Footprints in the Sand. Chloe Rayban

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      We hired a taxi to take us from the airport to the ferry port, and the driver played this kind of clattering Eastern music on his radio. We drove past little whitewashed churches with strange round domes, and all the old women were dressed like witches in long fluttering black dresses. They held scarves up to their faces to keep out the dust. And the air smelt different. Hot and perfumed with herbs and pine and something sweet and kind of musky. And now and then there was just the odd whiff of dead goat smell. Maybe that was what made it feel Eastern to me – by association with the coat.

      The boat trip took hours. We had to queue to board with all these backpackers who looked as if they’d been in Greece all their lives. I couldn’t help noticing that some of the guys were gorgeous. Their skins were a deep bronze and their hair and clothes bleached as if they’d been left out in the sun for months. I felt really self-conscious with my white skin and my brand new jeans and T-shirt – and I was with my mother too. Pretty humiliating.

      Mum said we should go up on the outer deck in case it got rough. By the time we got up there, there were no seats left, so we had to sit on the deck and lean on our suitcases. But she was right. It did get pretty rough.

      Apparently, there’d been this massive storm the night before. The wind had died down but the sea was still recovering from its effects. After about an hour of being tossed around I started to feel really sick and my head ached. I must have looked sick too, because this old Greek lady leant over and handed me half a lemon. I didn’t know what I was meant to do with it. But she held it to her nose and sniffed and nodded. And I did the same and I felt a bit better. Mum said it was a traditional Greek cure for sea-sickness. So I nodded and sniffed and smiled at the old woman and she laughed and nodded back. We kept up this nodding and sniffing and smiling routine for the rest of the trip.

      I’ll never forget my first view of Lexos. Some paradise! But, quite frankly, in the state I was in – any bit of dry land was as good as any other. As we drew nearer, the truly dire condition of the port came into focus. Boy, was it run-down. The buildings were mostly rough squareish boxes of concrete and grey breeze block. Most of them had odd bent ribs of rusty iron sticking out from their flat roofs as if they’d meant to build another storey on top and changed their minds. I think my first impression must’ve registered on my face because Mum was desperately trying to stay positive.

      ‘Oh look Lucy, there’s a palm tree,’ she said, as her eye lit on the sole acceptable item in the panorama. I was beyond a reply.

      I wasn’t actually sick until I got on shore. And then I was, dramatically, behind a cactus. Cheers! Welcome to Lexos, I thought to myself as I took sips from the bottle of water Mum sympathetically handed to me.

      After we’d sat at a café for a while and I’d drunk a lemonade, I started to feel a bit better.

      ‘Well, I hope you don’t think we’re going to stay here,’ I said as I recovered the faculty of speech.

      ‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ said Mum, looking fixedly in the direction of the palm tree.

      ‘Mum – it’s ghastly and you know it.’

      ‘Let’s get back on the boat then,’ she threatened, pointing to where the last boxes of freight were being loaded into the hold. ‘It’ll be leaving in a minute.’

      ‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I said. ‘I’d have to be anaesthetized before you’d get me back on that.’

      ‘Feeling any better?’

      ‘Mmm… the lemonade helped.’

      ‘Well, if you’re up to it, I reckon we ought to find the Tourist Office and see if they can suggest somewhere to stay.’

      We trekked miles in search of it. Mum kept spotting all these little signs with Ts for Information on them which seemed designed to take us on a scenic tour of the town. I’d never been anywhere so Third World. The roads were cracked and pot-holed and smelt of donkeys, and the few bars or restaurants we came across just had men sitting outside who stared at us. The whole place felt vaguely threatening.

      ‘I don’t like it here,’ I said.

      ‘Oh don’t be silly, Lucy. Ports are always like this. It’ll be fine when we get out into the country – you’ll see.’

      We must have been walking round in circles because when we eventually found the Tourist Office, it was located more or less where we’d disembarked from the ferry. It was in a forbidding grey concrete block next door to the Customs Office. It had bars over the windows and looked like a prison. But there was a sign outside with the same jolly tourist picture showing the pot of geraniums that we’d seen on the front of Mum’s brochure. I cracked up when I spotted the slogan written underneath: You’ll learn to love Lexos.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ demanded Mum. I think she was losing her cool by this time.

      But when she caught sight of the poster she started giggling as well. ‘Do you think they give indoctrination sessions?’

      ‘Vee haf vays of making you luf us…’ I said.

      The people in the Tourist Office brought out a plastic folder full of pictures of hotels and guest houses. I could see Mum getting hot and bothered trying to calculate how much the prices quoted in drachmas worked out at. She was never any good with noughts. I helped her with the maths and made a few acid comments about the pictures.

      They all looked incredibly dreary. I’d wanted to go somewhere like Corfu or Skiathos, somewhere with a bit of life. Clubs maybe. The places they had on offer looked as if they were all in the back of beyond – and I couldn’t make out any guests under the age of about fifty in the photos.

      I kept giving Mum meaningful glances and turning the page.

      ‘Well, if you’re going to be like this, Lucy,’ whispered Mum, ‘we’ll never find anywhere to stay.’

      I felt hot and my head ached.

      ‘How can you possibly tell what a place is like from a photo in a book?’ I whispered crossly. ‘Think of what that poster does for this island.’

      Mum glanced at the poster with a sigh and then turned to the girl behind the desk, saying apologetically: ‘I’m sorry. I think we’d better come back later.’ She raised an eyebrow in my direction. I loathed it when she did that.

      We trailed back to the café where I’d had the lemonade and Mum ordered two more.

      ‘Look,’ she said when we’d both cooled down. ‘Let’s hire a taxi and get away from the port. Ports are always dreary. I bet we’ll find a gorgeous beach with a taverna just along the coast. All we’ve got to do is look around a bit, that’s what Dad and I used to do when we came to the islands in the seventies…’

      She paused for a moment, and just a shadow of that thin-lipped look came back on her face. I remembered photos in our album of Mum and Dad, young and tanned and carefree on hired mopeds, bumming round the islands. Mum in a ridiculous daisy-printed mini dress and Dad with long hair and John Lennon sunglasses, both totally relaxed and happy together. Looking at the pictures, you’d think that feeling would last forever. Weird how things can change like that.

      ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said, picking up my backpack before she could get all emotional and embarrassing. I suddenly felt guilty about being such a pain.

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ