Lost in Touristland
With my love of shopping and Boak's love of, well, sitting and drinking coffee, it was bound to happen sometime. Feeling satisfied after a delicious meal in one of those charming little outdoor tavernas in the Plaka, Boak suggested I go looking for a skirt I'd talked about buying. "I'll catch you up", he said, settling back with a Greek coffee (so thick and gritty you can almost eat it) and lighting up a cigar. Now, every second shop in the Plaka sells these peasant skirts, t shirts, cheesecloth shirts and such and has the facade festooned with stock, so it's rarely necessary to even enter the shop to make a purchase. The streets are narrow, almost pedestrian thoroughfares. Except when the occasional Vespa rider roars up behind and sends shoppers scattering to seek refuge on the narrow footpath.
Notwithstanding the Vespas, I set off along the little street leading from the taverna out to the edge of the Plaka area, and after some serious price comparison I (almost) made a decision. I just needed Boak's opinion.
So I waited...and waited.
Eventually I walked back along the street to the taverna. But at the table where Boak had been sitting a party of high-spirited Scandanavian youths was now enjoying a bottle of Macedonian red.
My heart sank. There was only one direct route out of the Plaka from there, if Boak used the most obvious route, and I'd walked it and he hadn't passed me. Buying a skirt was no longer important. I decided to wait for him at the edge of the Plaka - on the corner where the cheerful, welcoming halogen lights of the Plaka end, and the gloom of a not-too-salubrious area of Athens takes over.
So I waited...and waited.
One by one the shops began to close their doors. But a combination of fear of the darkness and concern for Boak kept me there. Eventually I gave up, prayed for protection, and walked, with as much of a courageous swagger as I could muster, back to the hotel. Boak wasn't there either.
Reluctant to face the dark streets again, but reasoning that I was at least less likely to be attacked if I wasn't carrying a bag, I pocketed my room key and set out again. It was around 11pm and I imagined Boak frantically searching the streets of the Plaka for his wayward wife. So I positioned myself on a well lit street corner near the hotel, where he'd see me when he approached.
And I waited...and waited.
Some passers by gave me some very strange looks, perhaps surmising that I was working my way around Europe in a most unusual way - for a 56 year old! Around midnight I gave up and retreated to the hotel room - It was no longer empty but reverberated to the snoring of my sleeping husband!
You'll have to ask Boak for his version of the tale, but I hasten to assure you he was blameless. We have now instituted a "Rendezvous Policy".
I can't lose him yet - he has all the tickets!