Saturday 1 December 2012

CLACK

It was Monday.  Monday is the day I drop by the retirement home where my elderly friend Betty lives, to spend time playing games and chatting with her.  I know that Betty looks forward to these visits, so I try not to miss 'our' day.

That particular Monday, I also planned to visit my friend Sandy who had just undergone a hysterectomy.  Sandy was not a happy camper.  She was in great discomfort and when I had called her, she kept repeating, "I want to die!  I want to die!"

My relationship with Sandy was based, mostly, on teasing.  Sandy teased me, and I reciprocated in kind.  Divorced for many years, she enjoyed calling me to say that my husband was coming to her house for dinner. She would ask me to remind him to bring the wine.  She'd then call the following day, to tell me how much he had enjoyed the food and the company (He was, of course, at home all that night.).  I would reciprocate and yell at her, calling her nasty names and telling her to keep her hands off of my husband. This had gone on for years.  Sandy and I and my husband got a kick out of it.  But now, Sandy was in discomfort and needed a visit.  I felt in my spirit that God was telling me that I was 'supposed' to go to the hospital that day.  

I got ready to leave and looked in my purse for my keys.  They weren't there! They weren't in either jacket pocket...they weren't on the stairs.  I searched high and low...but to no avail.  No keys!  Certain that my husband had once again taken them by mistake, I phoned his workplace.

"Do you have my keys?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"I've looked everywhere!  Where can they be?"
"Have you checked your car?"

I hadn't looked there, so out I went to check.  "Oh, no!"  They were in the car on the passenger seat.  My car has a particularly annoying idiosyncrasy...the doors lock automatically whether you want them to or not!  If you get out of the car for a few seconds and want to get back in, you'd find the doors locked. When you're inside the car, they lock a few seconds after you close the door.  It's aggravating, but just one of those things I've had to get used to.  It ALWAYS happens.  It NEVER fails!  When I saw the keys on the seat, I knew I wouldn't be able to visit my friends that day.  Betty would be so disappointed.  "Lord, I was sure I felt you telling me to go visit Sandy today.  I don't understand this."  I turned to go back into the house to call the two women, but something caught my eye.  I turned to look at the door.  It was NOT locked! Impossible, but true!!  In the seven years that I'd had the car, this had never happened!  I opened the door quickly and grabbed the keys.  "Thank you, Lord," I whispered gratefully.  

I had a wonderful visit with Betty and after lunch, drove to the hospital expecting that something great was about to happen.

Sandy started whining the moment I walked into the hospital room.  The refrain began again...."I want to die.  I want to die."  Always able to humour her in the past, I said lightheartedly, "Well, that's okay, you can die...but have you said the Sinner's Prayer?"
"What's that?"
"Well, do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe that He died for your sins?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe He rose again on the third day?"
"Yes."
"Okay, let's say the prayer and then you can die," I joked.

I prayed and Sandy repeated the words, dedicating her life to God in Jesus' name.

Immediately after we'd finished the prayer, a nurse came into the room.  The name on her name tag was GRACE.  She checked Sandy's I.V. and left the room. "That was very cool.  You just said the prayer and in comes GRACE. We laughed at that.

Seconds later, in walked an orderly, also with a name tag.  His read Placido. "That's an unusual name," I said.  "It means peace, doesn't it?"

"Yes," answered Placido.  "My family and friends call me J.C. but I can't live up to that name!"

I now knew why God had prompted me to visit my friend.  After Placido had left the room, I looked at Sandy in amazement. "Isn't that incredible?  You said the prayer and immediately after, in came GRACE, PEACE and J.C.!!!" 



*NOTE
I thought that perhaps the car doors hadn't locked because if the keys were inside, some mechanism inside them and the car, prevented them from locking (so they wouldn't get locked inside the car?).  So, when my husband returned that night, I took his key and my keys and went out to my car.  I placed my keys on the car seat and waited several seconds...expecting that the doors wouldn't lock, but....CLACK (as my husband would say)....they did!!!  Since that day, as Jean-Pierre and some of my friends can attest, the annoying doors continue to lock!!!

*NOTE NUMBER TWO
This is a story that some of you might have seen or heard.  I wanted to write it for 'posterity' and to give great thanks to HIM!








Thursday 26 July 2012

"CALL SARAH....a still, small voice"

"Call Sarah!"  When I was walking closely with God, I would often receive this command as I sat at my computer or as I was going about my everyday chores. Sarah and I went to high-school and Teacher's College together.  We were good friends for years.  Our paths separated when she married very young and started a family.  I hadn't seen her for years when I heard the tragic news of her son's passing. He'd had a difficult life and had caused his father much disappointment and pain and his mother years of sorrow and worry.  Of course, she loved her two daughters, but this boy, perhaps because of his lack of self-control and confidence, was her heart. I attended the funeral and was very touched when upon seeing me, she rushed into my arms and sobbed.  

I knew that her son had become a 'believer' a short time before his death and having had a similar spiritual conversion years prior, I wanted to share what I knew to be his beliefs, with her.  Neither she nor her husband was Christian. The only problem was that I almost never saw her.  Perhaps every three or four years we would run into each other.  Our ways had truly parted. 

Several months went by...I found myself thinking about her a lot.  One day, I told the Lord that I wanted to share with Sarah, but I wanted it to be His will, not mine. I went so far as to tell Him that I wanted to visit her home in three days....on Wednesday. "Lord, if You want me to talk to Sarah about You, You'll have to arrange for us to meet.  I don't want to call her.  I want it to be Your will.  You know I hardly ever see her....so it's up to You!"

It was September...and time for the yearly Western Fair.  The Sunday of my prayer, my sister and her friend were going to 'walk around' the fair.  They asked me if I'd like to join them.  Throngs of people crowded the grounds; it was difficult to 'walk around', so we decided to go into the Progress Building to get away from the mob.  As is often the case at fairs, the building was almost as packed as the grounds.  We wandered slowly through the potpourri and plant section, then on to the knitted goods and wood crafts until we reached the stairs that led into the next part of the building. That's when I heard a high-pitched voice yell..."ARLENE!"  I looked in the direction of the voice and there was Sarah!! "Thank You, Father," I whispered, "Now I know it's Your will that I visit her."  The three of us approached Sarah and her husband and said our hellos.  I took her aside and said, "Sarah, how often do we see each other?"  "I don't know...maybe once every three or four years?"  I continued, "I want you to know that this is a little miracle and I would like to visit you on Wednesday to talk about your son.  Would that be okay with you?" She hesitated, "Sure, I guess that would be fine." 

I was thrilled, of course, that He had arranged this meeting and gave thanks!  This was to be the first of many times that He would arrange some sort of contact between Sarah and me. God was pursuing her and used me to let her know that He loved her....so "Call Sarah!"  became almost commonplace over the next couple of years. Each time I heard that in my spirit, I would question..."Is it really you, Father or is it just my imagination?" It would come 'out of the blue'.  I wouldn't be thinking about her, at all..and I would hear it. I learned to heed that command most times, and each time I did, I would call and say, "Hi. I don't know why I'm calling, but I am supposed to call you, and each time she would say, "Well, I know why you're calling," and would proceed to tell me.  It was always a time when she was experiencing great difficulty. "You're psychic," she would say.  "It has nothing at all to do with me," I always responded. "It's God wanting you to know how much He loves you." Once in a while, I would second guess myself.  "It's just my imagination.  I don't want to bother her...it's only my imagination."  I would inevitably hear...several days or weeks later, that Sarah had fallen down the stairs and broken her collar-bone, or that she was quite ill.  Each time, I would regret deeply, that I hadn't done what I was supposed to do.  He'd wanted me to show her how much He loved her, but I hadn't obeyed.  

I was taking a shower one morning when I heard, "Go to Sarah's house NOW!" "But, Lord," I complained, "I haven't eaten breakfast...can I at least eat first?" "NO.....GO NOW!"  I hurried out of the shower, dried off, dressed, and was in my car in no time flat.  I arrived at Sarah's house at 8:45 a.m., wondering why I was there. "She's going to think I'm nuts!"  I knocked softly, thinking she would still be in bed, but to my surprise she opened the door, a shocked look on her face.  "What are you doing here," she asked.  "I was in the shower and God told me to come to your house NOW. "Oh, my gosh!  I can't believe it," she said. I'm just leaving for Toronto.  My daughter is pregnant and the doctor found a problem the last time they did an ultra sound. She's having another one today.  She's worried and I want to be with her."  She asked me to pray for her daughter.  I prayed that all would be fine with the baby and that Sarah would get good news.  "I'll call you when I get home on Sunday," she said.  I didn't believe that I would hear from her, because she never called me, but I was happy to have had the chance to share His love with her once again.  

Incredibly, she did call.  I wasn't home when she did, but she left a message for me on my answering machine.  "Arlene, it's Sarah.  I just want you to know that I am going to be a grandmother.  My daughter is fine and her baby is fine.  I'm so happy...thank you, thank you!"  I hope one day Sarah realizes that it's not me she should thank, it's her Heavenly Father who loves her and wants her to know Him.

Sunday 8 July 2012

Misadventures....Part 5

Funds running low, we decided to take our lives in our hands and hitchhike once again. This time, an elderly British man, David and his "nurse" Carol, a pretty, but plump younger woman, gave us a lift. We were able to relax. There was no mauling, just a lot of pleasant conversation. The gentleman informed us that he would drive us all the way up the coast of Yugoslavia to Austria if we liked.  He mentioned that they intended to make two stops, one in Dubrovnik and the next at the island of Rab.  We jumped at the chance, particularly pleased about going to Dubrovnik.

We arrived at Dubrovnik after a few hours, checked into a pension in the old town and walked to the main square where we were just in time to celebrate Tito, the benevolent dictator's, eightieth birthday.  

The following morning, we continued on our way to Rab.  As we were driving, David mentioned that the place they were going on Rab was, by the way, a nudist beach. Nudist?  We were shocked...a nudist beach...a beach where one removes all of one's clothing?  A beach where there would be men...nude ones...who would be able to see EVERYTHING?  Shelley and I stared at each other, eyes round with shock.  No, no way...we could not go to a nudist beach!  That was just too much to ask.  We'd had to swallow our pride beside the stream in Pec, but that was..well...a matter of life or death, wasn't it? Get naked in front of a bunch of people....uh uh....not on your life.  "Uh....I think I'd feel very, very uncomfortable at a nude beach."  "Me, too" agreed Shelley, "I don't think I can do that." "Nobody even looks at you," said David.  "Wow, I just don't think I can," I said . "Well," sighed David, "I guess we'll have to let you off before we take the road to Rab." "Can't we just wait in the car," asked Shelley.  "No, we'll be there for 8 or 9 hours. If you want to continue to ride with us, you'll have to join us at the beach."

Now, we'd had more than our fair share of molestation during our many hitchhiking experiences and were reluctant to put ourselves at the mercy of any more degenerates....very reluctant, indeed!  We'd become adept at communicating with our eyes and facial expressions and reached the same conclusion without uttering a word...better to suffer a small amount of indignity on a nudist beach than to face what might eventually turn out to be a very real danger.  We both sighed at the same time and Shelley said, "Okay, we'll go." 

Resigned to our fate, we settled back and tried to enjoy the scenery. Approaching Split from high up on the mountain road, we marveled at the heart-stopping view. It was one more in the long list of God's incredible wonders that we'd been privileged to see.  The fact that Split wasn't far from Rab, however, took some of the joy from the experience. More than once our eyes met; the question on both our minds....'What the heck have we gotten ourselves into this time?'

Time passed much too quickly and sooner than anticipated, we arrived at the dreaded site.  The beach was beyond a wooden barrier where there was a sign in several languages, English being the second, "THIS IS A NUDIST BEACH.  ALL CLOTHING MUST BE REMOVED BEFORE PASSING THIS POINT."  David and Carol shed their clothes without hesitation.  They passed the barrier that lead to the beachfront leaving us to wrestle with our anxieties.  We looked at each other and giggled nervously.  Fortunately, we each had a towel to cover our 'embarrassment', but the thought of naked bodies everywhere was not the most agreeable to two shy, Canadian girls.  It had to be done, though.  We couldn't stand there all day....it was getting hotter by the minute, and the idea of the cool sea water was certainly appealing.  "Oh, well...here goes," I said and started peeling off my jeans.  "Crap," breathed Shelley, as she followed suit.  What a sight we were to behold.  Just a week before, we'd been driving scooters around the Peloponnese in Greece and had been wearing shorts and t-shirts so our faces, forearms and lower legs were tanned brown from the hot sun....the rest of our bodies were white as chalk.  Poor Shelley had to suffer one more indignity...her bottom was covered in a heat rash...angry red pimples dotted her derriere.  Oh, the humiliation!  Nothing to be done for it now....it was time to go.  Past the barrier, down the long, stony, winding path to the beach.  

We spotted David and Carol in the distance and made our way towards them, passing smooth, tanned bodies, semi-engorged penises, flaccid penises, wrinkled scrota, enormous breasts, tiny breasts, muscled torsos, sagging bellies, dimpled rumps....were there faces to be seen? If there were, we didn't notice them. Everywhere we looked, fleshly torsos assailed us.  

After an eternity, we arrived at our companions' blanket. To our amazement, 'plump' Carol was a goddess...a magnificent creature...her body bronzed golden...her shape, the stuff of a master's painting. She wasn't at all uncomfortable in her skin; completely at ease, she reclined on her elbows, legs askew. We didn't know where to look!  Meet her eyes...and his.  Don't look 'there'. Wherever we turned there were sights that jarred. "They are just bodies," I found myself thinking. "Relax," said David, noticing my discomfort, "Nobody cares, nobody stares!"  He motioned to Carol and they both stood up and made their way through the soft, brown sand to the water, Carol looking just as wonderful from behind.  Every man and woman within sight turned, and all eyes followed her as she glided to the water's edge.  "Right! Nobody cares, nobody stares," snorted Shelley.  We removed our towels discreetly and regarded each other's skinny, light chocolate-and-white frames...no voluptuous curves met our eyes. Counting to three, we raced for the cover of deep water.  





Sunday 24 June 2012

Misadventures....Part Four

"Well, since we're already here, we may as well go inside and have something to drink. What d'you think?"  "I could use a coffee," replied a still drowsy Shelley. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the open door and set our mouths to waterin'! "Smells heavenly," she said as we dropped our backpacks on the floor and seated ourselves at the counter.  

We looked at the couple seated several stools down from us.  I eyed the plates in front of the couple and said quietly, "That looks so good. Excuse me, do you speak English?" "A little," replied the man.  "Can I ask you what you're eating?"  "I eat 'sa sirom'...it is cheese pie, and my woman eat 'sa spanacom'...it is spinach pie."  "And what are you drinking," I pantomimed holding a glass to my mouth. "Milkshake," he answered, "It very good." We ordered the same and as we were waiting for our food, I spoke again. "We would like to take a bus because we want to go to Petrovac.  Do you know where we can get one?"  "Ah, you very lucky.... you wait one hour, maybe one hour and one half...bus stop here.  Bus stop every day...coffee."  "That's great," said Shelley.  "What a relief!"  

An hour later, we boarded the bus.  It was not the newest or the nicest conveyance we'd ever experienced, but the chickens, ducks and goats and the general odour that they and their owners emitted was certainly up there on the sensory scale.  The baas, clucks and quacks of the various livestock, and the toothless or nearly toothless grins of some of the animal caretakers were charming, even if the aroma wasn't.  

We settled in for the long ride, the bus slowly climbing the road that wound its way through the mountains.  The scenery was spectacular.  The road, however, was not at all what we expected.  It was mostly unpaved, serpentine and very narrow.  All was fine when the bus shared the road with oncoming cars, but there was not enough room if a truck approached.  When this happened, and it did more than was to our liking, the bus driver was forced to stop and back up to one of the many strategically placed inclines adjacent to the route....a feat that set our hearts pounding!  Several times during the trip, we swore that one of the bus's wheels hung over the edge of the very steep cliff. Neither one of us was at all happy about this and squealed in fear, clutching painfully at each others' arms. Hours passed. We finally managed to doze off and when we awoke, the bus had finished making its descent and had, thankfully, reached ground level.  

By this time, we were both desperate for a 'potty' break. Fortunately, the bus was not far from Pec where it would stop to give the passengers the chance to 'relieve' themselves. The bus station was the only part of Pec that we would visit but, as it turned out, that was quite enough!  

Upon arriving, the passengers from our bus dragged themselves stiffly outside. They walked over to stand behind a group from another bus who were lined up in front of a small shack.  "Do you think that's the WC," I asked Shelley.  "I guess so." We followed our group and waited as the line very slowly inched forward.  The closer we got to the WC, the more intolerable the stench became.  We'd been subjected to malodorous toilets during our six-month stay in Europe, but nothing could top this.  

Breathing through our mouths and doing the desperate-for-a-toilet-right-now dance, we found ourselves, at last, within striking distance of the shanty.  The door opened and a man exited. Unfortunately, we were at that point, able to see inside.  We found ourselves wishing we'd been struck blind. Instead we saw the floor of the shack.  It was covered with excrement! How could anyone go in there? Where could they possibly step?  There was hardly one foot of floor left uncovered. "There is NO WAY I'm going in there," declared my sister.  "Me, neither!  But, I need to go, now!"  "Me, too," answered Shelley. "Let's go into the bus station. There must be toilets in there."  

We sprinted over to the building to our right and once inside, approached the only female ticket vendor.  "Excuse me," I smiled, hoping to charm the agent.  "Where is the toilet?" The woman behind the counter pointed to the front door, and said coldly, "Outside." "Is there a toilet in here that we could please use," I asked politely.  "Toilet for bus passengers is outside."  "Can we please, please use the bathroom in here," Shelley begged. "No! Passenger toilet is outside!"  We'd been so hopeful but with that, our hopes were quashed. "Oh, my gosh.  What are we going to do?"  We exited the building, eyes scanning the surroundings. We could not go back to that shack, but where could we go?  

Another bus had arrived.  A young woman separated herself from the crowd and started walking behind the bus station.  We followed.  I've had many, many toilet dreams in my life (I could write a book), but nothing could compare to what my eyes beheld that day. Behind the bus station there was a small stream, the same stream, in fact, that ran behind the outhouse.  On either side of the stream were dozens of men, women and children, pants down, all relieving themselves.  We stopped dead in our tracks. It was too much.  What kind of country was this? The young woman that we'd followed, pulled her jeans down, and squatted, not at all bothered it seemed, that there were men everywhere. I looked at my sister. "What d'you think?"  "I think I have to go, NOW," she gasped.  We joined the congregation, dropped our drawers and left, far behind, whatever modesty we'd once had.




Saturday 16 June 2012

Misadventures.....Part Three


Please note....
THIS IS PART THREE OF MISADVENTURES.  YOU SHOULD READ PARTS ONE AND TWO BEFORE YOU READ THIS.

This might be a bit offensive to some...sorry!  It's a true story...as they all are.

Well, at least the car was nice.  It would most certainly have air conditioning and that would be a welcome relief from the scorching sun.  Shelley opened the back door and tossed in the two backpacks, secure in the knowledge that she would be too far away from the driver for any 'touchy-feeley' kind of experience.  I took a deep breath, opened the front passenger door and slid in.  A nice-looking young man smiled sweetly at me. 

"Where do you want to go?"  

Oh, good!  Someone who speaks English....what a pleasant change!

"Petrovac."  

"I am going all the way there," he said. 

"That's great!"  

I was very encouraged by the young man's smile and his educated English and had a good feeling about this one.  This could be a positive experience for a change. The young man and I made small talk as he drove along the winding road, heading north. Shelley rested her arms on her back pack and settled in for the journey.

Happily, the conversation between us seemed to be going well.  However, about twenty minutes into the drive,  I noticed that he seemed to have acquired an itch in his 'nether regions'.  He continued speaking, all the while scratching his 'parts'. I turned to face my side window for fear of embarrassing the poor guy; not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable, I preferred to let him scratch in peace. He mentioned a particularly beautiful area of the country off to his left and suggested I look at it.  I did and to my horror, his 'parts' had left the comfort of his clothing and had made an appearance. Quickly averting my eyes, I stared again out of my side window.  Oh, my gosh!  A pervert!!!  He seemed so normal and nice!  Amazing that Shelley isn't reacting at all. How can she be so calm when I'm freaking out? Leaning my head against the window and closing my eyes, I pretended to be resting.  The degenerate's dialogue became one-sided; his voice dropped to an intimate whisper.  

"You should open your eyes," he murmured.  "It's very beautiful here."  

Yeah, right!  There's absolutely no way you're getting me to open my eyes! What the heck is Shelley doing back there?  Why isn't she acknowledging what's happening in some way? I can't believe she's being so cool about the whole thing!  

"Why don't you open your eyes? Look at this.  It's really nice."  

He continued encouraging in this vein for another fifteen minutes.  

Finally, I could take it no more.  Opening my eyes, I saw a small roadside cafe ahead.

"I'm so sorry," I said feigning pain.  "I have a terrible headache and need to get out of the car.  Could you please stop at that restaurant?"  

"Of course," the "gentleman" responded. 

He pulled off the road and I was out of there in the blink of an eye. Shelley and the two backpacks followed. I glanced back at the deviant who now had a very big smile on his face.  He drove off and left us in the parking lot.  

"Can you believe it?  What a pervert!  Can you believe that he would do that?  I'm so grossed out!  Oh, my gosh!!!  Oh, my gosh!!!  Yikes, yikes, yikes," I stammered, all the while shuddering in disgust. 

"What?  What are you talking about," asked Shelley. "What did he do?" 

"What do you mean, what did he do?  Are you blind all of a sudden?  He's been pleasuring himself for the last half hour!"  

"OH NO!  I didn't see anything," screeched Shelley. "I fell asleep as soon as we got in the car and slept until we got here!" 


Misadventures....Part Four is in the works.



Wednesday 13 June 2012

Misadventures.....Part Two


THIS IS PART TWO OF MISADVENTURES....BE SURE THAT YOU READ MISADVENTURES...PART ONE, FIRST!

We stood at the side of the road a while, dazed and speechless, thanking God that the van hadn't been searched, knowing full well that if it had, we would, by now, be in handcuffs. We were both overwhelmed by our close call and grateful beyond words that we'd gotten past the border without incident.  We could only hope that things would go more smoothly as we determinedly stuck out our thumbs and faced the on-coming traffic.

Several minutes passed and a car cruised by....going in the opposite direction. But wait....what's that?  It turned around.  The driver must have realized he was going the wrong way, and corrected his course.  The vehicle approached and......stopped! This was very strange and more than a bit suspicious.  Should we or shouldn't we take the ride? We really needed to make some headway. Glen would be arriving before we knew it and we had to be there to meet him. Yes, it was decided, we had to take the ride even if it meant going only another ten kilometres.

As we approached the vehicle, the man in the passenger seat got out, opened the back door and slid inside. That meant that one of us had to sit beside the driver while the other sat in back.   The look we shared was, by now, all too familiar...it was a look of resignation, a silent sigh.  Each time we got into a car, we knew it could go either way. This time, we hoped, it would be in our favour.

Normally, the sister who sat in the front seat was subjected to some form of one-handed molestation, so to be fair, we took turns sitting beside the driver. Fortunately for Shelley, this time it was her turn in the front, which left yours truly in the back seat with a potential violator.....one who had both hands free!!  

"Where you go," asked the driver. "Petrovac."  "Ah, Petrovac. Very good, Petrovac!"  He started off down the road.  We made small talk with the two men, hoping to endear ourselves to them, to avoid any future groping.  We learned that the man in the back seat was a boxer and the driver was his manager...unwelcome news to be sure!  Judging from the size of the guy beside me, I could easily believe he was a boxer.  

The two men started conversing in Slovak.  At one point, the conversation got rather heated and after several minutes of back and forth, the driver pulled over to the side of the road.  They opened their doors and switched places!!  This did not bode well, at all! Shelley turned in her seat and eye-balled me.  By unspoken mutual agreement, and before the new driver could take off, we opened our respective doors, grabbed our backpacks, and got out.  "Thank you very much." The men yelled and motioned for us to get back in the car, but we started walking.  The car followed for a while, the two inside shouting and gesticulating, but once the 'gentlemen' realized that there was no convincing us to join them again, they made a U-turn and drove back down the highway. "Are we having fun yet," quipped Shelley. "Not quite yet," I replied.

Out went the thumbs.  "The hitchhiking doesn't seem to be going too well.  I vote that we try to make it to the next town and catch a bus there.  Whaddya think?" "I agree," said my younger sister.  A Mercedes pulled alongside, a single man behind the wheel. I steeled myself because it was now my turn in the front seat.  


Watch (breathlessly, I'm sure) for Misadventures....Part Three...coming soon, to a blog near you!




Saturday 2 June 2012

Misadventures ..... Part One

Shelley's boyfriend of a year, was flying over to meet her in Zurich. This presented a bit of a problem for her, because she was in Greece and had fallen head-over-heels in love with a handsome, young British guy.  "I don't want to go!  I don't want to leave John," she lamented.  But, Glen was coming over and there was nothing she could do.  Not having the funds to fly to Switzerland, and afraid of travelling alone, she cajoled me, her sister Arlene, into making the long journey with her. 

Having done our share of hitchhiking while touring the continent, we opted for the bus.  It was certainly better than the inherent dangers of accepting rides with sketchy characters, but it took some time to grow immune to the perfume of unwashed bodies and clothing that permeated the air and assaulted our sensitive, Canadian noses. The chicken and goat 'passengers' added a little intrigue to the bouquet.

The seven-hour trip to Thessaloniki passed without incident and after a short rest to celebrate Shelley's eighteenth birthday, we re-boarded a bus for Skopje in Macedonia. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by scores of the town's youth whose job it was to accompany passengers to several nearby hotels.  After waiting for them to register, they were then escorted to the town square where a delightful ritual took place. Around and around we walked, arms linked, following the hundreds of souls, young and old, whose habit it was to stroll clock-wise around the plaza, dressed in their Sunday-best, greeting friends and neighbours in an age-old, after-church tradition. They were handsome and kind and we were charmed by their old-world courtesy.  It would have been wonderful to spend several days there but Switzerland and the ever-looming date of Glen's arrival meant that a longer stop-over was not an option.

It was at that point that we decided to save a bit of money and try our luck, once again, at hitchhiking. We had never had trouble procuring a ride. In the seventies, we were young, cute and our skin fitted us perfectly!  The following morning, we were picked up by a young man and woman driving the ever popular Volkswagen van, covered in the ever popular psychedelic graffiti so typical of that time...bright flowers, a sun, fluffy white clouds, birds and rainbows, a yin-yang symbol, the words PEACE and LOVE and of course, the requisite Smiley Face. It was like coming home, and we boarded without hesitation. Due to a dearth of seats in the van, Shelley sat on a wooden crate and I perched on a cooler.  It was not the most comfortable way to travel, but it was free!  We learned that our hosts had just returned from Turkey where they'd spent the last six months.

Several hours later we arrived at the frontier of Yugoslavia.  Two armed soldiers looked in through the van's windows and waved us through. Once we'd crossed the border, the young man and woman started to cheer, whooping and shouting. "We made it!  We did it!" "What's going on?  Why so happy?" asked Shelley.  The driver pulled over to the side of the road and said, "Open the cooler and the box."  We did as told and found both full to the brim with hashish!!  The couple laughed, and the young woman said, "The whole van, the sides, the doors, the roof and floor are lined with hashish!"  We couldn't believe our ears. We were horrified to say the least.  "But, what if they'd stopped us and searched the van," demanded a very upset Shelley.  "That's why we picked you up. It looked more innocent with the two of you aboard!"  "But if they had, we would've been thrown in jail even though we had nothing to do with it!"  "Well, we didn't get caught, so you don't have to worry about it," said the obviously brain-dead girl. The two lawbreakers smiled at each other, a smug glow of self-congratulation brightened their faces. "We're out of here," and almost fell over each other in our hurry to exit the van.






Wednesday 16 May 2012

What Doesn't Kill You...

"There's a burning cigarette in my sandal!  Get it out!  Quick...take it out!" 

My friends looked at my foot, but couldn't see a cigarette, burning or not. 

"Please get it out! It hurts!  It hurts!"
  
"There's nothing there.  There's no cigarette!"

"It's on fire!  Help me!  The fire is moving up my leg."

My friends checked my foot again, but nothing!  A passer-by approached the group.

"I just killed a scorpion over there.  I think your friend was probably stung by it."  
A scorpion! People die from scorpion stings, but I knew, once the fire reached my knee, that I wouldn't die.  I somehow just knew it.  This knowledge, however, did nothing to ease the pain.  I was pain.  Pain was all...agony was the focus.

My cries summoned the proprietor of the restaurant (*see note at the bottom), a scant metre away on the very narrow street.  

"Here, give her this!  It might help." 

In her hand was a suppository. A suppository?  How a suppository would help ease the pain in my leg was beyond my comprehension....but I was willing to try anything at that point.

"Where? Where can I go?"
  
"Come into my restaurant and use the bathroom." 

Face contorted with suffering, tears streaming, I hopped on my good foot behind the good Samaritan.  The lady pointed to the back of the establishment. 

"There's the washroom back there." 

I hobbled toward the door, trying not to scream in my distress, all eyes in the nearly full restaurant on me....the door was locked.  Someone was inside! What could I do?  I looked at the suppository, hoping... no...I had to believe...believing that it would take away the pain.  It had to take it away. I couldn't bear it.  

Spotting an empty table across the room, I made for it. Everyone was watching me, but I was beyond caring.  I got as far away from the clients as I could, squatted down behind one of the chairs placed around the table, pulled down my jeans and panties, and used the suppository. I'd love to be able to tell you that it relieved the torment I was experiencing, but it didn't.  Not one little bit.  Pain reigned.

It reigned throughout the night when my friends, unable to comfort me, had at long last found their beds.  It reigned as I moaned, ground my teeth and paced the living-room floor.  Reigned as I sobbed and whimpered and groused and sniveled...as quietly as possible, not wanting to awaken my companions, who were snoring peacefully in the adjoining rooms.  How could they sleep when I was being tormented like this?  You'd think one of them would've had the heart to stay with me in my misery. Then again, what could they do to help?  Nothing.  Nothing could help me.  In my delirium, I understood for the first time, that we are all alone no matter how much we surround ourselves with family and friends.  When it comes down to it, there are just some things that we have to do solo, and this was one of those things.

I made it through the long night and as the sun rose, the pain ebbed a little...then a little more until later that night all that was left was a red spot on my foot, a terrible memory, and a great fear of scorpions (which, to my mind, are the stuff of nightmares).

They say that what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, but I don't agree. I say that what doesn't kill you, gives you the right to complain about it for years to come!


*I later learned that the proprietor had been stung by scorpions four times...twice in the neck as she lay on the rocks sunbathing, and twice in the arm. Each time (according to her), the duration of the pain decreased.  The first time it lasted(as it did with me) about 28 hours, the second about 20, and so on until the last time, when it lasted about 12 hours.  Don't know if this is true.

Thursday 10 May 2012

Final Exam...(Just Try Your Best)

The first night of the Biblical Studies class, I made the acquaintance of a young Anglican woman who was studying to be a priest; a very sweet, young woman.  It would become our habit to sit together during these weekly sessions.

Strangely enough, the Roman Catholic Priest/Professor believed, not at all, in the miracles found in the Old Testament and attempted to explain them away!  I am not Catholic but had always assumed that all priests believed in the veracity of the whole Bible, and was shocked.  According to the Professor, the parting of the Red Sea could have been caused by something called 'wind setdown'; the burning bush described in Exodus, might have been the result of natural gas, and so on. "How can he call himself a priest and not believe in the Bible," I found myself wondering time and again over the course of many weeks.

Illness struck, as it so often does in the cold, Canadian winters, and I was unable to attend one of the weekly sessions.  The following Tuesday, I arrived early to find my friend already in the classroom. 
"What did you study last week?"
"I don't remember much, but he talked a bit about the Dead Sea and how it got its name."  She went on to explain that  the Dead Sea had no outlets.  It was six to nine times saltier than the ocean, making it virtually impossible for fish to live in it. She said there were some rivers that fed into it, but none drained out and she explained that Biblical tradition has it that it is the site of the ancient city of Sodom. When she'd finished imparting this and several other pertinent bits of information, the Professor walked in. 
"Pop quiz on last week's material," he announced.  
"NOOOO!  I wasn't here," I protested. 
"I'm sure you'll do fine. Just try your best," He passed out the test papers and with a heavy heart, I hunkered down to 'try my best'.  The following week, I learned that in spite of not having been there, I'd received a mark of seven out of ten...based on the information I'd received about the Dead Sea.  Needless to say, I was thrilled.

Six weeks later, the dreaded day arrived.  The final exam!  Worse yet, it was an oral exam.  Nerves reigned!  I hadn't taken a university course for years and was certain I would fail.  Sure, I'd reviewed the assigned chapters in the text book and had studied the reams of in-class notes, but I just knew I wouldn't succeed!  I whined to my husband, "I'm not gonna go.  I just can't.  I can't remember any of the material.  I know I'll fail!"  
"Go! You'll do fine.  I know you will," he said encouragingly. 
"I can't!" 
"Yes, you can.  Go!"  
So, go I did.

Arriving at the university, I sat down, closed my eyes and opened the textbook at random. The book fell open at chapter 10.... Manasseh.  I went over what I remembered about the material and felt fairly confident about that particular chapter.

Wisps of a conversation drifted across the room.  Four students were reviewing together for the exam.  The subject of the discussion was unfamiliar.  I didn't recognize anything they were saying,"  I approached the quartet. "I'm sorry to interrupt you.  I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard some of what you were discussing and I'm not familiar with any of it.  It must be something you studied when I was absent a while ago.  Could you please explain it to me?"  Happy to oblige, they spent the next ten minutes filling me in on the information from the missed class.  "Thank you all so much.  I really appreciate it!" I started to walk back to my seat when the Professor appeared at the door to his office. "Arlene," he called.  My heart sank.  With a loud sigh, I gathered my book and notes and what little courage I could muster.

Once inside, I took the chair on the other side of his desk.  He had placed twelve pieces of paper in two rows of six, on the table.  "Please pick one piece of paper from each row," he said.  Anxiously, I drew one from the left and one from the right, and handed them both to him.  He opened the first paper.  The question dealt with...of all things....Chapter 10....Manasseh!!!  I knew all there was to know about Manasseh! I'd just reread it!  After I'd successfully regurgitated the minutia of the chapter, he unfolded the second paper and asked me to give him the information that the four students had shared with me not fifteen minutes before!!!  It was amazing!  This was a miracle!  Excitedly, I started parroting what I'd just learned.  After the first ten sentences, the Priest stopped me. "Okay, okay, that's enough.  I can see you know the material.  I'm giving you an A as your final mark."






Thursday 26 April 2012

So Typical!

"Where the heck is the bus?"  I knew that if it didn't arrive soon I'd be late for the interview.  Pacing anxiously, I scanned the road for the tardy conveyance. I was less than comfortable in the skirt I'd donned to make a good first impression, but for the sake of the possibility of making enough money to feed myself, I'd decided that, for once, femininity might be the way to go.  The interview was to take place in less than an hour and I'd already been waiting for the bus for more than fifteen minutes.  "Come on!  Hurry up!" I couldn't afford to be  late! "Finally!" There it was, rounding the corner. "Thank Heaven," I muttered under my breath as the back doors opened.  My heart sank.  It was packed beyond capacity, people jammed against each other.  There was really no room for me, but I had no choice. If I didn't join the crush, I would be surely be late.  I mounted the steps, squeezed in between an elderly woman and man, and was immediately swarmed. Bodies, some obviously unwashed, pressed against me on all sides.  I tried to remain calm. Canadians need their 'space'; apparently the Greeks didn't. It was very uncomfortable being this close to strangers, and I couldn't wait to disembark. 

There was nothing to hold on to at the back of the bus, but the crowd in front of and behind gave me all the support I needed.  It was virtually impossible to fall. I made eye-contact with the old woman; we nodded at each other.  The teenagers standing close by were having a great time joking, yelling and cursing at each other. The noise of their conversation and laughter hurt the ears.  "Get me off of this bus!" The rank odour of garlic and un-deodorized armpits closed in on me and made me want to gag. I struggled against the urge, breathing through my mouth.

Still so far to go.  "What the?"  A hand....a hand!  Someone was lifting my skirt.  A hand caressed my bottom and held it gently. The blood rushed to my face.  The shock glued me to the spot for several seconds. Gasping in horror, and fighting the crowd, I turned slowly to face my offender.  He was a large, young man. The smile on his face was enraging.  He stared boldly into my eyes. The animal! I could hardly breath, I was so livid!  Raising my arm with difficulty because of the scarcity of space, with all of my might, I slapped the man across the face.  The sound of the impact was apparently quite loud because all conversation stopped....all eyes turned....and regarded me accusingly. The young man who had violated me, shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands in the air, an expression of innocence on his face. "Ti? Giati?" (What? Why?) "'Re Vlaka," (Stupid/Idiot) I countered, not yet having acquired the necessary vocabulary to show the depth of my great displeasure.  The passengers, however, showed their disapproval and glared at me.  So unjust, so typical.  Blame the foreigner. Embarrassed beyond...beyond, I forced my way through the passengers, to the door, stepped down onto the stair that would signal the bus driver that someone wanted to get off, exited as quickly as I could, and knowing I could not possibly make it in time for the interview, that it somehow was just not meant to be, stormed, fuming all the way, the ten long blocks back to my apartment.


Monday 9 April 2012

The West Meets Corfu

It looked like a very large circular, wooden table-top with holes all around its perimeter, a piece of metal or leather..we couldn't tell which from such a distance...dangling below each hole.  This wheel-like structure was resting on what seemed to be a barrel. But what would it be used for? We stood beside our scooters in the hot Greek sunshine, at the edge of the small country road, studying the strange device and trying to imagine what it could be.

Everything else in the picture before us had become familiar over our one-week stay in Corfu...the small farmhouse, the olive, fig, orange and lemon trees, the yucca, the garden planted with beautiful, ornamental cabbages, the chickens pecking at the soil...nothing out of the ordinary.  But that "thing"...what was it? It looked like an ancient instrument of torture.


As we were speculating, a tiny, elderly Greek woman appeared.  Dressed in the usual black garb of mourning, she came out of her small house. Without breaking stride, she grabbed one of the chickens by the legs and carried it squawking and struggling, feathers flying, toward the "wheel".  Once there, she placed the upside-down bird's head through one of the holes and tethered it with the strap beneath to prevent its escape.  She then turned her back on the captive and proceeded to pluck more unsuspecting fowl from their early-afternoon snack, quickly filling the wheel with upside-down chickens. Why didn't they try to escape?  They just continued to peck at the ground, oblivious to their comrades' peril. Except for some minor complaints as the woman walked among them, there was no reaction until they themselves were chosen. That got their attention and evoked the same full-blown response that we'd witnessed with the first victim. The wheel full, the granny picked up a long, sharp knife that rested on it.  I braced myself, knowing that nothing good was about to happen.  I wanted to jump on my bike and tear off down the dusty, dirt road, but instead found myself unable to move.  Like in a nightmare, I was glued to the spot and could not tear my eyes away from the ensuing spectacle.   With swift, efficient movements, the crone began beheading the birds, spinning the wheel with her free hand, to bring each one steadily closer to its demise. She had it down to a science. Even at such a distance, we could see the blood and the freshly decapitated bodies still performing their death dance. We stared, transfixed, aghast at the macabre display, not able to say a word, as we witnessed the final extermination.  When we could, at last, will our legs to move, we mounted our scooters and, shaken out of our innocence, left the scene of the slaughter behind.


Try as I might, I couldn't stop flashing back to the carnage and had to remind myself that those chickens had been raised in relative freedom, had enjoyed the outdoors, had not had to suffer the inhumane treatment inflicted on caged chickens. They'd enjoyed their lives up to the final insult, but had at least been allowed to live normal chicken lives.  


Forcing myself to focus on the present, I turned my attention to the road lined with stately cypress trees, and to the air filled with their beautiful, light bouquet released in the extreme heat of the afternoon sun. This helped to temporarily erase from my mind the gruesome scene we had just observed.


Rounding a bend in the narrow road, we found ourselves approaching another small farmhouse, this one surrounded by a white fence.  Standing at the gate was another yiayia, this one a good twenty years older than the previous one. Due to extreme scoliosis of the spine, she looked to be about four feet tall.  It was easy to imagine her bent over a washboard year after year, scrubbing her family's clothing.  Her spine had frozen in that hunched-over position. Her crooked fingers were rife with arthritis, the swollen knuckles painful to look at. The years had not been kind.  


The old woman smiled a toothless grin at us, her eyes twinkling in the bright sunlight, and with her right hand, palm up, she made a beckoning motion with her fingers. (*See below) What could she want?  We stopped.  I got off my moped and walked up to her. The top of her black babushka reached my lower chest. Up close, the years of hard manual labour were even more apparent.  Her leathery skin was crisscrossed with deep crevasses. I greeted her. "Yeia sas."Yeia sou," replied the elder.  That and parakalo, efcharisto and antio were the only Greek words I knew at the time, so conversation came to an abrupt halt.  We stared at each other for several uncomfortable beats, then she looked down and pointed to one of the many silver rings that, in those days, adorned my hands.   Impulsively, I removed the piece of jewelry and handed it to her thinking that it would not even fit the tip of her stubby, baby finger. She flushed and blinked slowly several times. Looking up, she said in a gravelly whisper, "Efcharisto para poly." Smiling and feeling warmly satisfied by her surprise, I bid her "Antio."  


That night, we were invited for dinner by Manolis and his wonderful, nurturing wife Victoria, the owners of our hostel. Victoria, our newly-adopted Greek mother, had promised us a treat: a local delicacy.  After our long day in the sun, we were famished and couldn't wait for some traditional food: moussaka or pastitsio, perhaps calamari. We took our places at the round table under the heavily-laden grape trellis and smiled at Manolis in hungry anticipation. Glowing with pride, Victoria made her entrance into the courtyard carrying a huge, covered platter. She placed it carefully in the middle of the table.  With great flourish, her husband uncovered the piece de resistance. It's been said that presentation is half the meal and I just knew that something incredible awaited us under that lid. I was right. There, lying on the tray, were dozens of tiny cooked birds, their beady, dead eyes staring vacantly into space. 


For the second time that day, I was traumatized by dead birds.  The merit in the old crone's spinning wheel of decapitation became clear.  Without heads, there is a lot less eye contact with one's food, and it turns out that for me, that is a trait that is quite desirable indeed.

                                                            ***


4 feet = 1.2 metres


Later that evening, we learned that the old woman wasn't beckoning us to come closer; that's how the people in Corfu wave to each other.


yiayia = grandmother 


babushka = headscarf


yeia sas = formal way to say hello (to an elder)


yeia sou = informal hello 


parakalo = please


efcharisto = thank you / efcharisto para poly = thank you very much


antio = goodbye


moussaka = Moussaka is an eggplant, or potato-based dish, often including ground meat.


pastitsio = a Greek baked pasta dish that contains ground beef and bechamel sauce


calamari = squid


Monday 2 April 2012

A Sign

I believe that God sends us all little signs here and there, and that we can either choose to recognize them or we can choose to ignore them.  Some call these signs 'coincidences', but I have experienced so many, that I gave up calling them that many years ago.  I like to say, the first time it's perhaps a coincidence, and the second and the third and maybe the fourth, but after the tenth or fifteenth or twentieth, it's obvious that there is a greater power at work. 

Many of us had been praying for Cynthia.  It had been a particularly bad year and a half for the poor woman.  She'd suffered so much emotional pain waiting for the double mastectomy that she would have to undergo. Her family and friends didn't know if she would make it after the operation because of the complications that arose. Her physical pain was, of course, no minor thing. The depression that followed was great, but as the months passed, the healing began, and her family was encouraged by her progress.  They began to hope again. Sadly, a year later there came another great blow. The doctors determined that she now had a tumour on her spine. The cycle of worry, depression and hopelessness began anew.

Cynthia's good friend telephoned me to tell me of the latest diagnosis. "Can you please ask your friends to pray for her?"  So, once again, we all started to lift her up in prayer. The operation was to take place on a Friday morning in February.

That same morning, several friends were at my house for our weekly Bible study and prayer meeting.  As soon as they got in the door, I asked them if we could pray together since Cynthia would be having the operation at that time.  They agreed, of course, and began to pray. We prayed for Cynthia once more before we left the house that afternoon. Then, it was upstairs to the computer, to feed my Scrabble addiction.

It was 1:50 p.m. when I opened the game app, and there on the board to my amazement, were these seven letters....CYNTHAI...with just a little tweaking they spelled the name CYNTHIA!!!!  This was incredible.  I'd been playing on-line scrabble for years and had never before had anything like that happen! I, of course, took this as a sign to pray once again.  I had learned from many experiences in the past, of God's love for His children.  This to me, was sure proof of just that!  He loved Cynthia and was going to show His love for her.  I felt a great sense of excitement and knew at that point that the outcome of the operation would be good!  Just as I'd turned the letters around to make the name right, He was going to turn the situation around, to make it right.

The operation was successful!  Now, they would have to wait about three weeks for the results.  During that time, we continued our prayer vigil, but now we prayed giving thanks, with the certainty that the results would be great.

Three weeks passed and I heard from Cynthia's friend that not only was the operation a success, but that my conviction that the outcome would be good, was correct.  The tumour was benign!  


Tuesday 27 March 2012

Papi! (PART 3...LAST PART)

READ PAPI (PART 2) BEFORE YOU READ THIS!!!

"Oh, my gosh! There's the family!"  Sure enough there they were, the papi and the mami, the father with the little one straddling his shoulders, and the mother. The little girl spotted the two of us and started waving.  We waved back. The whole family approached. "Our little girl says that you were the one who found her and helped her," said the father, looking only at my husband.  Jean-Pierre was taken aback and replied, "Well, I teach young children so I recognized that she was in trouble."  He then went on to explain just what had happened. "We can't thank you enough," said the father.  "Yes, thank you, thank you," added the mother. "Thank you, sir. Thank you for finding my granddaughter," said the papi. "Thank you very much." said the mami.  "Say thank you to the gentleman, honey," the mother said to the little one.  "Thank you!"  The adults all shook Jake's hand, not even glancing at me, and blended once more into the crowd.  "Well, that was pretty incredible," I said. "Did you notice that they didn't thank me at all? They gave you all the thanks!"  Jean-Pierre sat quietly, pondering what had just happened, smiling contentedly. I pressed my point, "Did you notice that they didn't thank me once," I asked. "That's because I didn't need their thanks and God knew you did, so He gave you all of their thanks."

The following day, we visited a very large, very busy mall in a town about fifteen kilometres away.  Hundreds and hundreds of cars filled the lot, so finding a place to park was almost as painful as it had been the day before. We did a bit of shopping and decided to call it a day.  Exiting through one of the many doors, I saw that God was working His wonders once again....we came face to face with the father, his little girl on his shoulders, and the mother!  The little girl was all smiles. We adults were shocked beyond speech, to see each other again. Jean-Pierre and I were particularly amazed because except for his immediate family, we knew absolutely no one at all who lived around there.  With the throngs of people everywhere, who could ever imagine that we would run into the only other people we 'knew'?

"Hello," we all said at once.  No one knew what to say next.  Finally the father spoke to my husband.  "Thank you so much for what you did yesterday."  "Yes, thank you very, very much," his wife agreed.  "Thank you," added the little one. We all stood there awkwardly. "Well, goodbye, and thank you again." They took their leave, leaving Jean-Pierre almost gasping at the encounter. "Why did that happen? What does it mean," he asked wonderingly.  "God is showing you how much He loves you!  You needed the thanks and He made sure that you got them...two days in a row! Notice that they didn't thank me again," I quipped happily.

Monday 26 March 2012

Papi! (PART 2)

READ PAPI! BEFORE YOU READ THIS....THIS IS PAPI (PART 2)!!!

At about the same time that Jean-Pierre was making the phone call, a man approached us and held out his arms to the whimpering child.  She collapsed into his embrace. I asked, "Is this your Papi?" She nodded contentedly, her little arms hugging his neck, her head against his chest.  The elderly couple started explaining what had happened, taking credit for everything that had transpired, making no mention of the major role played by myself and my husband.  I found it amusing that they did so, but wasn't at all concerned.  I was just so happy that my prayer had been heard.  God had placed me just where I was needed.  What more could anyone want?  To be used by Him was reward in itself. The papi thanked the couple over and over, not even glancing at me.  He was greatly relieved to have his charge safely in his arms. Each then went his own way, and I stood there, gratefully reliving the events, giving thanks and waiting for my husband to appear.

An exhausted Jean-Pierre showed up after several minutes and was surprised to find me alone. "What happened?  Where's everybody?"  I filled him in on the details and mentioned in passing that the older couple had taken all the glory for themselves. "What do you mean?  Didn't he thank you, too?" "No, he didn't even know I was part of it."  "Why didn't you tell him you and I found the little girl?" "I don't know.  It didn't seem important to me.  I was just happy that God used me, that he put me where I was needed."  My husband, however, was not at all happy about the turn of events. "You shouldn't have sent me to find the family.   I knew I'd never find them.  I walked and searched for over half an hour, but it was a wild-goose chase.  I should have stayed here.  I can't believe they didn't tell him that you and I were responsible for finding her.  You should have been thanked...not them!" "But, I didn't need the thanks.  I was just happy that God used me, that we found her and that was enough for me."  "Well, it's not enough for me," Jean-Pierre complained bitterly. "You and I should have gotten the thanks." My husband still grumbling under his breath, we set off once again down the boardwalk.  After a short time, he griped, "I'm tired from all that walking.  I need to sit down."  With the number of people milling about, it was incredible that I spotted two vacant wooden deck chairs a short distance away. He sank unhappily into one of them and I claimed the other.  "I'm so upset about the whole thing," he lamented.  You should have said something.  You should have been thanked; I should have been thanked." I sighed, but said nothing.  We sat in silence for some time, each lost in his own thoughts...some happy, some not so happy.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PAPI (PART 3)


Saturday 24 March 2012

Papi! (PART ONE)

Jean-Pierre and I had been driving back and forth, up and down the crowded avenue for nigh on thirty minutes, trying in vain to find a place to park. Since it was the height of the tourist season, there was no lack of tourists or their cars! While searching, I felt compelled to say a heartfelt prayer asking God to use me that day by putting me in the place where I was needed most.  "Father please give me the eyes to see and the ears to hear, I pray. Use me if it's Your will."

We finally found the elusive parking spot in an underground parking lot.  Emerging from the cool, shaded shelter of the garage into the bright sunlight and heat of the day, we immediately found ourselves surrounded by swarms of sightseers intent on enjoying the lovely weather, and hoping of course, to spot the occasional celebrity. Beyond, the promenade beckoned. With some difficulty, and much weaving in and out of traffic, we managed to make some headway through the tide of humanity. The path suddenly widened, enabling us to relax our pace and continue strolling in relative comfort.

The blue sea, the azure sky, the yachts, the slender palm trees, the magnificent flower gardens; eye-candy everywhere.  I found it hard to focus on any one thing...there was so much to take in.  Such pretty people; even the old folks were dressed to the nines, looking glamorous.  Take the elderly couple walking toward them on the boardwalk; they were sophistication personified.  One couldn't help but admire them as they passed by.

"Papi, Papi!"  cried the little girl who was now in our sights and running twenty metres behind the couple that had just passed us.  "Papi, Papi! Papi, Papi!"  She was calling desperately for her grandfather. I turned around to see what the granddad would do.  To my consternation, he and his wife just kept walking. Why wouldn't they stop for her?  She was all of three years old.  They might look beautiful, but they were obviously not beautiful inside.  How could grandparents hear those plaintive cries and ignore them?  The child kept up her desperate howling as she ran past the old couple.  She ran past them!  They weren't with her! Scanning the boardwalk beyond the babe, I could see no one else that looked to be the right age to be her grandparents.  Jean-Pierre reached the same conclusion at the same time.  The little girl was lost! We both turned and took off running, passing the elderly couple.  We caught up with the bawling child, each of us grabbing one of her arms to stop her.  "Are you looking for your grandfather? Can't you find him?"  Jean-Pierre asked gently as he knelt by the little girl.  "I want my Papi," she said as she struggled to get away.  "Papi! Papi!" "We'll help you find your Papi.  Do you know where he is?" She shook her head and tried in vain to pull her arm from our grip. "Don't be afraid. We'll help you find him."

The older couple had now caught up, and suspicious of the two of us, asked what was happening. Jean-Pierre explained what had transpired and the four of us were able to calm the child with repeated promises that we would indeed find her Papi. Feeling sure that the child's grandparents would by now, be sick with worry, I asked my husband to go back in the direction the little girl had come from, to look for her family.  They would certainly be recognizable in their distress!  He didn't want to leave. He knew that finding them would be an almost impossible task because of the huge crowds, but tired of listening to my continued nagging, he relented unhappily and started off down the boardwalk. The older gentleman walked a short way off and used his cell phone to contact the police while the other woman and I continued to console the little one.

Meanwhile, Jean-Pierre searched in vain on the seemingly endless esplanade that was filled beyond capacity with the summer hordes.  Left and right he looked, but could see no one who seemed the least bit distressed.  With the masses pressing in on all sides, it was like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.  Ultimately, admitting defeat, he crossed the avenue and entered one of the posh hotels, in search of a telephone with which to summon the police.

TO BE CONTINUED.....IN PAPI (PART 2)







Friday 16 March 2012

Beeeeooootifooool Girls

Mid-March found Angelina and Sharmaine in Europe for the first time, searching the side-streets of Rome for a reasonably-priced pension, a base from which to explore the tourist traps that beckoned.  Mission accomplished, they decided that after the long plane ride, a quick wash was in order.  Angelina left Sharmaine in their quarters and made her way to the communal lavatory to take a shower.  To her chagrin, hot showers were not free, and having no lira to feed the hot-water meter, cold was the only game in town.  It took a great effort to keep from shrieking at the onslaught of frigid water.  She rushed through her ablutions and finished showering in no time flat.  Emerging from the icy bath, skin red and lips blue, she dried off hastily, dressed and retraced her steps to the room.

Rounding the corner, she saw him.  Dressed in striped pajamas in spite of the fact that it was mid-afternoon, he was on his knees at the door to their room, eye to the keyhole, licking his lips lasciviously, and staring at an oblivious Sharmaine. Unaware of Angelina's presence, he switched eyes to get an even better view. "What the heck do you think you're doing, you pervert???"  Red in the face, the culprit sprang to his feet, and muttering under his breath in Italian he scuttled off down the hall.  Entering the room, Angelina snatched several tissues and stuffed them into the keyhole.  

It was Sharmaine's turn to hurry through the torturous douche and once dressed she joined her sister to commence their explorations.  The Trevi Fountain was first on the list of things to see.  Excitedly, they exited the pension and started toward the desired destination.  

At once, they were accosted by two members of the opposite sex.  "Hey, beeeoootifoool girls.Hello, Beeeoootifoools!  Ciao dolcezza.  Where you go? Hello??" They tried their best to ignore the two young men who were intent on getting their attention, but the annoying one-sided dialogue continued. "Pssst. Pssst.  Girls? Bella regazze.  Hello?? Pssst. You are very beeeoootifoool!" Angelina felt the blood rise to her face.  "Let's cross the street," she whispered to Sharmaine.  "I'm getting pissed off!"  So, cross they did. Regrettably, the young romeos followed.  "Pssst. Hello?  Beeeoootifoools??  Hello?"  The incessant chatter didn't cease.  Angelina grabbed Sharmaine by the arm and dragged her back across the street.  "Girls, hey girls? You take our hearts.  Girls?"  Angelina had had the biscuit.  She dug in her bag, brought out her small fruit knife and turning to face their stalkers, waved it in their faces. "Go away! Go away NOW!!!  We don't want you to follow us.  Get lost. We're not interested in men."  Sharmaine added, "We don't want company. We want you to leave us alone.  GO AWAY!!!"  They laughed!  The two young men laughed at them!! Blood now boiling, Angelina spotted a police officer a short distance away. That was it! She'd had enough! Pay-back time!  "Come on, Sharmaine!"

The two girls stormed up to the officer.  "Do you speak English?"  "Yes, I do."  "Oh, good. You see these two men here?"  Angelina indicated the two who had once again pursued them and now, astonishingly, stood not two metres away.  "They won't stop following us! We've told them that we're not interested in men!"  This last statement was directed angrily at the two wanna-be beaus.  "Please, tell them to go away!  We're not interested in men.  We want them to leave us alone!" The officer spoke sternly to the two and they slunk away.  "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much," the sisters said of one accord.  They both heaved sighs of relief. "Thanks again! Goodbye," said Sharmaine.  "Gracie! Bye!" said a smiling Angelina.

"One moment, please," said the poliziotto.  The girls stopped in their tracks and turned back.  "There is a party tonight.  Do you beeeoootifoool girls like to go with me?"