Friday, 25th July
There was something odd going on at Aeraki last night. More than just the usual Thursday yia-yia's night out. This time granny was having a birthday, this involved much clucking dissatisfaction with the range of gifts and flowers, and glowering at the waiters. Who, by way of response, were even more effusive and chatty than usual. Oh, and completely pissed. Duplicate drinks arrived, random orders went back to the kitchen, and at one point the chef had to come out, and 'have words.' All of this was highly entertaining for those of us just outside the collateral damage zone. The kids missed most of this as they were on the pier with a net. The spoils included a fish no bigger than a whitebait, called Yabba-Yabba, and a substantially larger crab, inexplicably dubbed Randy.
Into Almyrida for lunch, as a break from the usual ham and cheese platter up at the house. A pretty decent chicken gyro (no, not chicken on the dole, but the Greek equivalent of shawarma) and an opportunity to people watch. Which was variably unpleasant. Helen Mirren might be able to bare all in a bikini at 62, but there are girls less than a third of her age who really shouldn’t. There is a fat Greek teenager, who has already lost his arches, and whose knees probably won’t see thirty, as they are already buckling under the strain. There are gaggles of English girls, giggly and kitted out in identical triangle bikinis, large sunnies, and hair parted improbably far to one side. Then there are the thin pasty families, who, like vampires, probably shouldn’t venture into the sunlight at all. They walk one way up the beach, skin like brand new white Egyptian cotton sheets, and by the time they walk back down, 20 minutes later, already like rashers of bacon. Everyone seems to have at least one tattoo, apart from the pasties, presumably scared that it would visible right through them. And who wrote the rule that says the any bloke wearing Speedo’s has to be at least 10kg overweight? Face it, even Cristiano Ronaldo looks ridiculous in them.
The top prize for looking an utter knob has to go to the young man sporting a back-combed bouffant ‘do,’ tied back into a small ponytail – like The Cat. Not Troy in goal, but the Red Dwarf character. This was offset by girlie hooky Gucci sunglasses, a blue Oxford button down, and a green bandana tied into a cravat. I hope to God he’s not English, just a poor parody.
My Mojito in Nikita’s tonight tasted suspiciously like the Margarita from the other evening. I reckon they have one cocktail mix, and just accessorise it with a different selection of fruit.
There was something odd going on at Aeraki last night. More than just the usual Thursday yia-yia's night out. This time granny was having a birthday, this involved much clucking dissatisfaction with the range of gifts and flowers, and glowering at the waiters. Who, by way of response, were even more effusive and chatty than usual. Oh, and completely pissed. Duplicate drinks arrived, random orders went back to the kitchen, and at one point the chef had to come out, and 'have words.' All of this was highly entertaining for those of us just outside the collateral damage zone. The kids missed most of this as they were on the pier with a net. The spoils included a fish no bigger than a whitebait, called Yabba-Yabba, and a substantially larger crab, inexplicably dubbed Randy.
Into Almyrida for lunch, as a break from the usual ham and cheese platter up at the house. A pretty decent chicken gyro (no, not chicken on the dole, but the Greek equivalent of shawarma) and an opportunity to people watch. Which was variably unpleasant. Helen Mirren might be able to bare all in a bikini at 62, but there are girls less than a third of her age who really shouldn’t. There is a fat Greek teenager, who has already lost his arches, and whose knees probably won’t see thirty, as they are already buckling under the strain. There are gaggles of English girls, giggly and kitted out in identical triangle bikinis, large sunnies, and hair parted improbably far to one side. Then there are the thin pasty families, who, like vampires, probably shouldn’t venture into the sunlight at all. They walk one way up the beach, skin like brand new white Egyptian cotton sheets, and by the time they walk back down, 20 minutes later, already like rashers of bacon. Everyone seems to have at least one tattoo, apart from the pasties, presumably scared that it would visible right through them. And who wrote the rule that says the any bloke wearing Speedo’s has to be at least 10kg overweight? Face it, even Cristiano Ronaldo looks ridiculous in them.
The top prize for looking an utter knob has to go to the young man sporting a back-combed bouffant ‘do,’ tied back into a small ponytail – like The Cat. Not Troy in goal, but the Red Dwarf character. This was offset by girlie hooky Gucci sunglasses, a blue Oxford button down, and a green bandana tied into a cravat. I hope to God he’s not English, just a poor parody.
My Mojito in Nikita’s tonight tasted suspiciously like the Margarita from the other evening. I reckon they have one cocktail mix, and just accessorise it with a different selection of fruit.
Saturday, 26th July
After what seems like years, but is probably only weeks, of nagging, we took Xanthe to get her ears pierced. That's her nagging us, not the other way round. I half thought she might chicken out when faced with the reality of it, but no. She chose small square zircons, with white gold plating, and sat patiently while her ears were swabbed, and the right position marked. She barely flinched with the first bang, and not at all with the second. I think we were all relieved at how pain free the whole thing was. She has to douse her ears in alcohol, and twiddle her earrings on a regular basis. Sounds a bit like Essex girls on a night out. We went and bought her a special jar of Raki for the job. Ear-Raki. For those of you who have not been to a Greek island, Raki is the eye-watering clear alcohol brought free with watermelon at the end of each meal. To refuse it would be considered rude, but it can be bad enough to warrant staying at home and cooking. However, it does have remarkable medicinal talents, from antisepsis, to eradicating the itch from mosquito bites.
We went into Chania again this evening, to eat at The Well Of The Turk. We nearly didn’t make it, as the first taxi driver arrived with a passenger, no doubt expecting us to pay the full fare, while all four of us crammed into the back seat. The second drove like a mad man, denying all knowledge of the restaurant, or the road it was on. The North African food made a bit of a change from the selection of souvlaki, moussaka and chips. We then took the tiny harbour ferry on the two minute journey out to the Fortezza, for a drink. The views were good, but that is about all that can be said for it. Two minutes on the ferry back, and into Safran for the kids to have a pudding. Our taxi driver back was great, and spoke good English. A final glass of wine at Dimitri’s, and off to bed.
Sunday, 27th July
We have now been married one month and one day, and it’s going pretty well, so far. And no-one has got significantly sunburnt, which considering the entire family’s slightly cavalier attitude to sunscreen, is excellent. Xanthe is still admiring her ears at every opportunity.
I took a nicely reddened pomegranate off the tree today, and sliced it in half. No sign of the translucent red fruits developing, despite the colour on the outside. Then I had a thought, maybe this was some Cretan strain, which stayed yellow. I scooped out a handful of seeds and stuck them in my mouth. Ugh! No special local variety then.
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