Feta is Betta
May 31st, 2008
Greece’s rail network is dilapidated because the rugged terrain is more easily traveled by buses not excepting eurorail passes. Not realizing this, I dawdled about town and missed my infrequent southbound train.
The town of Patras extends from the sea up one mile to the top of a dry Mediterranean bush mountain, where a fort stands in vigil. This was going to be my home for the evening but every road that dead ended into the hillside, looked like it would give me access. But when I approached the actuality of it, was a 8 foot triple barbwire fence, with no way around. It wasn’t possible to slug my 18kg (40 lbs – just had it weighed) backpack over sharp metal 8 feet off the ground, in midday, without drawing attention to myself. I had to find another way.
The only access was through a old mans backyard… and there he was. A short, fat, old funny looking, bald man, who’s silver hair reached back like the head of a cobra. His large eyes were covered by years of wrinkle buildup, leaving only the two beady remains. I pictured him wearing a fedora and carying a violin suitcase.
“Yep he’s ex-greek-mob,” I thought.
He was struggling with brooms to shift large sheets of corrugated metal on his half finished carport. I smiled as I walked by, thinking of him gunning people down and taking territory for the Greek Don. He saw my smug tourist look and my large backpack and said, “Hallo!”… I returned him a ‘Yasu’ and offered him help with the roof in hope he would let me camp in the backyard.
“Jus a minute! Jus a minute!” he said and thought to himself. It started me, not because he stopped to think, but the way he shouted just a minute and repeated it twice, as if he had turret syndrome. “Not outside! No. Stay inside. I haf a e’tra room. Nece batchlor paed!”
Turns out he is a Greek slumlord maniac.
“COME, Come! Follow me! Follow me!” he shouted excitedly as we descended a flight of stairs into the basement and then another into the deeper darker sub-basement. Like a journey through the earth, it was musty and damp I half expected to dodge stalactites hanging from the ceiling. We finally reached were the magma was and he traverserst over to a narrow corridor, walked all the way to the end, flung the door open and said, “Your room! Bachelor paed!”
Exactly as I expected, solid concrete box with a crapper in the corner, sink, bed, and no windows. I thought, “Oh goodie! When does my cellmate arrive so I can get rapped, shank him with a widled down mess hall spork, forcing me into the Arian brotherhood for protection, where ultimately my ass gets tossed around like a baseball for membership fees.”
“Looks good,” I told him.
“You have book to read?” I noded and he disappeared into the dark corridor, door slamming behind him. I carefully studied the room. The walls were painted bright white with one torn wallpaper accent wall, of some generic flowers and stripes, the wallpaper was once pink but now was a faded yellow. In the center of the wall was a tacked up colored paper plate for a wall hanging, as I approached, it developed into stuffed striped jackalopes from a child’s television program called ‘The Fimbles’. They were creepy little devils and the Dr. sussian background made them seem that much more ominous. The bed was firm, but in a good way, which I enjoyed. The pillow was a rectangular chunk of styrofoam that condensed as much as a block of granite and was twice as sharp. The crapper flushed by reaching inside the tank and pulling up on the stopper. Good thing was, access inside the tank was easy; the lid was missing. Hanging on the sink was a toothbrush, shampoo, warn underwear, and a leather belt. I wondered about the last person who was in here and why they left their belongings behind, when George, that was his name, burst through the door with a can of Amstel Beer and a platter of vegetables and bread dipped in olive oil.
“You are hungry,” he demanded and I was.
He dropped the platter on the bed, asked what time my train was leaving and again, if I had books to read, then disappeared as fast as he came in.
I read a frighting, deep, section of my book before bed. It was about the main character. He carelessly knocked up a girl and is forced into the streets of New York searching for an illegal back alley abortionist. He failed and she was forced to find her own. I had nightmares.
In the morning, George knocked on the door. I told him to come in and in he did, he flew in. His large hands holding coffee, cookies, and a bottle of brandy.
“Goud start to a day!” he shouted. He poured the brandy into a shot glass he brought out from his pocket. ”Hafe some!”
“I don’t want to drink alone, have one with me.”
“I already ded. DRINK! Drink!” he laughed as he poured me a second one.
I told him yesterday I would help him a bit more on the garage before taking off at noon. Every time something worked out right he responded with a crazy wine and smile. ”Goud ‘s Gould!” Sometimes he would go into some yelling frenzy about a key and one hundred euros. I never understood, but nodded accordingly, sometimes adding a ‘that’s not fair’. We worked for about an hour before he stopped.
“Jus a minute! Jus a minute!” he huffed. “You work to hard. Les rest and eat.”
I had no objections, but couldn’t help thinking that this isn’t be the same nervous, wild George? Laziness overtook him and he was like a collapsed bridge. The bottle rocket of George had popped, but he had been making a large pot of vegetable chicken potato stew. It tasted alright, but then he produced this gorgeous brick of the BEST FETA I’d ever tasted. I made up my mind to spend another night helping out this nut and finishing this great block of cheese.
“Goud ‘s Gould!” he exclaimed and poured me another glass of wine.
“Sure is,” I thought, licking my lips… staring at the cheese.
Entry Filed under: Greece
