Stymied on Symi

The Holy Monastery of Archangel Michael Panormitis

The ferry was nearing it's destination – the Island of Symi, just an hour from Rhodes. My senses are alive after the beautiful crossing. I went below; I didn't want to miss the stop. There are a lot of don't knows travelling abroad. I must quote the American Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld:

“There are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say, we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know."

I hope that is clear. It's not about travel of course but it could be. When I travel I am rather vaguely aware of all this, having got into scrapes in the past. I suffer from a “fear of things going wrong” or rather me “getting it wrong.” Away for a relatively short time and also being alone increases the pressure not to mess up. The risk of doing so must be halved by sharing the experience with another person. But I am abroad alone.

Masked up we queued along the gangway to get off. Always an exciting moment to disembark from a ferry. I took my mask off with relief and stepped ashore. This didn't look right. The other passengers marched forward with great purpose. I felt caught along with the general movement. But then I stopped. This wasn't my destination, this wasn't Ano Symi, the main town and harbour.“You stupid fucking idiot.” I said to myself. The ferry was sailing away. I'm not normal, I concluded with resignation.

Scene from "The Prisoner"

I was confronted by a line of grand buildings. It seemed that this was all there was. The people flowed onward to mount the steps and disappear into the main body of the building. Were these the grand steps to the village? I am reminded of Portmeirian in Wales - as it appers in cult TV series The Prisoner. I tried to find a way along the sea front for something else – a village perhaps -but this was it – the monastery and some grand houses. I felt an utter sense of despair. This stuff runs deep – a mixture of shame and dull memories of all the mess ups in the past. My deep fragile self esteem – making me feel like a lost orphaned soul!

If I had stayed on deck, gone forward to see what was happening – it would have been obvious. My caution had courted disaster. If only, I could have...would have...should have... that trio of mental tauntings. That's me...waiting on the world to throw me a crumb. Me - a victim of fate – a plaything of the gods!

I found relief at a toilet block and a shop where I purchased a cold drink and a pastry of some-sort. The flaky pastry was very nice – but there it was – I might have known, the yellow stuff. It contained that ubiquitous Greek yellow gunk. I was transported back in time to Santorini many years ago. I had been waiting on Crete for a delayed ferry for a couple of days. I arrived in Santorini, spent the night sleeping in a field and being short on time I had to rush down to catch another early ferry to Athens. On that long ferry journey – I had just enough money left for a coffee and a large doughnut thing -that was of course full of the unpleasant yellow substance. We arrived in Athens in the dark and I tagged along with a group of about 10 people off the ferry. We went to a particular spot the town – and with sleeping bags out settled down for what was left of the night. I had many hours to anticipate the airline meal that awaited me on the plane home. It was of course the best.

The steps to heaven

Meanwhile the people have flowed up the steps to the service. The orthodox priest is singing. His sonorous incantations spread across the waterfront mocking me. I felt a surge of bitterness at organised religion. Why did there have to be a great schism in 1054…...a catholic church may have helped – I could have prostrated myself before the alter - “My God I offer myself to thee....relieve me of the bondage of self!” The Monastery, though pretty, was only 18th Century for goodness sake.

I can hear you dear reader thinking – why was it such a big deal? Why don't you just man up! Be a man Man! I'm glad you asked...even though you probably won't understand – but I'm going to tell you anyway – I am presuming that I have your undivided attention​?

I didn't intend to visit the monastery I need to be at the town – where the water taxis are waiting to take me to a beautiful beach for a day of snorkelling. Maybe something good was waiting for me...you never know. I'm stuck here – frustrated. More importantly I have messed up.

Meanwhile the clouds had rolled in. I knew this was coming – it was the first day in two weeks where there had even been a cloud. The breathtaking intense blues of the sea had faded. I had marvelled at the blues seas about Rhodes. Ranging from almost purple, to deep Prussian blue – toward ultramarine. I considered that Greece would be a rather barren cold comfort if the sunshine was removed. A grey day is a grey day anywhere.

I considered my situation at the main cafe on the waterfront – coffee and fags the only solution for the moment.. How can I get to Symi harbour on the north of the island. I start goggling – there are only 5 taxis on the island apparently and it's Sunday. The worst case scenario unfolds in my mind. I cannot get to the harbour. I miss my evening ferry back . I am stuck for endless hours on the island. I have to get back for my flight the day after tomorrow. I have to find somewhere for the night here. It's all such a cock up. Can I walk to the town? The island is mountainous. It's getting really hot now – the thought horrifies me. Can I spend the next 7 hours here and pick up my ferry on it's return. But I don't know if it stops here on the way back – it probably doesn't. If only I was with a companion it could I suppose all be a bit of a laugh - an adventure.

The desolate waterfront

I got a text from a friend Marc – “Are you visiting the Monastery?” He knew I was going to Symi. This man is a great wind up merchant. No he doesn't know about my current situation, he just has remarkable timing. Marc (not plain Mark of course) manages through some spooky process to ring me at the most inconvenient times. In fact I know it's him before I pick it up – not by a dedicated ring tone but by the fact that I am just about to eat, attend a meeting, sitting on the toilet or settling down at the cinema to watch a film. He rings. This is an example from two weeks ago, as I embarked on this very holiday.

I am at Gatwick, I have taken the plunge to go through into departures (my fate is to be without cigarettes for a large number of hours you understand.) I am at the putting “liquids into the plastic bag” stage of proceedings. I manage to slice my finger open on my Gillette Mac 3 – it's still the best a man can get – despite being told in recent advertising campaign by Gillette how toxic I was as a man. It's what us 'men' call “a bleeder.” I have blood dripping all over the place. At that precise moment Marc rings me...I ignore it. I have to use my face mask to mop up. I retreat back to find a toilet for tissues. But a kind foreign young guy hands me a pack of tissues. I feel a warm bonding – as he lets me keep the packet. And that is another fact of my travel experience – there has always been a kind human being to help out. I think back to my plan to spend the night at Bilbao airport in Northern Spain. I imagined whiling the night away in a bright terminal. The airport was however in reality, rather than my imagination, quite small, dark and very shut. Gun toting soldiers came out to greet me. They let me sleep on the bench outside and one of them gave me his great big thick army coat. I slept under that like a baby, safe with my own armed guard inside the building.

I am, believe it or not, quite well prepared for this trip and I do have a pack of emergency plasters on my bag. So with dignity restored I ring Marc back so I can share my experience with him – he enjoys it immensely. I continue into departures. I have removed everything from my person – and apart from having to have my shoes scanned all goes well. Because of the shoe scanning – I am slightly disorientated and end up waiting at the wrong conveyor belt for my plastic tray – but I'll let that one pass.

Since I have gone back a bit- I may as well tell you about another hiccup. After the masked up 4 hour flight I realised that my phone battery was a bit low. That is not a good thing. I would need my phone. I switched it to low battery in the settings but felt uneasy about it. Making sure I had passport, tickets, covid registration etc. etc. I had forgotten to get a full charge before I left. After the passport and the travel documents the phone is very important. I had been distracted by the decision of whether or not to take my flippers – which are long and poke out of my duffle bag – a few inches higher that the regulation hand luggage measurements. By the time we landed the battery was really low. I switched it off to save power. Mistake -there wasn't enough power to reboot the phone when I got to security. I do like the Greeks attitude – they are not officious and quite smiley – it helps so much. I was directed to a charger – so I charged up my phone for a bit so I could show them my covid certificate and I was on my way. But an additional crucial problem manifested; my phone wasn't connecting to the Greek network anyway…... I couldn't phone Panos who was going to meet me at the main bus stop in Rhodes town and take me to the apartment. Before I had left I had gone onto my Virgin account to make sure I had the correct settings for going abroad. I must be jinxed.

Luckily I had made a note of the address so at least I knew where I had to get to... this does help. Of course all the other information is on my phone – email-wise - but as you remember I can't access it. That's why I print off stuff such as tickets before I travel... except in this case not the air b&b details. A taxi solves the problem of where to go and takes me to the apartment, I wait for Panos and in 30 minutes he turns up – he has been trying to get hold of me. Someone told him the wrong time to expect the airport bus coming into Rhodes town and so he had missed me. Anyway alls good – I am here. I wont bother you with my subsequent mosquito problems.

Anyway lets get back (or forward if you prefer) to the monastery. I ask the man in the cafe if there is a bus. He says at 12 a minibus and indicates from just here on the seafront. Meanwhile another ferry has come in bringing another load to church– I wonder if that is going on to the town – but I am covid registered with my ferry that has gone. I decide to hope for the minibus. Would I get on it -suppose it is booked up. All these worshippers – they must be organised and have booked it fully up.

The minibus came. I did get on the minibus. I felt great gratitude as we left the seafront and wound our way into the mountains. With great relief I realised that trying to walk this would have been a nightmare. The sky had cleared somewhat and the narrow road wound through a sun-baked mountainous landscape complete with many hairpin bends. It was not so far as the crow flies but – it would have been an exhausting and rather dangerous escapade.

Ano Symi!

And there it is. I see Ano Symi way below as the bus winds it's way downward. I explore the town – I have about 6 hours. The little water taxis have gone off to the other beaches. The pretty neoclassical coloured houses are stacked up against the cliffs –the Prisoner and Portmeirion came to mind again. it really is quite a spot. I find the tiny town beach and have a swim. I had a strange urge to watch Mr Hulot's Holiday again– perhaps I could find it on You Tube later. I wandered the harbour past the restaurants. It was tedious but now the sunshine was back which helped.

I am reflecting on my mental condition. I wonder about the messing up and the fear of messing up. Google finds work for idle hands. And there it is: atychiphobia, an irrational and persistentfearof failing. It can be a comfort to have a diagnosis. In searching that out I also discover that there is a phobia of long words -you couldn't make this up – it is: Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia. I didn't have a fear of long words – but I do now.

Whilst googling I checked out the restaurants –there were so many to choose from along the seafront. Recommended was a place nearby and there it was right against the harbour wall. It was a perfect setting. I ordered a fish soup and some shrimps. I had to request bread – that is never a good sign really. Anyway it was very pleasant. By the way I am not a fussy eater. The food arrived. The fish soup was a rather gelatinous broth with a strange taste of vinegar. There was some nice pieces of white fish I suppose. The shrimps were what it said – a plate of small bright red whole shrimps – I worked out that I was expected to eat them whole. I managed half of them but to be honest I didn't much like the taste. Anyway I know my fish soup and I didn't think much of this. It was hardly bouillabaisse from the south of France. The best food I have eaten in Greece is at the slightly scruffy tavernas that the locals use – I should have gone with that rather than googling stuff. Too much information – I am learning. When the waiter cleared the table he unceremoniously chucked the remaining shrimps into the sea. The water boiled with fish. Much time was killed – too much time for thinking but the ferry came eventually and I settled back happy to be steaming back to beautiful Rhodes and what felt like home.

I'm back! It's passport control at Gatwick. Needless to say the automated face scanner didn't like my face. So I had to (along with many others I have to say) join the queue for manual processing. It wasn't the usual blank scrutiny that triggers off my Catholic guilt – the original sin of existing. The very attractive passport control person was so charming. She chatted about how I wouldn't need to isolate since Rhodes was not on the list, commiserated with me about my awful washed out passport photo “Nobody likes their passport photo” she said firmly and kindly. It was such a nice welcome home. She can still do her job of looking out for felons...and probably more effectively by being open and friendly. I hope they are all like her in the future. Something to learn from the Greeks. Us Brits don't like officiousness but respond well to fair play and to being part of – and that also relates to dealing with Covid.

I think my feeling of being Jinxed when it comes to travel seems to by a mysterious process that no doubt contribute to my troubles like a self fulfilling prophecy. I have experienced that devil may care joyful moments with travelling when everything works out; and also in life. It is possible.

On my return a book was suggested for my attention. The serendipity mindset : the art and science of creating good luck by Dr Christian Busch. I'm trying not to spend money on books at present, so I checked Oxford library not expecting it to be listed. As it happens they have the book on order – so I put my reservation in – and I'm first in the queue – and that's serendipity.