Scissors, Greeks, Suitcases and Trains

On the theme of travelling abroad and visiting other countries, I thought this week I’d mention the time my Dad and I travelled to Greece…

A beautiful country, I remember on the way down from the Parthenon we found olive bushes in the street that anyone could pick and, just outside our hotel we found a lovely Greek restaurant that sold purple olives and a Greek salad that both tasted amazing. That possibly started off my obsession with olives. I absolutely love them now!

It must have been ten years ago, eight at the lowest, and we were waiting for my Dad’s friend to pick us up and drive us to Edinburgh airport. When we heard him arrive – in his van as he was heading to work after he dropped us off – we all shot to the van and told him to step on it, as we were running a little late.

I remember being exhausted because our flight took off at eleven (11) am and we needed to start up early. I had been up all night, unable to sleep for excitement. My Dad, too, hadn’t slept much, so we didn’t talk much on the road to the airport.

We arrived, thanked my dad’s friend for the lift, and rushed in to check in. This is where the fun started. Turns out, our flight, had taken off an hour ago. My Dad checked the tickets. Yup. 10Am check in. After some yelling, screaming and pleading, and a very nice check in personel manager, we managed to move to another flight – at half past eleven – in Glasgow Airport. My Dad phoned back his friend – who had almost made it to the bridge at this point – who did a u-turn and returned faster than a boomerang with racing stripes. He then managed to get us, and god knows how he did it, to Edinburgh Airport for 11.34am. I have honestly no idea how… well, speeding obviously, but even so…

We boarded the plane with relative ease – as much as one can expect pre-shampoo and liquid escapades – and flew off to Greece no problem. The problems arose again when we got on a train to our hotel. Luckily it was still early and the plane had barely taken two hours including time zone differences so we had plenty of time to kill. Sadly, a train that broke down in the middle of nowhere under a massive bridge was not in my to-do list. We sat there, sitting ducks for train bandits – I had visions of Dick Turpentine or the Greek Robin Hood purloining my bright pink case. Mum had found a lovely lurid hot-pink suitcase that she decreed perfect for me… It sufficed put it that way.

For two and a half hours we sat there – we should have walked – in God know’s where – waiting for a replacement train. Amidst a carriage-wide game of I spy – well, me and my Dad played it and the bored others listened in – a foghorn of noise announced the cavalry had arrived and we shuffled onto the other train like the dead marching off to war. Keep in mind, I still had not slept.

Four pm. We reached our hotel and died. Our hotel manager, Mr Old Greek Stereotype, was the loviest guy you could ever meet. Strong Greek accent and white whispy hair, Greek nose, jolly and sandals, he was the sweetest old man. I think it was him, the barlady and Mr-I-don’t-speak-English, that worked the small hotel between them. We got our room key, and shuffled up in the lift, carrying three million pounds of luggage between us.

Exhausted, we slumped into our beds, twin room, and set about to open our cases….

“Hold on.” My Dad said, patting down his pockets. “Let me just get my keys.”

I waited.

“They must be in my holdall.”

Of course. Makes sense. There’s been a lot of chaos today, and my Dad has a lot pockets and such, no worries. He emptied his holdall and frowned at the contents. Passports, tickets, return tickets, underpants, socks, deoderant, books, documents….

I waited still.

…t-shirts, jeans, shorts, more socks….

I frowned.

“Dad, I can’t see them.”

“Ah, they’ll be there….”

Long story short; they weren’t.

“Right. Stay there.” My Dad said and disappeared for fifteen minutes. He returned with a pair of scissors. I could feel my will to live slowly slide out of the patio door and leap from the second floor balcony onto its face.

“You don’t want me to-”

He did. We cut out cases open. Farewell bright pink suitcase. The scissors survived the ordeal, despite the blades bending. Apparently the manager was worried for their wellbeing when he returned them as he had to fetch them from the shop across the street – the hotel did not have any.

We decided to grab a bite to eat and sleep. Luckily, aside from slipping down a set of marble stairs in my flip-flops, the rest of the holiday didn’t go quite so chaotic.

We eventually found the keys. We had left them in the front door and some kind neighbour had locked my Dad’s door and looked after them till we returned, so that was just as well….