Separate ways

Grant and I went our separate ways today and he had a better time than me, I think. Anyway he was complacent when I got back greasy with sunblock and burnt regardless.  He’d climbed (yes climbed) up a mountain to ancient Thera and was mightily pleased with what he saw and then was taken under the wing of a wine factory owner.  I, on the other hand thought my little heart would burst as I was marched up a volcano which had only a tiny puff of steam in one corner and then had to dive off the boat to swim to the thermal spring which was only tepid and had lumps of what looked like turds floating in it here and there.  It’s that expectation thing again.  I’d envisaged an adventure and got rather a rather inflated tourist  package. But it’s not good to be churlish.  It’s just as well the volcano is the way it is and the turds were probably some sulphuric algae and diving off the boat had its own drama.  All the other Europeans just jumped as if abandoning ship so I felt a bit classy.

Actually the tourists themselves were entertaining and I got to know some of them a bit over the course of the day.  There was a French woman on the bus who shuddered when I said we were going to France and said “Paris est une bordelle” and it’s raining too much.  France was a bordelle as well. And Europe too, come to that.   I tried to cheer her up by changing the subject and asked if she was looking forward to seeing the volcano. French people liked volcanoes didn’t they. There was that couple, (the Grafs?) who did nothing but explore them until one erupted when they were prancing round the rim and that was the end.  Telling the story in French got me quite excited but not her “There’s nothing else to do” she sighed.

I had lunch with an impressive Canadian mother and daughter.  The daughter had  only just left school but seemed primed to conquer the world, she had such confidence and aplomb and wonderful plans.    It made me hopeful about the future. There was an Israeli man with a frisky sense of humour and the first person I’ve met who did not want to talk politics.  There was a family from Birmingham, mother Spanish and father of West Indian background. They had little boys the same age as Jacob and Ethan only with curly black hair.  I wanted to hug them and realised I was missing my grandchildren a bit. Interestingly I could hardly understand their father who had a strong Brummy accent. 

People often comment on my old fashioned Kensington English accent and say how nice it is.  I tell them it’s not and I’m a fossil because I’ve been in Australia so long and nobody speaks like me any more.  They all speak Estuarine in England, probably including Prince William, and in Australia they speak Strine.   I realise as I speak that one should never trust anything a tourist says.  Paris is probably not a brothel and I don’t really know how Prince William speaks though I have my suspicions.  The thing is, it is rather intoxicating to be an authority on a country by virtue of being the solitary representative of it.  I resolve to fulfil my role of tourist more thoughtfully and responsibly from now on. In fact this afternoon we go to Crete where according to the paradox all Cretans are liars.  That puzzle could be adapted for tourists “I tell you all tourists are liars. I am a tourist.”  Go figure.

I don’t know how many more of these posts I’ll be able to do.  The cursor has disappeared from Word.