I see more ruins and still more ruins;
I eat more moussaka and souvlaki and read “The Magus” on the
beach. I travel on trains; once I sit next to a little girl who
crosses herself every time we pass a church, a graveyard, a monastery,
a convent. Pray for me, little girl.
“The Magus” engrosses me; why was
the hero given the warning “Beware of la salle d’attente; beware
of the waiting room?” This part of Greece is not as lush and green
as the island in “The Magus”, I am disappointed and wonder if
Corfu will be.
I travel to the port city of Patra in
order to embark a ferry which goes first to Corfu before landing in
Brindisi, in Italy. While I wait for the ferry I climb the steep
streets to a garden of a monastery, full of sweet-smelling
honeysuckles and rhododendrons. How lovely to linger and walk on the
lush green grass and think how similar to Sydney this is. I walk back
to the center of the town to try and read my book but am prevented by
the squeals of children dashing in and out of the fountain. I will
have a child who will dance and sing!
On the ferry I awake with the sun and
the sight of the azure blue sea surrounded the jewel of the Aegean –
Corfu.
I disembark, then there is a walk, a
bus and an officious campground director. I am now able to pitch my
tent and plan the serious business of enjoying two days in Paradise.
I walk to a harbor and along the jetties I see boats from all the
Mediterranean countries occasionally with one from New Jersey and
Delaware. Clothes, sheets and towels on clotheslines from mastheads,
np wind to make them dance. Sailors on deck chairs, sipping drinks
with no ice. I walk to a beach, ask a stranger who may well be an
international jewel thief to guard my passport, airplane ticket and
money while I swim. He did, and I did. I effectively brush off his
requests for my company that evening with, “I’m pregnant and I’ll
throw up.” I walked away delighted at my quick wit and wish I had
known at least ten years sooner how devastating that reply is.
I walk around the old town and travel
through the island by bus and by hitch-hiking – Corfu seems so
safe. One Jugoslav man gives me a ride and shows me pictures of his
children before stopping his car on a very deserted road to pluck a
purple flower from a bush, which he presents to me enthusiastically.
I laugh and laugh and am still laughing when I wave him goodbye when
he lets me out at the edge of the fortifications. I hike around
substantial old fortifications at the top of a hill, I linger at a
cricket game in the main square, I walk through a palace the
Venetians had built that more recently past occupants of Corfu had
filled with oriental treasures. I swim in the crystal clear waters of
Palleokastritsa, I contemplate sitting through a Woody Allen movie
advertised and dubbed in Greek.
And always I seek shady trees and
cool eating houses where I can continue to read “The Magus.” The
warnings and the beauty of the novel grip me, I read through the
novel’s climax, “Beware of la salle d’attente.” Again and
again the warning flashes through my mind as I enjoy Paradise. I read
the final page. I feel cheated that the hero has been made to look
like such a fool. Damn good novel. I decide that I will avoid waiting
rooms.
All the ugliness of Greek ruins and
Greek plumbing and of a conquered people is being covered in my
memories by the beauty of this island which the Turks had not
ravaged. My senses are sharpened, I notice for the first time that my
arms are covered with fine yellow hairs. Why have I never noticed
this before, that I am fair? How could I reach an age so far past
adulthood and not notice something I look at every day?
Two days have passed and I am back on
the ferry to Brindisi. Italy. How thrilling to be in a new country,
delightful to be able to read the newspapers and understand street
signs. I had five years of Latin instruction in high school and I see
the language of Caesar in the language of modern Italy. I dine at a
street café. I did not yet wish to start another book, so I listen
to the chatter of two young American women who are sitting at an
adjacent table. I am disappointed, they tell no stories, only
complaints about travelers checks and hopes for what they want to see
in Italy.
On the way to the station a young man
stops me, tells me I should stay away from the station because all
trains are on strike, or should be, and graciously offers to direct
me to a cheap hotel where I can stay until the trains run again. I
laugh, and when I arrive at the station I find that I can catch a
train to Venice in 3 hours. In the morning, I will have to change
trains in Bologna and wait 2 hours. I looked around for somewhere to
wait for the train, I walked onto the platform and saw the sign “La
Salla d’Attenti”. I walk past the sign and decide to wait on the platform.
Contrary
to the timetable, the train arrives in a few minutes. I stretch out in
a first class carriage, which I have all to myself, and sleep easily.
I
wake with the sun, wash myself in a bathroom, and return to my
carriage. Which is now filled with cigaret-smoking, hand-waving,
talkative Italians.