It is not easy traveling around in a foreign country. Things aren't always as they appear. For example, we (all 9 of us), were invited to Nikki and Yonny's house for dinner. They live in a small village about 30 minutes from where we are staying. After a long day at the beach, we all cleaned up and left for the hills. Approximately 1.35 kilometers -- I really don't know how far that would be -- Let's just say about a half a mile from our house -- we realized Alexander's bottle of milk was left behind in the refrigerator. After a small but effective fit, we convinced him that we could stop shortly to pick some up at one of the local supermarkets. He was okay with this, but I knew "time was of the essence".
Super market is the perfect word for the micro-size stores dispersed through the area. They are packed to the brim with anything and everything you need, but in a compact size. For example, I wanted some bobbi-pins to pull my hair back for the beach. After going through the motions of doing just that and pretending I was pinning the sides of my hair back, repeating the words two or three times, the supermarket worker got it and voila!, there they were. They also carry things like ant killer hotels, mosquito lamps, and plastic toy dump-trucks that you use on the beach. Don't ask me how I know these things. I wonder if they have a giant grasshopper, a giant bumble bee, and a giant spider killer hotel, or convention center?
So back to Alex's milk.... We stopped on the way and I ran in to purchase the milk. My biggest worry was whether or not I could find a straw for him to use so he could drink from the milk container. I proceeded past the assortment of meats and olive oils and pastry bars and found the familiar large bottle of milk that we have purchased here several times. I was hoping to find a more manageable one for small hands to hold. There it was. I found a mini-milk bottle, matching the larger one. While there, I also found a fruit juice box with the familiar Amita in bold letters branded to it. But maybe apple juice would be better? All babies love apple juice. After finding a juice box nearby, although it had a Greek label, it had a picture of quartered apples and the familiar plastic straw attached. I felt like one of the locals here in this handy supermarket. Thinking to myself -- a woman in a grocery store is like a blanket is to security. "We've got it covered!"
Hurrying through the line and then out to the car, Alex's excited cry "milk", and his bright smile was all I needed to make the trip worthwhile. So here is today's lesson. You know how men are always given a hard time for not asking for directions? In spite of taking the wrong turn here and there and then finally, after total frustration they admit they are lost? And then the wife comments -- I told you that you should have stopped for directions! I knew this would happen! Well, I should have asked for help, and it would not have been the first time FL would have recommended this. As Nichole began to open the small container of milk, with little Alex standing by with excited anticipation for his comfort food, there was not the familiar odor of fresh milk emitting, but rather the sour pungent aroma of "fermented" milk. Don't ask me what that is, I don't care to really know. But who buys fermented milk? With immediate disappointment slowly erupting from Alex, I frantically proceeded to open the apple juice -- no worries here. We even have a straw! Strike two -- whatever this was, we again could not figure out. But the taste of sour green apples mixed with something that we as Americans are not familiar with, nor I doubt will ever be, was the "last straw" so to speak for Alex. Nichole and I were buckled over, laughing so hard that there was no noise coming from our diaphragms. However, Alex made up for it with his screams of disappointment and frustrated that we thought his present situation so funny.
After another 10 minutes of windy roads up the mountain, we arrived at the village of Nikki and Yonny. The hills and the mountains throughout this peninsula remind me so much of the Rockies. When you look out and see the sun setting behind the silhouette of peaks and hills, and the air is just heavy enough to form that familiar haze that shades the mountains; and from a distance the lines are so perfect and the colors and shadows blend together so well that it looks like an artist's rendition of the landscape. Again, another spectacular view. After dining on grilled pork chops and souvlaki seasoned to perfection; postichio; potatoes, Greek salad, spanakopita; and another delicious "skopita" made with pumpkin that I have never tasted before; wine from the cellar; and finally karadopita -- honey cake, for desert, we gluttons drove down the mountain and back home! I have a new favorite drink -- tonic water!
Super market is the perfect word for the micro-size stores dispersed through the area. They are packed to the brim with anything and everything you need, but in a compact size. For example, I wanted some bobbi-pins to pull my hair back for the beach. After going through the motions of doing just that and pretending I was pinning the sides of my hair back, repeating the words two or three times, the supermarket worker got it and voila!, there they were. They also carry things like ant killer hotels, mosquito lamps, and plastic toy dump-trucks that you use on the beach. Don't ask me how I know these things. I wonder if they have a giant grasshopper, a giant bumble bee, and a giant spider killer hotel, or convention center?
So back to Alex's milk.... We stopped on the way and I ran in to purchase the milk. My biggest worry was whether or not I could find a straw for him to use so he could drink from the milk container. I proceeded past the assortment of meats and olive oils and pastry bars and found the familiar large bottle of milk that we have purchased here several times. I was hoping to find a more manageable one for small hands to hold. There it was. I found a mini-milk bottle, matching the larger one. While there, I also found a fruit juice box with the familiar Amita in bold letters branded to it. But maybe apple juice would be better? All babies love apple juice. After finding a juice box nearby, although it had a Greek label, it had a picture of quartered apples and the familiar plastic straw attached. I felt like one of the locals here in this handy supermarket. Thinking to myself -- a woman in a grocery store is like a blanket is to security. "We've got it covered!"
Hurrying through the line and then out to the car, Alex's excited cry "milk", and his bright smile was all I needed to make the trip worthwhile. So here is today's lesson. You know how men are always given a hard time for not asking for directions? In spite of taking the wrong turn here and there and then finally, after total frustration they admit they are lost? And then the wife comments -- I told you that you should have stopped for directions! I knew this would happen! Well, I should have asked for help, and it would not have been the first time FL would have recommended this. As Nichole began to open the small container of milk, with little Alex standing by with excited anticipation for his comfort food, there was not the familiar odor of fresh milk emitting, but rather the sour pungent aroma of "fermented" milk. Don't ask me what that is, I don't care to really know. But who buys fermented milk? With immediate disappointment slowly erupting from Alex, I frantically proceeded to open the apple juice -- no worries here. We even have a straw! Strike two -- whatever this was, we again could not figure out. But the taste of sour green apples mixed with something that we as Americans are not familiar with, nor I doubt will ever be, was the "last straw" so to speak for Alex. Nichole and I were buckled over, laughing so hard that there was no noise coming from our diaphragms. However, Alex made up for it with his screams of disappointment and frustrated that we thought his present situation so funny.
After another 10 minutes of windy roads up the mountain, we arrived at the village of Nikki and Yonny. The hills and the mountains throughout this peninsula remind me so much of the Rockies. When you look out and see the sun setting behind the silhouette of peaks and hills, and the air is just heavy enough to form that familiar haze that shades the mountains; and from a distance the lines are so perfect and the colors and shadows blend together so well that it looks like an artist's rendition of the landscape. Again, another spectacular view. After dining on grilled pork chops and souvlaki seasoned to perfection; postichio; potatoes, Greek salad, spanakopita; and another delicious "skopita" made with pumpkin that I have never tasted before; wine from the cellar; and finally karadopita -- honey cake, for desert, we gluttons drove down the mountain and back home! I have a new favorite drink -- tonic water!
Oh shades of the milk carton story, when Alex was a baby and we were in Arab (only) speaking part of West Bank. Those hand gestures come in handy when the English speaker must figure out with the Arab speaking shopkeeper how many Sheckels and how to get the top cut by a scissors. The adventures of the small things on international travel are the ones we all remember ...
ReplyDelete