Seismic shifts.
Tremors, the stiletto years, and a good risotto.
Ever felt like you need a good dose of perspective? One sunny day last week I was feeling a little sorry for myself, I won’t bore you with the details, suffice to say it was just a bit of short term wallowing at something that hadn’t panned out - half an hour maybe - and I think we’re all entitled to that sometimes. I’d plastered on a smile for my Greek teacher, Tatiana, who is absolutely lovely and entirely undeserving of any sullen moods from me, and we were conversing about our gardens in Greek. Suddenly, the world gave a sharp shake, our coffee cups rattled and the wrought iron tables clashed and scrapped against the chairs stashed underneath them.
Then…nothing. We looked at each other and both wordlessly looked upwards to check nothing could fall on our heads. The tall neo-classical columns of the café we were sitting outside remained intact. Peering over the terrace to the street below an elderly yiayia was walking up the hill with a string bag of shopping. If it hadn’t been for Tatiana, I would have thought I had imagined it. On my return home an hour later, I greeted Adrian and in the split second it took the whippet to jealously jump up and knock him off balance, there was another tremor. “Did you feel it?” I asked. “Feel what?” Adrian said as he dragged himself back off the sofa. A minute later I heard a roaring sound in my ears, then, a definite tremor. The whole house shook definitively as if trying to get our attention. “Shall we go outside?” I suggest, expecting Adrian to laugh at my caution. “Yes, let’s” he said, looking a little unsure. We sit at the big wooden table outside and look at each other, unnerved. After ten minutes or so chatting, it feels a bit pointless and we get up and go about our day, myself having completely forgotten my earlier mood.
I find an earthquake website - a 4.8 magnitude earthquake 8 km from Skiathos is to blame, small in comparison to others but keenly felt nevertheless. I am then flabbergasted to discover there has been 202 earthquakes in Greece on this day alone and that Greece averages roughly 2,100 earthquakes of magnitude 3 or higher per year. Tectonic plates constantly shifting and bashing against each other beneath my feet whilst I make a cup of tea, potter in the garden or write this Substack and I hardly notice. Later, I tell Yannis, my brother-in-law, that I have discovered this fact. “Of course! It’s a good thing, it releases the pressure, otherwise…” he trails off.
I have a less geological, but more poetic notion of the earth being angry. If I was the earth I would be mightily pissed off too. I would take my tremors off to Washington, let off some steam and create a sizeable, yawning fissure in the earth’s surface to encompass all of, but not limited to, the new Whitehouse ballroom and swallow up the orange menace and his fawning acolytes. See also Farage, Netanyahu and all the tech billionaires. They appear unable to regular their internal temperatures. It would be a start anyway.
My years of stiletto-wearing (now in the distant past..sigh) sent me in search of a podiatrist here. My twenties were spent tottering to my office job in the West End in heels, trainers on the tube were unthinkable - only people in New York on subways wore those, except Sarah-Jessica Parker and I thought I was definitely in her camp. One particular morning springs to mind of walking up Tottenham Court Road in the throes of a vicious hangover, clutching an Egg and Bacon McMuffin bag in one hand and dangling a Silk Cut between the fingers of my other hand. My black stilettos caught on a paving stone and I fell flat on my face. I laid on the floor for a second, dying quietly with embarrassment before checking my fag and my breakfast were intact, they were. Rising triumphantly like a phoenix from the ashes, I brushed myself off, took a drag of my cigarette and continued down the street to work. Nowadays I am a trainer and Teva woman. How the mighty have fallen, or not, as the case may be.
The podiatrist clinic in Volos doubles up as a coffee shop. A slender, silver haired woman called Katerina is the podiatrist and her husband runs the coffee shop within the premises. This at first strikes me as weird but when I am led through to the treatment room and handed a cappuccino after taking my seat, it seems like a stroke of genius. Of course I want a coffee! A foot treatment here (or indeed any treatment) is very different to one in London where I am in and out in twenty minutes - 50 quid, thank you very much. My feet have never received so much attention, so much love. I feel a bit Munchausen-y, I have a strong urge to invent a reason to go back and I haven’t even left yet. Katerina scrapes, anoints, files and massages my feet and toes with a procession of unguents and oils and then finally shows me a selection of nail varnishes, asks what colour I would like and paints my toenails! Prior to the final primping, we have some miscommunication about the big toe on my right foot. My toddler Greek is now at pre-nursery level and as her English is rusty, we had happily agreed to practice on each other. However, Katerina gives up on me and resorts to sign language, appearing to be pretending to blow dry her hair whilst pointing at my toe. She then says “tonging!” This sounds hot, painful and wrong. She calls her husband in from the coffee shop who helpfully translates. “She says when you blow dry your hair give your toes a little blow dry to make sure they're thoroughly dry so you don’t get a fungal infection!” No wonder I didn’t understand her. An hour and fifteen minutes later (35 euros) she cling films my toes as I am wearing loafers and sends me on my way. I walk a little sweatily back to my car to find the nail varnish on my big toes has melted onto the cling film, but it’s the thought that counts.
A trip to the city for my feet also means a visit to a bookshop. I buy the new cookbook by Georgina Hayden - Medesque. My sister is visiting so I cook her the Prawn saganaki risotto - a nod to Greece and Italy - it is absolutely delicious. I use the leftovers to make arancini the next day but in the wandering spirit of the risotto recipe, replace mozzarella in the middle with feta - another win. There are many recipes in this to keep me busy over the summer but I am particularly enchanted with the idea of the Tahini Granola which I shall be making this week.
Nightingales are serenading us to sleep and awaking us gently in the morning. They have a sweet song but a call which sounds like a car alarm going off which is rather comforting because it reminds me of London. The Merlin bird identification app is at once a joy and a tease. A Little Bittern? You’re kidding!!! Where? Then I can’t find it because all bitterns are notoriously shy and it has no intention of doing a slow, performative fly-past our house for my benefit. On the other hand there are many birds I would never have spotted if Merlin had not first given me the heads up. It sends me on many wild goose chases but I have some success too. Pressing the “This Is My Bird” button when I have actually spotted one is rather thrilling - this is how I get my kicks these days. Apparently there is a European Bee-eater lurking as I write this. Come on over, plenty of bees here! It’s quite small according to its picture (not to scale obvs) so I am sure it can’t manage many of them. I hear my first cuckoo of the year, I don’t need the app to identify that unmistakable call. A harbinger of spring - I think it’s finally here despite the shaky and showery start.
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Not sure I'd enjoy an earthquake
I laughed so hard at your silk cut fall I woke Mavis. 🤣