People like these shouldn't be allowed out without a parent or guardian.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OK, let's get the bad news out of the way first, I mean it wouldn't be a
'Fanner's do [somewhere]' without the odd disaster and we had the Sleights
along this time to help make things that much worse.
But it was mostly me.
We set out at some ungodly hour that really doesn't exist outside of the
movies (3 AM, I'm reliably informed) and headed for Gatwick.
We had our
passports and booking number (no ticket with EasyJet - which had me
picturing disaster from the very moment that I found this out). We had
luggage and we had euros. We needed nothing more. Except luck.
Mine ran out at Pulborough.
For those who don't know Pulborough, it's a small village on the way to
Gatwick. That's it. That's it's claim to fame. Mark the words 'on the way
to Gatwick'. How many strangers to the area do you think pass through
Pulborough every day? Thousands possibly. How many know of the existence
of that radar camera just over the top of the hill? None in all
likelihood.
FLASH.
What the....? Groan. Another sixty quid in the government coffers.
37 in a 30 limit at four in the morning. The only car on the road
probably. I used to be an 'acceptor' of speed cameras. I have to say I've
lost the faith, but there you go. I don't speed at all since, which annoys
the very heck out of those following me.
Anyway, from there on everything went swimmingly. We took off we soared to
some dizzy height and some even dizzier speed and then we landed. At
Schiphol airport. Or so they said. We're still convinced we landed in
Belgium, such was the length of time it took to 'taxi to the terminal
dome'. Whatever, we cut our engines and cooled our wings and made it to
baggage reclaim and then out to where the buses left from to meet up with
Big Al and the Silver Vixen. Of whom there were no signs. At all.
I studied a Dutch telephone - a 'multifoon' I think it was called. It did
everything you could ask of a multifoon, internet access, fortune telling,
but would it actually connect me with Big Al's cell fone. Er, no.
Simply put, technology beat me. A touch screen made everything so easy -
Iternational Call, touch there. Call UK, touch there - but in my hands it
all fell to dust. I gave up, I went back and tried over. I gave up. and
then went back and tried over.
And then it dialled and Big Al answered.
'Where are you?' I asked.
'Still in baggage reclaim. They've lost our luggage.' came the mournful
reply.
Well I shall gloss over that bit and leave Al to tell you about how they
feared they'd never see their luggage again and whether it would smell of
curry when/if they did. I shall just say, for now, that eventually the
four of us, two with luggage and two without, checked into the Hotel
Amsterdam and headed to our rooms for a nap.
Blimey this globe trotting is tiring.
People like these shouldn't be allowed to run a hotel.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just to continue the 'disaster' theme for a moment. This is 'Fanners'
only, absolutely no Sleights involved at all except as concerned/amused
onlookers.
The room we were alloted in the hotel, room 223, was extremely good. Big
enough to swing a full grown panther in let alone your average moggie. On
that side of the large bed (Wendy slept in the next street to me even
though we *were* in the same bed)was a dining table and three chairs and
on the other side of the bed was the dance floor. Big room, lovely room.
It looked out over the street behind the hotel and gave us a fabulous view of
the upstairs dining area of McDonalds. But that was no problem, the room
was brill and we were happy. Until I stepped in the puddle.
Now I wasn't in the bathroom so I sort of thought this was probably not
right but hey, who can tell how the Dutch behave? Not me for sure.
A glance upwards confirmed my worst fears. Some water-like fluid was
dripping from the tiles. Probably water, I thought, and put it out of my
mind.
When we returned later in the evening from whatever it was we did, I
switched the TV on and was surprised to see my name in lights telling me
that a message awaited me at reception. What could this be, I thought.
Well ring reception and find out, I told myself. So I did.
The long and the short of it was that they wanted to move us to a
different room so that a member of staff, qualified in seeing what was
wrong, could check out the water problem in our room. OK says I and
thought no more of it.
Later I thought more of it and it occured to me that they'd known about
this problem since before we checked in so how comes it takes so long.....
At reception next morning I asked if we could stay in the room we were in
cos we'd become attached to the view into the McDonalds upstairs dining
area, but the apologetic stuttered answer was no. I asked which room we
were being moved to. Probably 301, I was told.
I flew back up to the third floor and noted that 301 was right next to the
lift. Not good - especially bearing in mind our well documented history of
noisy rooms. Down in reception I asked if I could look in 301.
'It's still occupied but don't worry everything will be fine' I wasn't too
reassured but what could I do.
Returning quite late in the evening from our 'Big Trip', of which more
next, I asked for our new room key and it was indeed 301. With deep
foreboding we headed there and stepped inside.
There were numerous deficiencies with this room, it was a lot smaller for
one thing but the main problem was the noise as the lift went up and down,
as I'd guessed it would be.
A moments hesitation and I was back down in reception demanding our old
room back. Still no dice, workmen arriving early, all that stuff, but
would we like to look at 402 which was the only other empty room.
We looked, we smiled, we moved in. Same sized room as our original
room, albeit with less chairs but instead of windows overlooking
MacDonalds, we had French doors opening out onto Dam Square.
Ever since we've been travelling, I've been collecting photos entitled
'View from a motel window', an Exxon sign, a truck stop, dumpsters, that
sort of thing, but this was the view to beat the lot.
You'll get to see the resulting photograph before long. It's a peach.
Mick and Al and Linda and Wendy go to Friesland.
Or:
People like these shouldn't be allowed to run a hire car office (part one).
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday evening was spent eating, drinking and phoning people - Bobbie and
Graham to be precise. Oh, and boating.
Al and I had discussed the possibility of hiring an automobile and heading
for Friesland. We weren't sure but we kind of thought that, y'know, perhaps
Graham might be cheered up by a visit from us. Of course we had no way of
knowing this so it seemed best to phone first and if we were going to phone
then it might be best if we had his phone number. Um....
Bobbie's got it. Phone Bobbie. So we did. Graham was home for the weekend.
We phoned his home and chatted for a while but sadly with him having to
return to the nursing home around lunchtime, the timing was out so we
wished him well and said our goodbyes.
Later, over a jolly nice steak dinner, we decided to hire the car anyway
and check Holland out more thoroughly.
We left el restaurante (Argentinian you see) and headed for 'where the
boats go from'. We wanted to do the 'candlelit cruise' but enquiries as to
when that left got the terse answer 'October'. It seems that the last
cruise is nine o'clock and the evenings aren't dark enough to see the
lights properly until October. We went on the trip anyway.
It's a good way to get a taste of Amsterdam but it fairly rattles by and
it's impossible to remember too many details. We saw the green ship
building and that was jolly green and ship like, and we say lots and lots
of canals. Seriously it was very nice and very interesting but part of me
was already in bed fast asleep, having, as you may recall started out at
three in the morning.
Anyway, that was Saturday.
So now it's Sunday morning and we've gotten a taxi to the car hire place.
The car hire place (or one of the 'talking' parts that establishment) had
told us to get a taxi and they would reimburse us with the fare. Now face
to face with a 'talking part' we had great difficulty in convincing anyone
that the 18 euros that the cabbie (a seven year old girl in a white
disposable boiler suit) required, was the cab company's responsibility.
But we prevailed, or rather Al did.
So now we have a car and all we need is a destination. We chose north (or
rather I did)
The nice man in the Hertz office appeared to have forgiven us for
disturbing his morning with - eek! - business. When we asked for directions
out of the city he was all to happy to draw a line in fairly neat biro,
showing me (your navigator for the day) how to get where we wanted to go.
And where was that? Why, the Afsluitdijk of course.
Whilst Al had been doing the things that drivers do, paying for the car,
that sort of thing, I, as navigator, was studying the map on the wall
looking for a destination, well the Afsluitdijk was to be that destination
since nobody had a better idea. Said Afsluitdijk looks for all the world
(on the map) like a bridge but of course with hindsight it's easy to see
that the last four letters of it's name indicate it's true raison d'etre.
Yes, it's a dyke (or dike) and it separates the Ijssellmeer from the
Waddenzee, and I must say it does it jolly well but more of that later.
First we have to get there.
OK, armed with the biro defiled Hertz rent-a-map it was easy to advise Al
where to go. Actually it was *that* easy and soon we were heading up the A7
following the Friesland signs and singing happy songs. Al pointed out that
the A7 really goes to Edinburgh to Carlisle and that we must be lost. We
laughed at that and we laughed again when Al told us that the fuel gauge
had gone from a quarter full to well over half since we'd left Amsterdam.
We will return to that later.
Now deep in darkest Sussex (Old England) there is a village called Tarring
Neville. The origins of the name are unknown to be but I am (was) convinced
that nowhere in the world was there a better place name. Well I am prepared
to concede that title to a place in Holland, possibly even two places.
Ladies and gentlemen from non-Dutch places, I give you the towns (villages?
who knows?) of Schagen and Wijdewormer. Now under no circumstances do I
want a passing Hollander to inform of the 'correct' pronunciation. I *know*
how I will always pronounce them both and I will smile as I do so.
So there we were bollicking along (technical term) the A7 admiring the
newfangled windmills that they have now and wondering where the mice lived,
when suddenly we hit a traffic queue. Not actually hit, you understand,
sort of pulled up behind and stopped. We were amused to see a collection of
ships and boats and things crossing the road at this point but careful
study by your navigator found that the 'three chevron' symbol on the Hertz
rent-a-map indicated a lock. So that explained most things - but not all.
At this point I'm still convinced that that which is up ahead is a bridge.
But more of that later.
The red lights went out, the gates opened and we moved onto the Afsluitdijk
and I find all my preconceived ideas are just so much pie in the sky.
Bridge? Pah! It's a dirty big dam and if you stop halfway across to study
the statue and drink a cup of coffee, it suddenly becomes an impressive
dam.
The waters of the Ijsselmeer on the one side are quite a lot of feet
(metres) lower than the waters of the Waddenzee ont' other side. Must have
took some planning, that's all I can say. Add to that the fact that it's
dead long mate (a full little finger measured against the scale on the
Hertz rent-a-map indicates a 28 kilometre dam. And that's long.
So halfway across, what is there? A coffee shop on one side of the road and
a statue of the bloke who stuck the last building block in the dam,
sticking the last building block in the dam. We did think that with a pose
such as the one adopted by the 'man with the block', he must have featured
in thousands of unfortunate photos of Essex boys drunk on holiday but
that's another thing entirely. There are photos of this statue with two
english women standing alongside and you may see them one day. Mine are on
film so a period of waiting whilst development takes place will be
necessary. Al has digipics so he may be a better bet, however Friesland
awaits so we must press on.
Now here's a thought for all you worriers about nit picky things. Why is
Friesland spelt thus on road signs and in Graham's address, yet it's spelt
Fryslan on the Hertz rent-a-map. I await any offers of a solution.
Onward.
Off the end of the Afsluitdijk we abandoned the A7 and joined the A31. I
mentioned that the real A31 goes from Cadnam to Ringwood and beyond and so
we might be lost. Nobody took any notice.
I should perhaps mention at this point that the Silver Vixen, Linda, Mrs
Big Al, had been practising her Dutch ever since we left Amsterdam. Words
like Holland, Heerhugowaard and Sneek fairly rolled off of her tongue by
this time but she did have a great deal of trouble with words (and there
are many) that contain the double o. Emmeloord and Noordoost gave her a
whole heap of trouble. Perhaps Al can enlighten us as to whether she is
still practising.
Now where were we? Oh yes, the A31, well that leads onto the A32 and the
'biro egg'. What is the biro egg, I hear you ask. Well let me explain.
The nice man back at the Hertz office, not content with drawing a biro line
to indicate our route north, added a biro circle around what he claimed was
an area worth visiting. Two things to say about that. One, he must lead a
very sheltered life it that's the best he could come up with, and two, his
biro circle was egg shaped, hence we were headed for the biro egg and all
that it contained. Nothing, it seems.
Well it did contain a pub that sold food, which helped, and an inordinate
amount of cyclists in large groups, obviously out daytripping. So maybe the
biro egg *did* contain something of note. Perhaps we just never found it.
And so we left the egg and soon enough the A32. As we joined the A28 which
made it's merry little way back to Amsterdam Al let out a strangled cry.
"Dedemsvart" he groaned. We thought we were out of gas or something, but
no. Al had spotted the name of the village wherein lived an ex work
colleague of his.
"I'd hate to think I came this close and never saw the place" he said. So
we went to Dedemsvart.
And I'll tell you all about that in the next bit..
M & A & L & W go to Fryslan.
Or:-
People like these shouldn't be allowed to run a hire car office (part two).
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm not going to go into great detail about Dedemsvart. The people we met
there are Al's friends and he should tell this bit of the story. I'll just
amaze you by telling you that almost the first person that Al asked
actually knew the guy Al was looking for and in no time we were all sat in
a very nice house, enjoying the hospitality of complete strangers (to me
and Wendy) who couldn't have treated us better.
We left Dedemsvart some time into the evening with the words of our host
ringing in our ears. A hour and a half drive to Amsterdam. Ye gods, what
time are we going to get there? And we wanted to drop the car off, drop the
keys through the letter box and get the tram back to the city centre.
Now here's something that I sort of mentioned earlier and It's time I
elaborated. The fuel gauge. the one that rose as we travelled further away
from Amsterdam.
My missus likes to know that everything is as it should be and if she's
driving she will always check the fuel gauge as she approaches a garage. I
imagine we all do it, subconsciously or not, but when she's not driving,
she asks the question 'Are we alright for petrol?' as soon as we've been
travelling long enough to put doubt in her mind. Well in spite of what Big
Al said, Wendy wasn't assured in any way and started asking the question
almost from the off.
This feature of the journey became as much a part of things as Linda's
Dutch lessons and my windmill spotting, and if Wendy failed to ask, one of
us would in her stead. There we were somewhere between.......
...omygawd, I've lost me Hertz rent-a-map. How in the name of Marco Van
Basten can I continue this tale without me map....hang on willya, I'll have
a look round....
Ok, I've got it.
.....Swolle and Amsterdam when Al asked the question of himself. Thing is
we needed to give the thing back to those nice people at Hertz with at
least the same amount of gas that we went out with, so I bunged twenty
euros worth in and we were back on our way. It was then the Al made a big
discovery. The fuel gauge that he'd been watching all the way was, in fact,
the temperature gauge. Oh how we laughed. Turns out that in this Mondeo the
fuel gauge is hidden from the driver by the steering wheel. What good
planning.
Of course as luck would have it, I couldn't see the temperature gauge
because it was on the far side and the steering wheel blocked my view but I
could see the fuel gauge quite clearly. We still had half a tank anyway.
Cometh the hour cometh the man, and now it was finally time for me to prove
my worth as a navigator. We were coming into the city from the very
opposite direction from which we'd left and I had the awesome
responsibility of guiding Alan back to the car rental lot.
Actually, in fairness it should be 'cometh the hour, cometh the Hertz
rent-a-map' because it's pretty neat and understandable. And it got us
back.
A32, onto A1, onto A10 and then the first turn off after the A4 turn off.
Hey presto were back. And we have a problem.
Our plan was to abandon the car, as I've said, but it was obvious that
there was only one place to abandon it and the hope was that no-one had
beaten us to it. They had. A mercedes was parked in *our* space. Dammit.
Interestingly there was/is a note in the door asking that you *don't*
abandon your Hertz rent-a-car outside the office because vehicles have been
stolen in the past. 'For that reason we have been forced to remove the
secure 'key returns' box'. So now we're stymied.
Parking around the hotel is non-existent. Apart from that we have no idea
how to get to the hotel. The 'seven year old taxi driver in the white
disposable boiler suit' of the previous morning, might have had no trouble
but we, The Friesland Four, are made of entirely different stuff. We did
not have a clue. We had a conference and decided to dump the car in the
first legal parking bay that we came to, at whatever cost, just so long as
it didn't get towed or clamped, and return in the morning. So that's what
we did.
We dumped the car, caught a tram, ate supper, and went to bed. It had been
that sort of day.
The Amsterdam 'Andful back in Amsterdam.
Or:
*This* is why people like these shouldn't be allowed to run a care hire
office.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This next piece is all hearsay. I wasn't there so I shall report what I
have had reported to me - as it were.
It's Monday morning and it's time to take the car back, except that Al
didn't wake me up. He went on his own. In fairness it was agreed the
previous evening that there wasn't much point in two of us getting up
early, although I would have probably enjoyed the early morning air.
Whatever? Al went alone.
He retrieved the car from the car park (twenty two euros - not bad for a
nights parking
Remember the parked up Mercedes from the previous evening, well the driver
hadn't returned and they (Hertz) had no spare keys. The car was blocking
the entrance to the garage and of course a million people just like Alan,
who had weekend hire cars to return before, work, flying out, whatever,
wanted to get shot of their motors as swiftly as possible. All were
getting the 'come back in half hour' bit and all were getting the hump.
None of them were leaving and that 'none' included Big Al.
The reason we'd stashed the car in the car park up the road was because we
had no idea how to get back to Dam Square. Nothing had changed in that
direction overnight, in fact it had gotten worse. No navigator and no map,
Alan had absolutely nowhere to go. He took the direct route.
He stopped the car on the pavement, got out, said to the guy 'My wife's
waiting for me in Dam square. She's pregnant." handed him the keys and
walked away.
Linda, the Silver Vixen, Mrs Al, was very surprised to hear this when told
later.
So that was that as far as cars are concerned. the rest of the mission was
to be conducted on foot.
Breakfast passed without a hitch, except that it was inedible as far as I
can recall. Can't think what it was, a toasted cheese sandwich I think.
Still there's always chocolate to keep me going till lunch time.
Wendy and Linda wanted to go shopping. Me and Alan didn't. Us blokes
wandered the streets of this fair city, enjoying the ambience and the cafes
that sold beer (to me) whenever the thirst was upon me.
Amsterdam is a wonderful walking city. We only strolled a small part of it.
I'm sure, but it was really rather nice. As long as you can avoid being run
over by a cyclist.
The coach driver on the way in from the airport told us that (in his
opinion) cyclist are the most hazardous thing in Amsterdam. He said that a
law had been passed whereby in any accident involving a cyclist, the
cyclist was considered totally blame free. This seemed to have fitted every
cyclist with a set of blinkers. What I can't see can't hurt me and if it
does it won't be my fault.
There was an attempt to get a similar law passed into european law but in
one enlightened moment our government refused to force it on us. That's not
to say that it won't happen sometime, but I digress.
The point is, you very soon learn to watch your back for the silent killers
creeping up behind, but then they hit you from the front.
That's it for this one, it's past me bedtime. In the next part we meet Coby
and Loes and get entertained by tuneless vultures.
The Amsterdam 'Andful + 2
Or:
People like these shouldn't be allowed to.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We sat at our favourite table at our favourite restaurant and ate lunch.
What we really did was sat at a table outside the closest cafe to the hotel
and ate something. Was it lunch? It might have been. Regardless of why we
sat there, Al's phone disturbed whatever we were doing.
Lots of muttering into Al's phone (by Al) indicated that the 'local lasses'
were around and about. Al tried to instruct whoever he was chatting to, on
the way to find us. Not very successfully, I might add.
"They're at our hotel" He exclaimed, hand over mouthpiece
"I'll go fetch them." I volunteered.
"Mick'll come and get you" said our communications engineer, and I was off
and walking fast back to the hotel. I flew (ish) into the lobby to find,
nothing. Not a soul there. I flew (ish) back to where I'd started.
"They're not there." Breathlessly I breathed the words, and learned the
awful truth that I would have learned if I hadn't flown (ish) off so
swiftly earlier.
"They were going to meet you half way". That would explain everything.
Would they be looking for a flying Englishman or would they be engrossed in
conversation oblivious to everything else. I flew (ish) out onto the
pavement again. I remembered a snatch of conversation.
"....towards where the boats go from." Well with hindsight I realise that
this could mean *anywhere* in Amsterdam, but at that moment I thought of
where we'd left from on our 'cruise the other evening. I looked in that
direction and sure enough there was a pair of ladies engaged in earnest
conversation as they walked. One, for sure, was Coby, the other must be
Loes. I chased after them. They turned. They saw me. They knew.
We walked back to the cafe. Introductions were made and the Amsterdam
'Andful became just that bit bigger.
The Amsterdam 'Andful + 2
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The red light district is not nice. Obviously you'd think that would go
without saying but the area *is* seen as some sort of tourist trap, a 'must
see' is you like. I kind of wish I hadn't. I suppose it's interesting in a
cultural sort of way and it's fair to say that the sex shops *are* amusing
but only the first one or two. After that it all becomes too much.
Maybe I'm just too sensitive but I got to the point where I would stare
fixedly ahead rather than see another semi (or less) clad girl in a window.
I know everyone has to make a living but it's all just *too* up front. Like
the shops, it all becomes too much.
In a way, it's a shame because it seems like a nice area to stroll through
if only one was not constantly reminded of 'it'. Hey ho!
A 'cathouse' brawl diverted and, dare I say it, amused some of our number
but I'd already walked on too far (with my fixed stare) and missed all the
'fun'. My lucky day I guess.
Coming out the other side of the 'area' we found an open square with a
pavement seating area allied to a cafe. We scared a few punters away by
making faces at them (he lied) and sat down in the glorious sunshine to
while away a bit more of the afternoon discussing Amsterdam architecture
and afpf members (yes, you).
Our peace was shattered on several occasions by buskers with varying levels
of talent, appearing to 'entertain' us. First one fine Dutch act would
perform a song and a half before passing amongst us with a tin cup or a hat
expecting cash, and then as soon as that one act had cleared the square
another would move into position and start playing. Arranged between? I
rather think so.
The last of these was a male/female singer guitarist combo, who did bad
versions of Beatle songs. The guitarist chap would then carry on playing
tunelessly while his partner would pass amongst us with the hat. And she
wouldn't take no for an answer. But then she never tried to get any money
from me.
She, the money collector, reminded me of a vulture, except that vultures
prey on the dead and all of this ones prey were alive.
Soon enough it was time for the parting of the ways. Both Coby and Loes had
commitments that meant that they couldn't join us on our evening 'bash'
which was/is a shame. They are jolly nice people and we enjoyed their
company.
So it was back to the hotel for a late afternoon nap and prepare ourselves
for our last night (for now anyway) in Amsterdam.
The Amsterdam 'Andful go home.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the night that we dumped the hire car in the car park, Alan asked a
passing person where we could get a tram to Dam Square and the obliging
chap pointed us to Leidse Plein, which he called Leidse Square and will
forever be Leicester Square in my book. But I will stick with the correct
spelling for the purposes of this exercise because it has less letters.
As we strolled (staggered) into Leidse Square that evening, oh so long ago,
we were greeted by the sight of an enormous throng watching something. Al
being Al and armed with his camera, went to investigate. A fire eater was
the centre of attention and by all accounts he was jolly good. Any road up,
the long and the short of it is that we rather liked the look of Leidse
Square and it's liveliness, so we vowed to return. Monday night was the
night of the return.
I guess I've built that up into something that it isn't but hey, you had to
know. We went there, we had a thoroughly decent meal and we watched the end
of another 'act' that was where the fire eater performed. Sadly when I say
'the end' what we did was watch him pack his stuff away and leave. We
weren't even sure what he did but the straightjacket spoke of escapology or
insanity. Or both.
Whilst we were eating our thoroughly decent meal we were annoyed by
buskers. The same buskers.. He of the dodgy guitar work and she of the
pushy cash collecting.
Fortunately for us they were not allowed into the restaurant. We'd thought
about sitting at the pavement tables but decided otherwise. Oh, such
judgement. One poor diner who tried to ignore Ms Pushy had the tin cup
thrust between his mouth and his next mouthful. 'pay up or you don't eat'
seemed to be the message. As it turned out he didn't pay and she was proper
narked at him. But he didn't care. Good man, I say.
Whilst waiting for our Amsterdam tram back to Dam square we were
entertained by a train wreck. OK, a tram wreck. OK, two trams became wedged
together.
Just outside of the Leidse Plein (square) the tracks that the trams run on
become single way. Trams leaving Leidse Plein must wait till a tram coming
into the square has cleared the single track section. Simple really, except
on this occasion it wasn't. Whether the driver of the one leaving the
square was a little impatient or whether some other factor was involved,
we'll never know, but they become joined at the hip, as it were.
There was an awful lot of fuss and people down where it happened - we were
a full stop away and could only see that things were happening, not what
exactly had happened. I ran down and took a photograph (sort of ran, I
hasten to add) and then sort of ran back to catch the tram which became
freed as soon as I'd taken the picture.
Of course, what I didn't realise was that it had been emptied of passengers
and taken out of service, so as I stood at the stop gasping for breath
after my run, it sailed serenely past and we had to wait for another. Ah,
well, such is life.
So that, more or less was Monday. On the way from the tram stop to the
hotel Alan got accosted by a Greek waiter who remembered him from the time
before. He inquired about Al's five wives (or was it six, I lose count so
easily) and was surprised to be introduced to the 'one' wife. What did go
on in those dark days a month before?)
Tuesday dawned and the end of the gig was in sight. Linda dragged Al to the
big store across the road and bought something. Oh yeah, a watch I think.
Generally though we just hung around waiting for the big moment when we
boarded the bus to the airport.
Alan and linda had a flight some two hours before ours but we went to the
airport with them anyway. We said our goodbyes at the entrance to
'Departures' and they were gone. And we've not seen hide nor hair of them
since.
The fair Wendy and I, hung around and got bored. Four hours to wait.
Sheesh. We saw a sign saying 'Plaza', I went to look. Shops, hundreds of
the blighters. We should have known, we sat there and ate there on the way
in.
So we amused ourselves looking at the expensive jewellery and buying the
cheap Bruce Springsteen CD instead, and then it was time to go.
I set the metal detector off as usual. I always do these days. Perhaps they
have them set just that little bit stronger after 'it' but whatever the
reason my leg gets them jumping. I didn't like the way that the guy who
intended to search me, smiled just before he began sliding his hands over
my body. How come I never get a woman to do that, even an ugly one?
And that's it. We flew home to Gatwick and drove home to Hampshire. We did
manage to leave our suitcase on the shuttle bus but the driver noticed and
met us halfway as we raced around the car park looking for him.
All in all though, a cracking few days in a very nice place with some very
nice folks.
Till next time.
--
Mick.
