Notes on Exile and Travelling Under the Influence

It was a dismal night for leaving, with rain squalls sweeping across Livadia bay and a southerly wind shuffling inky clouds around the mountaintops. Standing at the rail of the FB Patmos, I felt uncharacteristically forlorn as I waved goodbye to Jennifer and Lisa, my stalwart companions of the last few months, who stood looking small and distant on the near-deserted dock.

I was going and they were staying. Something about the arrangement didn’t make sense, let alone suit me. But, having resigned myself to exile, I managed to find a comfortable place on the uppermost deck of the vessel, far from people, cigarette smoke, and the ubiquitous television screens that bedevil Greek ferries these days. And before the vessel had cleared Livadia harbour I’d arranged, on the smooth white tabletop in front of me, a meal of cheese, salami, and olives and pulled the cork on a consolatory bottle of red.

I was off again, departing for my three-monthly hiatus from that curious entity known as the Schengen Zone. It was less than ideal being forced out of Greece, a country that feels as much like home as anywhere these days, especially by some regulation passed down by the malakas in Brussels to control the movement of people across this particular corner of the globe. But if the situation had a plus side, being forced to seek out other pastures was providing me with adventures that I might not, in the normal run of things, be having.

There’d been eight terrific weeks in southwest Turkey, across the water from Rhodes, in spring. This was followed, in the summertime, by three truly memorable months as a much-appreciated resident at Hija Lovna, an atmospheric (in all senses of the word) trekkers’ hut pitched at 1,650 metres on the western fringes of Bulgaria’s Rila Mountains.

Largely on the strength of this experience, I had decided to return to Bulgaria – though not, initially at least, to Lovna, which was buried under several metres of snow, but rather to the Rhodope Mountains in the east of the country. A lonely cottage in the middle of nowhere, with work to do and abundant supplies of food, wine, and rakija to keep me going, was, I thought, about as good as it would get for Xmas this year.

I don’t know what lulled me most, the roaring of wind and sea and the tumultuous pitching of the ferry, or the bottle of red followed by a (horrendously expensive) nightcap of Dewar’s from the bar – the fact remains that I slept excellently in my far-flung corner of the boat, waking, on a dull grey morning, just as the ferry was drawing level with the mainland. I struggled, as I always did, to see the Temple of Poseidon at Sunion; then I worked on my notes as we crawled along the rugged coast of Attica, looking up now and again to see the white sprawl of settlement creeping higher up the mountainsides the nearer we came to Athens. Rain fell steadily, but such was the effort of captain and crew, and the prodigious stamina of the ferry, that despite the vagaries of weather we arrived in Piraeus almost half an hour ahead of time.

At the port I was due to meet my former girlfriend Sibylle, some of whose belongings – left with our friend Edward years before when she absconded to Crete – I had accompanied from Tilos. However, as she was unaware of our early advent, I was left waiting with a pair of innocuous cane baskets, a cardboard box full of belongings, and a tall stick, hung with framed glass plaques, that bore an uncanny resemblance to a totem pole.

This wasn’t, to put it mildly, much fun. But, as I reminded myself while I stood there watching lorries rumbling up, cars coming and going, and various curious-looking people hanging about, it could have been worse. Only a last-minute change of plan relieved me of having to courier across the Aegean ‘Old Smuck’, the grim-visaged, and prodigiously heavy, stone dragon who had once graced our courtyard at Agios Antonios. The mere thought of carting this petrified spirit of yore on to and off the ferry was almost sufficient to give me a hernia.

When Sibylle did at last arrive, drawing up to the curb in her little red car, there was much to catch up on. This we did, with great enthusiasm, throughout the day at a succession of bars, cafes, and tavernas scattered across some of the more recondite precincts of the Greek capital.

Inevitably, perhaps, in the course of our peregrinations my plans altered. I had originally intended to catch the train to Thessaloniki which departed Athens at 2.18 that afternoon. But after the first cup of coffee and a shot or two of tsipouro, and with the promise of a good lunch ahead, this idea no longer seemed so enticing. A glance at the timetable revealed several alternatives. The 4.18 train was looking good until around three-thirty, when I decided to leave at 6.18. But, come 5.45, this option had lost its appeal, too. This just left the overnight train which, departing Athens at midnight, arrived at Thessaloniki at six the following morning – right in time, as luck would have it, to connect with the early train to Sofia, the Bulgarian capital. Come hell or high water, I promised myself, I would be on it.

Travel is a wonderful thing, especially if one is prepared to be flexible. It is even better, in my experience, when you allow yourself a drink or two along the way, just to oil the wheels. Statistically, the odds looked to be in my favour. According to the stamp in my passport, I had until midnight Wednesday to leave Greece. As yet it was only Tuesday afternoon, which seemed to give me plenty of leeway.

We lunched, somewhat modestly, at a Pakistani restaurant where the bill for two people came to ten euros. This didn’t, of course,  include alcohol. The thought occurred to me as I munched on my nan bread: I could be a rich man if I didn’t drink. But then maybe life wouldn’t be quite so jolly.

I began to redress the balance at a café in Psiri that was strewn with Xmas lights, drinking a double Greek coffee accompanied by two large shots of tsipouro while Sibylle told me about her adventures in northern Greece trying to rescue a yacht that her father had bought, for quite a lot of money, some years ago, but had never actually sailed. The yacht was virtually a write-off, she told me, but she’d enjoyed a wonderful trip. I was just getting comfortable when we were off again, to see a fellow who made cases for musical instruments.

At least I assume that was his trade. His workshop lay on the other side of the Parthenon, in a dark little backstreet behind the new museum. We walked there, in the rain, as darkness fell and all of Athens seemed to be on the move. Syntagma was ablaze with Xmas lights, the display astonishingly grandiose for a country that seemed to be permanently in recession. Somewhere, rather weirdly, a recording of ‘Jingle Bells’ was playing. Under my arm, wrapped in a raincoat, I carried Sibylle’s tombak, a beautifully crafted wooden drum that she played often and with passion and for which, this evening, she intended to order a case.

The case maker, a small, unsmiling man with a shaven head, answered the door at the third knock, then led us into a ground-floor studio that smelled, evocatively, of sawdust and glue. Musical instruments, in various states of assembly, littered the place. Currently the man was trying to conjure a piece of fibreglass into a particular shape using a hissing gas flame and a complex wooden rack. Aware that we were well into the ouzo hour, though without the ouzo, I tried to look interested as he took the necessary measurements and Sibylle agonised over which colour the case should be. In such situations it’s not always easy to be gracious, but I think I succeeded.

At last, though, the order had been placed and off we went, back across the city in the drizzling rain. The lights of empty cafés reflected brightly on the slick wet pavements, reminding me of other times. The air was damp and biting and, with most people having by now retreated indoors, Athens looked very much out of season.

The taverna we chose had nothing to recommend it but the modesty of its décor, with timber-panelled walls hung with faded posters and a handful of tables arranged before a counter behind which the food was prepared. We ate a winter salad with carrots and cabbage, eggs baked in a spicy tomato sauce, courgette fritters, cabbage leaves stuffed with rice, and, to finish, a large slab of salty graviera cheese. I drank half a litre of the house red, while Sibylle lingered over a single glass of white. Afterwards I insisted on visiting Brettos, in the Plaka, for a nightcap.

It was in the surreally lit confines of Brettos, empty but for a handful of tourists, that I made my final change of plan, deciding that the midnight train to Thessaloniki wasn’t such a good idea after all. Instead I would overnight in Athens and catch the train first thing in the morning. This, I calculated, would ensure a good night’s sleep, while travelling in daylight would allow me to enjoy the splendours of the Greek mainland.

I ended up in a singular hotel room. The walls and ceiling were padded, all the way round, in plush electric-blue velvet. Futuristic silver lamps illuminated the room with a cold, impersonal white light. A large mirror set into the wall opposite the end of the bed seemed both to enlarge the room and heighten the surreal effect of the decor. Against expectations, I slept soundly. But upon doing my sums with a clear head next morning, I realised I’d miscalculated: if, in fact, I caught the train as planned I would end up overstaying, by a measly twelve hours, my ninety-day limit in Greece.

Not wishing to take chances, I saw no option but to fly. This would not only get me to Bulgaria swiftly and in plenty of time to please the Greeks. It would also allow me one last good lunch, with tsipouro and wine, in Athens before I left.