Is It Time To Panic Yet?

It's 28 kilometers from Pliego to Archena.  The trip there should take about 30 minutes.  Margarita, our niece was dancing at ten that night and we were meeting the family to watch the show.  We'd wanted to see her perform for a long time.  She started on her flamenco career when she was just a child and had turned professional, so we were both thrilled that she and her troupe would be performing in a town close to us. Since said town was reputed to be charming, we decided to leave Pliego early so we'd have the chance to explore a bit before the event.

At 8 p.m. we hopped in the car for the short jaunt to Archena.  All was well until we hit the detour. This was no ordinary detour, at least not according to Canadian standards. This was 'A DETOUR'. It traversed a desolate landscape....barren countryside, untouched by rain for months on end. There were no cars, no houses, absolutely no signs of life. The road wound through small hills where vegetation was almost nonexistent.  It was eerie but at the same time strangely beautiful. The road was long!  Very, very long. At times we were convinced that we were lost and frightened ourselves by imagining we might drive forever in this strange, desert-like world of endless ups and downs. We drove and drove and drove some more. Beginning to despair. Finally, at 9:20 we saw a few houses and a sign that read 'Archena 25 kilometres'. How was that possible? It was originally 28 kilometres from our village, and after driving almost an hour and a half, it was another 25 kilometres? What kind of detour was that? Things were not turning out as we'd planned and we were starting to worry. The family was waiting for us and we were running late. We'd assumed we'd be able to cover the distance in half an hour, but we were learning not to take anything for granted on this trip.

A small village appeared in the distance. We could see a lot of activity on the main street but couldn't make out what was happening.  As we approached, we found that the road was blocked because of a village festival.  A parade was making its way down the main drag and that of course meant we couldn't go straight through the town.  Another detour.  It was just too much.  We looked at each other, completely overwhelmed by the circumstances and did what anyone would do in the situation...we burst out laughing.  Everything was conspiring against us.  It was just so ludicrous.  Our chuckles turned into loud guffaws.  I snorted unintentionally causing J.P.'s shoulders to shake as he howled with laughter. A police officer was allowing cars one at a time through a barricade, to protect the masses of pedestrians. Painfully, slowly, we inched forward, stomachs aching from belly laughs, tears streaming down our cheeks, giggling all the way.  At long last, we made it through the barrier.....and floored it.  

9:55!  Archena!  We made it with five minutes to spare! Park the car! Run!  Hearts pounding we arrived at the venue and took our seats with Francine and Martin, Maggie's proud parents, and made our excuses. The setting was breathtaking. Our hearts calmed, our breathing slowed. We were in a beautiful courtyard. Around us, romantic lighting; above us, tall palms, and in the black sky, a perfectly full moon. The air was balmy and warm; the voices hushed.  

In front of us the performers, two dancers and three guitarists (one a woman who also sang splendidly).  Oh, the music, oh, the dancing. Astonishing, sensational, jaw-dropping.  There is nothing like flamenco well done.  The strength, the control, the fluidity. The passion of the performance overwhelmed me. I looked at Margarita with new eyes and saw that the years of training and her natural talent had conspired to produce a sensational dancer. The combination of the music, the singing and the dancing was perfect and at times I found myself holding my breath.  

Nature however, was calling and even though I wanted to sit there and watch, I desperately needed to visit the W.C. Reluctantly I made my way through the courtyard into the lobby of the charming, old hotel and began my search.  I found it at last but had to wait in a short line.  Finally, it was my turn.  I tugged at the heavy antique, wooden door, went inside and tried to lock it. The bolt wouldn't go into the slot, so I pushed the door open again, and tried to slide the lock to see if it worked. It did. Closing the door, I shoved the bolt....hard. Mission accomplished. The dimly-lit bathroom was hot and stuffy and smelled like someone had smoked multiple cigarettes inside.  "That's okay.  I'll be out of here in a minute," I thought. Finishing my business, I washed my hands and went to open the door. The lock was jammed.  I wrestled with it for half a minute, but it didn't budge. Hot, so hot in there.  I called out, "Hay alguien?" (Is anyone there?) "Hola?" No answer.  "Hola?  Hay alguien? Hola?" Nothing. Everyone was obviously outside watching the performance. I was alone in the semi-darkness. Starting to sweat, heart pounding, I said a quick prayer. "Father, help me please. Get me out of here, please!"  I struggled with the lock again, all the time calling out for help, but there was no one and it was impossible to undo the lock. Praying and praying, sweat running down my back, I jerked the lock again and again, to no avail.  "Okay, don't panic. Calm down. Take a breath and look around to see if there's anything that will help open door."  I turned and for the first time, noticed two long cupboard-like doors set into the bathroom wall.  It looked like they could be opened. Maybe there was something in there that could help in my escape! I turned the small handles, opened the doors and stared. What I saw made no sense. I blinked. There was another wall behind the cupboard doors! Panic set in again. This was a nightmare come to life! But wait. There were more handles set into the wall. Desperately, I turned them and behind there was a HUGE WINDOW! It was up fairly high on the wall, but completely open! Hallelujah! Thank you, Lord! I stretched my legs as high as I could, up and over the sill...I did it!  I made it; the fresh air a gift like none other.

Chocolate Milk? No?

I was addicted to Greek yogurt and chocolate milk.  On this particular day,  I was, for the third day in a row, craving chocolate milk.  Don't scoff.  In those days, these were both made from goat milk and if you hadn't tried Greek yogurt and chocolate milk, you hadn't lived! 

Smaro, my dear friend, decided that it was time for me to soar on my own. I had been living with her for a week and she was getting tired of always having to translate for me. "You have to try. You know enough Greek words now that you can go to the store alone. They'll understand you!"  "But, Smaro.  I can't. I just can't. Please come with me." My pleas fell on deaf ears. "No," insisted Smaro, "I won't go. You go. You'll be fine."  

The desire for the creamy, rich chocolate beverage outweighed my trepidation and off I went to the corner store. The owner was seated behind the display case which held containers of yogurt and trays of baklava and galaktoboureko....but none of the coveted chocolate milk.  He'd had chocolate milk every other day that week...to this my expanding stomach could attest.  Perhaps it was in the back room and he hadn't put it out yet? Nervously, in my best Greek, I asked, "Echete sokolatoucho gala?" (Do you have chocolate milk?) The man looked at me, opened his eyes wide, then raised and lowered his eyebrows once.  I stared at him and waited patiently for him to answer.  HUH?  No response.  Maybe he hadn't understood my accent? Again, this time much slower, I repeated, "E che te so ko la tou cho ga la?"  His chin jerked upwards, accompanied by the eyebrow raise.  He lowered his head quickly and looked at me once again. What the heck?  Maybe he was hard of hearing?  I tried again, but this time I raised my voice to be sure he could hear what I was saying. "E CHE TE SO KO LA TOU CHO GA LA?"  Nary a word passed his lips; he just repeated the same gesture, but this time he pursed his lips and clicked his tongue once on the roof of his mouth.  The man must be crazy!  What the heck is he doing, clicking his tongue, lifting his eyebrows.  Why won't he answer me? One last time....one last try.....louder and slower than before...."E   CHE   TE   SO   KO   LA  TOU   CHO GA LA?"  His eyes hardened, he gave me 'a look'....bent his right arm, threw his hand up and back, lifted his head violently, raised his eyebrows four or five times, and clicked his tongue over and over again. Panicking, I ran out of the store, back to Smaro's apartment.  

"Pou einai i sokolatoucho gala," (Where is the chocolate milk?) she asked when I returned empty-handed.  In my terrible Greek and with head, eyebrow, tongue and hand gestures, I tried to explain what had transpired and how frightened I'd been. When I had finished, Smaro looked at me and burst out laughing. "What? What's so funny?  Why are you laughing?"  She tried several times to explain, but each time she was overcome by throaty giggles.  She laughed until her stomach hurt. Holding her sides, tears streaming down her cheeks she finally managed to gasp, "Those are all ways we say 'NO' in Greek!"

Wait For Me!

It seems I'm always looking for my husband.  When we go shopping, he somehow disappears.  He's with me one minute and the next minute, he's GONE!  It doesn't matter where we are.  If it involves shopping, he vanishes.  Walking in a store, I will turn to comment on a shirt that I've found for him, but is he there beside me? No. He's in another section entirely. Either that, or he says he'll "wait" outside the shop for me. By 'wait', he means that if I nip into a store for three minutes he will be 'waiting' several stores away where, of course I can't see him.  For times like these, we have our 'signal'.  It involves a melodic whistle.  Yes, people think I'm rude or crazy, but you can understand my frustration, can't you?  He's there; he's gone! Where is he? Fweeeeeeeet!!  Fweeeeeeet!! I think that's him, halfway down the mall.  Oh, it is! He's the small dot on the horizon, waving at me.

This brings me to the night in question.  It was a cold one; the perfect night to rent a good movie, share some popcorn, and snuggle on the sofa under a warm blanket. So, off to the mall we drove.  J.P. pulled up at the back door and stopped.  I exited the car and said, "Be back in a few.  Wait for me here, okay?" "Okay," he said.  I made my way to the video store where I perused the shelves until I found the 'one' that would please us both, paid for it and headed to the other end of the mall, to the supermarket where I bought the required snack. Mission accomplished, I walked the length of the mall to the back exit.  

I opened the door. No car. "Oh," I sighed resignedly, accustomed to his disappearances, "he probably drove around to the side door to wait for me near the video shop." Through the door I went and over to the door nearest the video store. Opened it.  "Nope. Not here. Maybe he didn't want me to have to walk all the way back through the mall from the grocery store?  He knew I was going to get popcorn. He must be at the front door by the supermarket waiting for me." Back through the mall to the entrance. Outside...looked around.  "Not here!" Feeling exasperated and not just a little vexed, I could sense my blood pressure mounting.  I retraced my steps....back to the side door, and again to the back door.  NOT AT EITHER DOOR!!! Once again to the side door. "Okay, calm down. Just go to the front door again. He must be parked near the supermarket," I reasoned.  I jogged through the mall.  "No, he isn't here!  Where is he?" Stifling my frustration, I forced myself to walk very calmly albeit quickly to the back door.  There was his car!  I couldn't believe it.  There he was, parked a short distance away by the curb. He hadn't been there, before!  I opened the door and flung myself down onto the seat in the dark car.  I threw my head against the headrest dramatically and commenced to lambaste him! "WHERE THE HECK HAVE YOU BEEN?  I'VE GONE BACK AND FORTH FROM THE BACK DOOR TO THE SIDE DOOR TO THE FRONT DOOR THREE TIMES!! WHERE WERE YOU???? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WAIT HERE FOR ME!  I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!  I'M EXHAUSTED AND SO ANNOYED RIGHT NOW!!! SO, SO AGGRAVATED!!  I HATE WHEN YOU DISAPPEAR LIKE THAT!"  No answer for five beats and then I heard an unfamiliar voice, "You're in the wrong car."

Before You Go

"Excuse me.  could you tell me where the mushrooms are?  I can't seem to find them."
"There just over there," indicates the produce manager, a tall, handsome, young man.
"Thanks a lot."
"I really like your shoes."
"Pardon me?"
"I like your shoes.  Where did you get them?" he asks.
The question takes me by surprise.  "Uh, they're from Benneton," I stammer.
"Oh.  Were they expensive?"
Why is he so interested in my shoes?  They're not even that nice.  Green suede, lace-ups, something like a running shoe.
"Um.  No.  In fact they were cheap.  I got them on sale."
"I think my mother would like shoes like that.  It's her birthday soon.  Maybe I'll get her a pair."
Inner sigh of relief!  Thank goodness it's nothing kinky!  He's only interested in my shoes because it's his mother's birthday.  But then he asks, "What are they like on the inside?"
"Pardon?"
"On the inside.  Are they cushy?  What's the insole like?  My mom has bad feet so she needs cushioned shoes."
"They're, uh, pretty comfortable."
"Do you think I could have a look at one?  I'd like to see the insole.  Just for a minute."
"Um, uh...well, uh...I guess so."
I find myself removing, very reluctantly, the coveted shoe.  He raises it appreciatively to his smiling face, rotates it slowly to better appreciate its form, closes his eyes, draws the shoe slightly closer to his nose, and then to my amazement, inhales deeply.  A look of ecstasy suffuses his flushed face.  His eyes open slowly, a film has softened the irises.  He is in another place, not of this world anymore.  The experience has transported him, transformed him, removed him from his mundane world to a different realm.
"Excuse me.  Excuse me!  Uh, could I have my shoe, please?"  My voice brings him back to the land of the living.
"Wha...oh, oh, yes.  Thank you," he chokes, almost throwing the shoe at me.  "I'm sure my mother would love them.  I hope they still carry them because they're exactly what she needs!"
I quickly force my foot inside and I'm out of there faster than you can say 'Blue Suede Shoes'!
Months go by.  The incident has receded from memory.  I need butter and milk. The supermarket.  Not the one I usually frequent, but close to my place of work. Butter! There it is.  
A presence....hovering over my shoulder.  I turn.  It's HIM!  My instinct is to flee.
"Hi!  Remember me?  I liked your shoes?  Well, I bought them for my girlfriend and she really loved them!"
"You bought them for your g..girlfriend?"
"Yeah, remember I told you she had bad feet?  Well, I bought her the same kind of shoes!"
"Oh, that's good.  Well, I have to go now.  I'm in a hurry.  Bye."
"Hey, before you go, those shoes you're wearing are really great!  What's the insole like?"

Exotic

Smaro's laugh started off deep and throaty, but crescendoed into a lovely high-pitched squeak. Both it and her smile were infectious.  How that woman loved to laugh!  Music was important to her too, and she would burst into song at the drop of a hat.  Her voice was a rich, full-toned contralto, and I was often regaled with her favourite Greek love song of the day.  Separated from her husband for many years, she worked long hours as a nurse to provide for her two children. 'Hard Work' was her middle name.

Those were lean days for me.  A stranger in a strange land, I had very little money, very few friends and on occasion, despaired.  If I was feeling at all low, the gloom would lift the moment I was engulfed in one of her great big bear-hugs.  She was wonderful to me and treated me like a daughter.  If I needed a bed, she gave me one; if I was hungry, she fed me.  Even though it was hard at times for her to make ends meet, she gave selflessly. And, oh the food she fed me....so different from what I was used to.  Chorta, pastitsio, dolmades...food as exotic to me as was Smaro.

One of my most vivid memories is of a day when I was invited by Smaro to come for lunch.  I walked into the dining-room and there in the middle of the table was a bony skull surrounded by potatoes.  "Ti einai afto?" (What is that?) I asked, cringing at the sight.  "It's the head of a sheep." she answered.  "What's the matter?  Don't you eat sheep brain in Canada?"  Bile rose in my throat.  "No!  We don't eat sheep brain in Canada and I can't eat it here, either!"  "Why," she asked, surprised, "It's delicious!"  "Thank you, but no thank you.  I can't eat that!  I can't even look at it," I gasped, almost gagging at the thought. She relented gracefully.  "Okay then.  Go into the kitchen and make yourself some eggs. You can eat in there."  I did as I was told, grateful to leave the abhorrent sight behind.  I quickly fried up a couple of eggs, sliced a tomato, grabbed a piece of bread and was sitting at the kitchen table just about to put some egg in my mouth when Smaro, ever-funny Smaro, spoke to me from the other room, her words putting an end to whatever appetite I had. "Oh, Arlene," she exclaimed in a laughter-filled voice, "This is so delicious. You really should come and have some.  Now, I'm eating an eye!"

Pride Goeth Before a Fall!

I was feeling very proud of my knowledge of basic Greek...perhaps a bit too proud.  The fact that I'd been in that country a mere month and a half did nothing to dissuade me of the opinion that I really 'knew my stuff'!  I was looking forward to taking Shelley to the restaurant and showcasing my linguistic abilities. What is that old saying?  Oh yes, "Pride goeth before a fall." Poor me. I was about to become well-acquainted with that concept.

The restaurant was crowded, as usual. I'd been there several times before and had enjoyed not only the food, but the ambiance, as well.  It was a typical Greek restaurant. Its white walls were covered with pictures of the Parthenon, Mount Athos and the windmills of Mykonos.  Ocher vases and small Grecian figurines sat atop the turquoise shelves that lined the walls. The other-worldly sound of the Greek language and bouzouki music permeated the small space. The scent of garlic, mint, onion, basil and thyme was irresistible. The fact that the taverna was inexpensive was a bonus. We needed to make every drachma count since we planned to travel for a minimum of six months.  

It was common knowledge among tourists in Greece in those days, that when you entered a restaurant of that caliber, the first thing you did was ask the waiter if you could go into the kitchen. "Endaxei," (okay) was the usual response. Hence, we found ourselves behind the scenes, in the busy, noise-filled kouzina, checking out the fragrant contents of large, bubbling pots and pans atop the stove and counter-tops. Everything looked so good and smelled so heavenly, that it took us forever to choose.  Finally, having decided what we would eat, we headed to a table. 

The waiter approached with the requisite basket of bread and a small bowl of olives. "Ti thelete?" (What do you want?)  This was my moment to shine!  "Pay attention, Shelley," I thought.  "You're about to hear some impressive Greek now!" Oh, but I was so full of myself!  Smiling sweetly at the waiter, I said confidently and perhaps just a wee bit too loudly,"Theo copella, parakalo." Several people at tables around us started chuckling, their chuckles slowly turning into gales of laughter.  The waiter looked around the room trying to avoid my eyes. At last, not able to control himself, he joined in the merriment. I could feel my face flushing.  What had I said? Think, Arlene, think.  Theo copella...that means two chickens, doesn't it? Doesn't it?  I wracked my brain.  Copella...copella.  Oh, my gosh....it doesn't.  The word for chicken is kotopoulo...not copella. I should have said "Theo kotopoula"!  My heart sank, my humiliation complete.  Instead of ordering two chickens, yours truly had ordered two girls!

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!