The last day of the rally
We check out of Hotel Pan and bid a sad goodbye to Delphi. After catching the service (souvenirs bought, kebabs consumed, Adrian presses bunting, Rowena reads tourist leaflets in the shade of a tree, English tourists turn burn) we drive to a spectator point.
Rowena, who has a healthy combination of laziness and aggression, urges Adrian to drive as close as possible to the spectator point. He does, but we are still forced to park somewhere by the side of the road with no stage in site and our little hire car clinging to the Greek hillside. We climb through small villages. Old ladies clad in black watch our progress. Greek ladies tend to marry much older than themselves, and once their husbands pass away, a five year liminal / mourning period is observed where she wears black, covers her hair and visits his grave on a daily basis.
We also pass tempting simple cafes, where pale wine is being placed on plastic tables ready for lunch. We refresh ourselves at the many public fountains of fresh drinkable water that European villages always have.
We reach the top of the hill and the spectator point. Rickety scooters have pushed their way to the top and young girls in impossible heels with impossible waists dismount. I console myself with the knowledge of what a Greek woman’s waist looks like post-teenage years!
We have a great spectator spot where we can run around a corner and see the cars in several sections. The crowd whoops, the men pass comment on driving performances, we all eat dust.
Adrian – being tall – catches the finish ceremony. I stare at a lot of Grecian necklines.
We decide to overnight in Lamia, where we will meet up with another Australian who works in the World Championship. Lamia is famous for its lamb on the spit, as we discover when looking for dinner. Alleyways are like Little Bo Peep nightmares, lined with lambs upside down, right way up, marinated, fresh, well done and any way other than alive. We eat well and cheaply.
The evening is spent on top of a building, a bar with astro turf grass and palm trees and fairly decent cocktails. We three Aussies talk for most of the night, until we are the only people left in the bar. We invite the Greek owners and waiters to drink with us, which they do and we end up very drunk and swap international perspectives, none of which we can remember the next morning. Simone calls from a rally in Queensland and we all talk to her but again are not able to recall this in the morning. Adrian falls asleep in the bar but luckily the Buk Compass has a memory back up system and can still remember where the hotel is once he is reactivated.
Rowena, who has a healthy combination of laziness and aggression, urges Adrian to drive as close as possible to the spectator point. He does, but we are still forced to park somewhere by the side of the road with no stage in site and our little hire car clinging to the Greek hillside. We climb through small villages. Old ladies clad in black watch our progress. Greek ladies tend to marry much older than themselves, and once their husbands pass away, a five year liminal / mourning period is observed where she wears black, covers her hair and visits his grave on a daily basis.
We also pass tempting simple cafes, where pale wine is being placed on plastic tables ready for lunch. We refresh ourselves at the many public fountains of fresh drinkable water that European villages always have.
We reach the top of the hill and the spectator point. Rickety scooters have pushed their way to the top and young girls in impossible heels with impossible waists dismount. I console myself with the knowledge of what a Greek woman’s waist looks like post-teenage years!
We have a great spectator spot where we can run around a corner and see the cars in several sections. The crowd whoops, the men pass comment on driving performances, we all eat dust.
Adrian – being tall – catches the finish ceremony. I stare at a lot of Grecian necklines.
We decide to overnight in Lamia, where we will meet up with another Australian who works in the World Championship. Lamia is famous for its lamb on the spit, as we discover when looking for dinner. Alleyways are like Little Bo Peep nightmares, lined with lambs upside down, right way up, marinated, fresh, well done and any way other than alive. We eat well and cheaply.
The evening is spent on top of a building, a bar with astro turf grass and palm trees and fairly decent cocktails. We three Aussies talk for most of the night, until we are the only people left in the bar. We invite the Greek owners and waiters to drink with us, which they do and we end up very drunk and swap international perspectives, none of which we can remember the next morning. Simone calls from a rally in Queensland and we all talk to her but again are not able to recall this in the morning. Adrian falls asleep in the bar but luckily the Buk Compass has a memory back up system and can still remember where the hotel is once he is reactivated.
posted by Rowena at 4:34 pm
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