Tourist Wall by Alison
Day
The tourist wall—a place to walk along, sit, or ponder the seascape, pose, photograph or be photographed.
© Alison Day
Showing posts with label Greek. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Greek. Show all posts
Monday 20 July 2015
Monday 6 July 2015
Cool Coffee
Already twenty-four hours on the sunny island of Crete in Greece. After a good sleep, it's time to sip cool frappés whilst guarding our cookies from the relentless attack of pigeons.
Yesterday was a very long day, a 3am start in Amsterdam followed by a 6.20 am, three-and-a-half hour flight from Schipol to Heraklion. Arriving at our hotel, a refreshing swim in the mosaic hotel pool and friendly greetings from the hotel staff rejuvenated our spirits.
Dinner by the sea of: tzatziki, saganaki, calamari and a Greek Salad with a finale of the local firewater - raki, accompanied by luscious watermelon.
© Alison Day
Monday 4 August 2014
Scuba Chicken
Scuba Chicken by Alison Day 2014
Scuba Diving on
Crete was a hit with my son both last year and this. Each time he had a great
time and impressed his instructors with his natural ability for the sport. Now,
he wants to train for his Padi. If he does, there is the option to do the final
qualifying tests abroad—so Greece could be on the cards next summer too!
We were picked up in
the cool early morning air from our hotel and driven down to Plakias on the
south coast of Crete. We were with six others in the minivan and were driven by
Costos—aquiline nose, curly haired Adonis, from Thessaloniki and one of the diving instructors. Along the
journey, we skirted round and through Tuscan red and peach coloured, rugged
hills, dotted with dark green vegetation. Through small villages with
flourishing pink bougainvillea and past Kafeneons filled with old Greek men,
staring and drinking coffee.
Our destination, the
Calypso Diving Centre was based in a cove next to a resort called Kalypso
Cretan Village. The diving instructors came from all over the globe and were
led by a very fit lady—Bear. Classes were
in languages of what the majority understood— in this case English and German.
The enthusiasm at the diving centre was infectious and the 'how to' was clearly
explained. Photos were shown of the kind of marine life we could expect to see,
as well as those to keep away from. For a fee, photos could be taken during
your dive and copied onto a CD for posterity.
Last year I was one
of the first time scuba divers too, thinking because I loved snorkelling I
would like this too—I didn’t. This year, I was contented to watch my son's
enjoyment and go for a swim in the amusingly—impossible to sink in—salt water
pool of the resort.
I had to laugh at
the wetsuit fittings of that day's scuba pupils, remembering my own—where the
suits are tried on for size—dry. A nigh on impossible nail breaker, where
everyone dances the fandango, as they wrestle into the suits. Later, you are
introduced to the far easier option of a huge, wooden slatted tub, filled with
water. Then the wetsuit slides on— in dance moves more akin to an expressive tango.
I can honestly say I
only enjoyed the scuba process up until we had to get into the sea. Although
the gear is lighter in water, I hated being trussed up and carrying the
equivalent of concrete shoes around my middle. From my sealed in state, I felt
as though I was viewing the world from inside my own private goldfish bowl.
Then there was walking backwards into the sea because of the flippers— an
awkward experience and why—ducks don't?
As I swam part way
along the cove, with my instructor towards the open sea, I tried to distract
myself from the inevitable open water dive by admiring pretty fish and avoiding
the stinging tentacles of translucent, shocking pink jellyfish. It was then I
decided that this experience wasn't for me. Fear and claustrophobia took over
and I flatly refused to continue. My instructor sympathetically tried to
appease my fears, but once my mind is made up . . .
Not to waste the
diving experience completely, I floundered around the cove in a half
dive-snorkel mode and followed shoals of fish.
Next year—in my wetsuit—I will be snorkelling!
©AlisonDay Designs
Sunday 20 July 2014
The Lost Tourist
Waking up to our last day, of a two week holiday on the sunny island of Crete and perturbingly the idea of going home actually appeals—shock horror!—never thought I'd hear myself say that.
I've eaten in every restaurant I wanted to re-visit and drunk every drink that appealed (with the odd early morning thick head afterwards. I've done the everything and the nothing I intended, as well as reached a total state of relaxation and calm, which is exactly what I was aiming for.
There are more signals that the time to go has arrived. Sitting by the pool has replaced any activity and conversation has become an effort... er... what was my name again? Also, I see worrying traits akin to the lost tourist beginning to emerge—god forbid and... the pigeons are closing in.
What on earth are you talking about!
Well... the lost tourist was first spotted in the old town, as he shot up a side street, alongside a souvlaki bar where my son and I were munching on gyros pita. He caught our attention because he didn't fit in with the usual relaxed flow, adopted by tourists in hot countries.
Before I could pop another chip into my mouth, he had reappeared from the side street looking shocked—wild white hair, protruding eyes—awash with the local firewater and long legs swinging forward in spasms. The increasing momentum propelling him off in an unstable manner in the opposite direction down the street.
The final time we saw him, it was cocktail time on the hotel terras. With the whole terras to choose from he plopped down in a cushioned, wicker arm chair right next to me.
Oh gawd—no!—but it's a free country—right? —So we ignored him.
Unfortunately, there are people you can ignore and those you won't let you... Gazing out to sea and in-between gulps from litre-sized, Mythos beers, he would laugh intermittently at nothing. Then, when the waiter shooed away the pigeons—advancing on the cheesy, starsign-shaped snacks accompanying our drinks—he positively roared with laughter. Why? Who knows—although it is said that laughter is good for the soul.
With no desire for contact, but feeling his eyes boring into my left shoulder—as I sketched—I decided on a furtive glance at our chuckling hyena. Through darkened sunglasses, I could see there was absolutely nothing to worry about. From his face, I could see that the lost tourist's flight to the planet, Zob had happily departed a long time ago.
[*Ooh, look a pigeon* . . . Ha ha ha!]
Saturday 19 July 2014
Cretan Magic
Sitting in a lovely little restaurant, in the old town of Rethymnon, under the hanging strands of flowering bougainvillea, its blooms in variegated and intense pinks.
Our waiter arrives. With our meal I order a glass of white wine—the local krasí—the waiter bobs a pony-tailed head and disappears into the restaurant. When the Cressi arrives, instead of a glass of white, it's an enormous glass of red.
'I didn't order red,' I say politely, 'I want white.'
From behind a bohemian moustache, he regards me with mild suspicion, as though I must be mistaken and then says bruesquely:
'I will change it.'
He returns a couple of minutes later with the desired glass of white Cressi - an equally enormous glass - generously filled. Depositing it demonstratively and without slowing his stride - to take the order from the next table—he places it on the table in front of me and says quite seriously:
'There—I painted it!'
Friday 18 July 2014
Stone Fortune
The wind set in around the island of Crete—whipping white foam edges on the crests of waves, pulling strands of hair from hairbands and blowing serviettes and paper notes into the air.
I spear olives from the Greek salad and I amuse myself with an old childhood rhyme—a seemingly female orientated superstition—to guess the status of a potential future marital partner:
Tinker — Taylor — Soldier — Sailor —
Rich Man — Poor Man — Beggar Man — Thief
Spoken with a lilt, as I count the olive stones neatly arranged in a row on the side of my plate—this time I have eaten five. Although not in need of a 'Rich man,' the outcome is desirable—I smile. A charming superstition, but of course not wanting to tempt fate, I generally do make sure that I eat more than one and if necessary, I will continue to eat more than six olives—silly eh? ... And luckily—I love olives.
Holidaying in Greece at the moment, I'm sure this ritual would be greeted by puzzled looks from the Greeks, who are more fatalistic by nature. Life is what it is and you take the rough with the smooth—no point complaining—get on with it, or turn it around so that it fits the way you want.
When it comes to being 'rich' there are so many other facets to it than monetary richness alone. I have only to look around me at the beautiful island on which I find myself—Crete—I feel rich and privileged to be able to be here.
Monday 14 July 2014
Beautiful
Early morning breakfast in the hotel. . .
'How are you today?' she asks.
'Ok—half asleep,' I answer, gulping down my tea in order to reply.
'You should say—I am beautiful—then you will feel good too.
'Ok,' I mumble. Then returning the sentiment, I ask: 'So . . . how are you?'
'Beautiful!' she says, with a sly smile over her shoulder—as she goes to relieve a table of its dirty crockery—from the other side of the marble-floored, dining room.
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Tuesday 26 March 2013
Friday 15 February 2013
Pension Odyssey
Straight from the horse's mouth... fancy spending the night in a replica Trojan war 'orse?
A Belgian boutique hotel in Durbuy : La Balade des Gnomes Hotel gives you just that opportunity, with ten themed rooms .
This one comes straight from the Odyssey, or maybe you'd like to choose a Troll's lair! Via: DesignTaxi
Certainly beats the shameful idea of sneaking horse meat into products destined for supermarkets and public consumption. Whatever next?
Get off your horse and drink your milk
- John Wayne
Thursday 3 June 2010
What's Hot, What's Not! - Garlic (Allium sativum L.)
Seeing as in the last few issues of the Connections the
‘What’s hot what’s not’ section has only covered ‘what’s not’ hot, we thought
it was about time to include a ‘what’s hot’ article. So what about garlic? A
hot favourite and integral part of many a cuisine the world over. It is also
healthy, delicious and said to ward off evil spirits, what more could you wish
for?
Love it or hate it, garlic has been around for over
6,000 years and is native to Central Asia. The word garlic comes
from Old English garleac, meaning, "spear
leek." Both the Greeks and the Egyptians used it as an ingredient
in many a medicinal remedy. The Egyptians even worshipped it, clay models of
garlic bulbs having been found in the tombs of the Pharaohs. Garlic has even
been used as currency. The Vikings took garlic on their long voyages of
pillaging and destruction, whilst the French used it in the 1770’s in
Marseilles against the plague. Garlic has been known to stop dysentery and
according to Louis Pasteur garlic has antibacterial properties.
From the garlic plant it is not only the bulb, which
can be eaten, but also the leaves and the flowers. Health-wise garlic is
good for you because of its two sulphur-containing antioxidants, germanium and selenium,
which help to boost the immune system. Regular consumption of garlic
has been found to fight cholesterol and lower blood pressure by thinning the
blood. Included in a normal diet, garlic reduces the body’s production of fat
and helps to break it down.
The downside to many is the smell. A raw garlic clove is sharp and spicy and is guaranteed to make your breath smell. Cooking garlic will reduce the smell and the flavour becomes more mellow and sweet. The bad breath or halitosis is caused by the sulphurous compounds in the garlic that feed on the bacteria in your mouth. To get rid of garlic breath chewing on masses of fresh parsley helps (according to some cardamom seeds help too). If you are planning a night on the town, a serious flossing session is a must as parsley between your teeth is also a turn off. For the garlic wimps there are a variety of garlic supplements available on the market, one such supplement being Kyolic garlic.
Garlic may be delicious but there is such a thing as
overkill. Many years ago I met a man whose staple diet was sardines on toast, with
a layer of thinly sliced, raw garlic on top. The multiple cloves of garlic were
painstakingly sliced, very thinly as a topping for the small fish, until very
little of the toast remained visible. Unfortunately, parsley was not on the
agenda, and the resulting pungent aroma, which followed him everywhere, meant
that it was not only very difficult to stay in the same room with him for very
long, but one could always tell where he had already been.
And finally, although health and taste-wise the pros
far outweigh the cons, when it comes to eating garlic, if you don’t want to
smell of garlic (a large pot of parsley not being to hand), the answer is not
surprisingly, not to eat it!
For an interesting restaurant where they are totally
passionate about garlic: The Stinking Rose. Or for a restaurant nearer to home: Garlic Queen
Sources: Wikipedia, Home Cooking, Innerself -
Garlic
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