. The Groom was equally as colour coordinated in smart grey pinstripe, he stood there, beaming with his beauty on his arm.
The photographer insisted that I stand next to the Bride. She was all smooth, slim and satin, in contrast to me, disheveled, stressed and wiry.
'Hello' I said to the Bride. I'd never met her before, and here I was, ruining her wedding photographs.
------
I drank a beer, then another, then ate dinner, then drank a beer, then toasted the happy couple with some champagne, then drank more beer, then had a dance, along with some more beer.
The band were great, up beat, good quality. I could have stayed on the dance floor all night. The alcohol and the music felt good. But James was flagging. He wanted to sit down and to calm down, whereas I wanted to go wild. As I sat next to him a volatile cocktail of alcohol and adrenaline and PMT became too much for me to hide behind a fake smile. I was irrational and angry and upset all at the same time.
I blew up. James was an innocent bystander as I cried and wailed and swore and shouted about how the day had been too much and that we'd never be able to enjoy ourselves if he wouldn't even have a dance and a drink and to let his hair down.
Alone, i fell asleep, crying into a soggy, mascara stained pillow.
Tuesday, 19 September 2006
Monday, 11 September 2006
where were you when....?
I’d never been one for throwing sickies, but on this day it seemed natural that myself and the group of recent graduates who I shared a house with should all stay at home.
As the dramatic, horrifying, events panned out it seemed eerie that we’d all decided not to go into work that day.
After a long lie in I’d woken up and taken a leisurely bath. I amused myself, alone, in the comfort of my bedroom, playing my favorite CDs, lazily flicking through a magazine, until I heard : ‘ OH MY GOD’ .
I rushed out of my room, my housemate was standing there, hand over her mouth, pointing at the TV screen.
The screen showed an unsteady, pixilated image of a plane, flying too low, colliding with a sky scraper, igniting on contact.
We both stood there for a while, agog. Our other two housemates joined us and stared, silently at the screen.
The approach of the plane, the moment of impact and the ignition were replayed, over, and over, cut, intermittently by reports from newsreaders.
In my naivety, I thought it was terrible accident. I mean, no-one could have done that deliberately, could they?
I left the room.
As I closed the door behind me I heard another : ‘OH MY GOD’.
I rushed back to the TV screen, the image, slightly clearer this time, showed a second plane flying into a second sky scraper.
As the dramatic, horrifying, events panned out it seemed eerie that we’d all decided not to go into work that day.
After a long lie in I’d woken up and taken a leisurely bath. I amused myself, alone, in the comfort of my bedroom, playing my favorite CDs, lazily flicking through a magazine, until I heard : ‘ OH MY GOD’ .
I rushed out of my room, my housemate was standing there, hand over her mouth, pointing at the TV screen.
The screen showed an unsteady, pixilated image of a plane, flying too low, colliding with a sky scraper, igniting on contact.
We both stood there for a while, agog. Our other two housemates joined us and stared, silently at the screen.
The approach of the plane, the moment of impact and the ignition were replayed, over, and over, cut, intermittently by reports from newsreaders.
In my naivety, I thought it was terrible accident. I mean, no-one could have done that deliberately, could they?
I left the room.
As I closed the door behind me I heard another : ‘OH MY GOD’.
I rushed back to the TV screen, the image, slightly clearer this time, showed a second plane flying into a second sky scraper.
Friday, 8 September 2006
the island part 2
The tunnel that lead through the Island’s old Venetian fortress swallowed up tourist after tourist as they made their way into its darkness.
Then it was my turn.
As I emerged from the other side of the tunnel I was greeted by sunlight and a cluster of what would have been homes to the inhabitants. Someone had installed new shutters on a few of the empty windows and painted them in bright colours. This optimistic welcome, the sunshine and the brightly painted shutters were just as the book described.
Although many of the cottages had begun to fall apart the Market Place, the heart of the Island stood firm and solid. As I walked past a building with a large open front I noticed that the large oven and the heavy concrete counter inside would have baked and sold the Islander’s daily bread.
Many of the decaying buildings had been fenced off. These dwellings had stood empty for 50 years and buffeted by wind and rain had become unstable. I knew it was for safety but I winced when I understood that I would not be able to get as deep inside the Islander’s habitat as I had hoped. I searched for the signs of the hurried abandonment described in the book, doors left ajar, tables left with their settings in place, unmade beds; the Islander’s had been in shock when they were told that they were cured and that they could return to the mainland. According to the book, many had neglected to pack away their belongings and had simply uped and gone when the boats arrived to carry them back to where they had come from.
There were no such signs. To much time had passed and too many people had passed through this Island between then and now for evidence like that to remain.
As I continued around the Island I came to a steep precipice. This too had been fenced off. When I looked down into the moody waters, I realised that this place was also described in the book. This would have been where the more desperate of the inhabitants contemplated ending their lives by jumping onto the rocks below.
The last point of call was the mass grave. There were no head stones, just un-level ground where the dead had been buried on top of the dead. I was not the only person who searched around, in vain for a list of names of those who were buried here.
At one point I took moment to myself with no one else around. I contemplated what it must have been like to be exiled to a place like this.
Then it was my turn.
As I emerged from the other side of the tunnel I was greeted by sunlight and a cluster of what would have been homes to the inhabitants. Someone had installed new shutters on a few of the empty windows and painted them in bright colours. This optimistic welcome, the sunshine and the brightly painted shutters were just as the book described.
Although many of the cottages had begun to fall apart the Market Place, the heart of the Island stood firm and solid. As I walked past a building with a large open front I noticed that the large oven and the heavy concrete counter inside would have baked and sold the Islander’s daily bread.
Many of the decaying buildings had been fenced off. These dwellings had stood empty for 50 years and buffeted by wind and rain had become unstable. I knew it was for safety but I winced when I understood that I would not be able to get as deep inside the Islander’s habitat as I had hoped. I searched for the signs of the hurried abandonment described in the book, doors left ajar, tables left with their settings in place, unmade beds; the Islander’s had been in shock when they were told that they were cured and that they could return to the mainland. According to the book, many had neglected to pack away their belongings and had simply uped and gone when the boats arrived to carry them back to where they had come from.
There were no such signs. To much time had passed and too many people had passed through this Island between then and now for evidence like that to remain.
As I continued around the Island I came to a steep precipice. This too had been fenced off. When I looked down into the moody waters, I realised that this place was also described in the book. This would have been where the more desperate of the inhabitants contemplated ending their lives by jumping onto the rocks below.
The last point of call was the mass grave. There were no head stones, just un-level ground where the dead had been buried on top of the dead. I was not the only person who searched around, in vain for a list of names of those who were buried here.
At one point I took moment to myself with no one else around. I contemplated what it must have been like to be exiled to a place like this.
Wednesday, 6 September 2006
The Island part 1
I had seen it in the distance as I relaxed on the beach.
It wasn’t immediately apparent though, it had been pointed out to me.
‘That’s Spinalonga over there’.
I peered over my shades, ‘Oooooohhhhh yes, so it is’.
From a distance the Island was camouflaged against the mountainous backdrop of the bay. The only thing that distinguished it was a bulky building that jutted out, half way up, its dark, empty windows staring back at me and the other holiday makers on the beach. This building had been a hospital, and for most of Spinalonga’s inhabitants, this building had seen their last, rattling, breaths.
All around me on the beach, sprawled out on blue sunbeds, tourists clutched at books while they tanned themselves in the mid afternoon sunshine. Some were not so engaged with their reading matter, but a majority were captivated by a book called ‘The Island’, a book that unraveled a love story encapsulated in the history of Spinalonga and offered an insight into the reality of life there. Often you would catch sight of one of these readers, staring out, wistfully over the sea to the Island.
The first few paragraphs of the book described the departure of one of the mainlanders to Spinalonga, and her grief. A colony of infectious, afflicted people awaited her and as a Leper, she was not expected to return to the mainland.
‘We’ll have to go over to visit’. I was immediately hooked.
Monday, 4 September 2006
a slice of paradise
Some Cretan fresh air has made its way into my suitcase and I’ve carried it back home. As I unpack, the scent of the Sea and of peaches and citrus fruit escape, fleeting reminders of the life style I’ve left behind. My stomach flips over.
I had become accustomed to the faces I passed, daily, on my walk to the village. Wonderfully exotic olive pallors, dark, gleaming eyes, relaxed, the Villagers had oozed charm. The Fisherman’s cottages had been transformed into shops that serviced the trickle of Visitors that passed through the Village. The local people had begun to adapt to the arrival of the Tourists. They’d learned new languages and combined new skills with old. Not only had they expertly caught the fish to feed us; they’d applied their business minds and developed restaurants and tavernas from which to serve the daily catch. The Old Women of the Village stitched intricate, delicate, beautiful handicrafts and sat, patiently beside them until the arrival of potential customers prompted flamboyant sales pitches, involving arm gestures and wide smiles, impossible to resist. A proud and noble people, willing and kind hosts. I was enchanted by the Village and its inhabitants. I hoped that it would remain as (virtually) untouched as I had found it.
In the familiar surroundings of my Leeds flat, the air here slightly stale with pollution from the road traffic and a bin that has been neglected in my absence, I fold up and put away the brightness of my holiday wardrobe. Autumn is upon us and although I look forward to a new winter coat, dark, cozy evenings and walks through the oranges, reds and yellows, the return to grey skies and normality has knocked the wind from my sails.
I had become accustomed to the faces I passed, daily, on my walk to the village. Wonderfully exotic olive pallors, dark, gleaming eyes, relaxed, the Villagers had oozed charm. The Fisherman’s cottages had been transformed into shops that serviced the trickle of Visitors that passed through the Village. The local people had begun to adapt to the arrival of the Tourists. They’d learned new languages and combined new skills with old. Not only had they expertly caught the fish to feed us; they’d applied their business minds and developed restaurants and tavernas from which to serve the daily catch. The Old Women of the Village stitched intricate, delicate, beautiful handicrafts and sat, patiently beside them until the arrival of potential customers prompted flamboyant sales pitches, involving arm gestures and wide smiles, impossible to resist. A proud and noble people, willing and kind hosts. I was enchanted by the Village and its inhabitants. I hoped that it would remain as (virtually) untouched as I had found it.
In the familiar surroundings of my Leeds flat, the air here slightly stale with pollution from the road traffic and a bin that has been neglected in my absence, I fold up and put away the brightness of my holiday wardrobe. Autumn is upon us and although I look forward to a new winter coat, dark, cozy evenings and walks through the oranges, reds and yellows, the return to grey skies and normality has knocked the wind from my sails.
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