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I can usually endure long and tedious journeys on the way TO somewhere. There is the excitement and anticipation of wherever it is I am going to sustain me. But journeys FROM are awful. Returning from a wonderful holiday is possibly the worst journey anyone can make. The holiday is over the moment I leave the hotel but I won't be safe at home for hours. The problems start with packing the suitcase. How is it that, even if I decide to abandon all the books I have read, all half-empty pots and tubes and cans of hairgel, toothpaste, suncream and deodorant, I still have more to pack than I came with? How can one bottle of duty-free Metaxa and a few tacky ornaments make that much difference in volume and weight? |
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I thought the case was heavy on the outward journey. But that was NOTHING compared to the weight I had to heave about going home. This journey was definitely one of the elusive search for the luggage trolley. We were turfed out of our room at 2.00 in the afternoon and had a couple of hours to wait before the ferry left. Time for a last drink in the beach bar, fond farewells to the friends we had made, jeers from those who had another week before they had to leave. This time we were alert enough to appreciate the ferry journey. I spent the voyage leaning over the front of the boat, like a figurehead, watching the passing islands and the other boats. I got drenched by the waves; my t-shirt was so encrusted by salt that it would have stood up on its own. And in the sea-breeze I didn't realise that my arms were scorching in the hot sun. We docked at Athens and were ushered onto a coach. What a culture shock. Two weeks on Agistri, where there were only a few cars, had made us all forget what city life was like. Noise, dirt, traffic jams, hassle... I wanted to crawl straight back on the boat. This is where the truly unpleasant part of the trip started. It was now 7.00 in the evening. Our flight left Athens at 5.00 in the morning. We had nothing to do but wait. It was at this point I remembered with fondness the broken wheels I had abandoned on my outward journey. The tour company had arranged with one of the hotels in Athens for us to leave our luggage in its foyer. Because this hotel was in a backstreet which the coach could not get near, we were dumped on the main road and had to walk round the corner, carrying our cases. It was about a 200 yard walk. I had to stop every few minutes to massage some life back into my arms. I cursed the idiot who had chosen this hotel. My mother was in an even worse way, being a fairly elderly lady with a case even heavier than mine. The moment we reached the hotel foyer felt like the moment you cross the finishing tape after running the marathon. We were told we could make use of three bedrooms to have a shower. Unfortunately these arrangements were not just for the 20 of us from Agistri, but also for tourists from Aegina, Tolon, Poros... there were about 130 people fighting over the facilities. We were given a rough hand-drawn map of Athens, instructed to be ready to board the coach at 1.00 in the morning, and left to our own devices. Mum and I decided to explore - well we had to do something to kill the time. The first thing we found was the Houses of Parliament, where we were lucky enough to witness the Greek equivalent of the Changing of the Guard. Four soldiers, wearing skirts, shoes with pompoms on the end, and hats with long tassles, marched backwards and forwards in a slow-motion goosestep. They looked like they had been trained in the Ministry of Silly Walks. All the tourists thought this was hysterical but the locals couldn't see what the joke was. We wandered about looking at some ruins but it was too dark to see very much, nearly got run over by the apalling traffic, bought some authentic Greek souvenirs (urns, worry beads and that kind of thing) in a market, then had something to eat. We climbed up endless flights of stairs to see the Acropolis, but it was closed. It was only 10.00 and we still had hours to wait. We returned to the Hotel, hoping we could sit down and have a cold drink while we waited. No chance. The Hotel Bar had failed to realise that it was going to be invaded - even though it happened every week - and they had run out of beer and soft drinks. All they could offer was lukewarm, flat Coke. There were lots of sofas and easy chairs provided for us to relax in while we waited. Seating was available for perhaps 25 people. Not enough. Everywhere we looked were bodies sprawled amongst suitcases; it looked like an airport lounge when the planes have all been grounded for a week. Eventually we managed to grab a couple of seats and sank down gratefully, hoping to relax and maybe snooze a little. Some hope. These seats felt like concrete blocks covered with tissue paper. They were only marginally less uncomfortable than the marble floor. The lucky few who did manage to nod off were making a peculiar assortment of snores, grunts and moans. Those that couldn't sleep were talking. Children were rushing about squawking, babies were crying. Finally we were told our coach was ready to take us to the Airport. So we picked up our cases and walked. Or tried to. This time it was uphill, and the coach had parked even further away - 400 yards (going on 30 miles.). If a very nice man had not taken pity on my mother and carried her case for her, she'd probably still be struggling. By the time I finally made it to the coach I was so angry I was almost in tears. And so to Athens airport. Check-in time for our flight was 3.00, but because the flights to Birmingham, Glasgow and Manchester left before ours, we had to be there in time for the first one. For an International Airport, Athens really is a joke. No luggage trolleys. No seats, of course. We had to sit on the cold hard floor, leaning on our cases. Fortunately, the bar had ice-cold lemonade which revived us, and Metaxa which numbed the pain somewhat. Slowly the hordes diminished as the people waiting for earlier flights departed. A few more Metaxas gave us the chance to spend our last remaining Greek money. Then at last our check-in desk opened and we could get rid of our hundred-weight cases and proceed to the next waiting area. Where we waited some more. I won't go on about the amount of time we spent hanging about in various parts of that bloody airport, because it would be almost as boring for you to read as it was for us to experience. Suffice to say that I have had more fun watching paint dry. At 5.30 they finally let us onto the plane, where we were greeted by Barbie Doll Stewardesses. No Champagne on this journey, just an airline breakfast - rubber scrambled eggs and plastic croissants. Once again we'd been awake for over 24 hours, so by the time we disembarked at Gatwick we were feeling like wrung-out dishcloths. We said our fond farewells and caught our separate trains, my mother heading south and me north back to London. At Victoria Station a Japanese tourist ran my foot over with her luggage trolley (I, of course, hadn't been able to find one) and left me with a large bruise. I caught a taxi and the driver tried to converse with me about the things taxi drivers usually talk about - football, the weather, how wonderful Mrs Thatcher was - but I was too tired to argue. Finally I gained the welcome sanctuary of my flat, to find that the cats had pissed on my bed, and my flatmate hadn't done any washing up the entire two weeks I had been away. Home sweet home.
Next year, maybe I'll try Bognor. |
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