Tuesday 20 September 2011

Letter home part 4


 Part 4
One thing I could not work out about Italy was the fact that, although they loved eating pasta, there was always antipasta on the menus. If they are anti it why do they eat so much of it?
I have a healthy contempt for authority, and love beating systems wherever they raise their ugly head. When I visited Turkey before, there was a delay at passport control. I thought how clever it might be to walk through without being checked. This is exactly what I did, smug in my defiance. However, this was payback time.
“what’s this?”
“An entry stamp.” , fairly obvious one would have thought.
“Where’s the exit stamp?”
“I’m glad you asked that question.” country with 2 entry stamps was astounding.
“Go back!”
“What?”
“Go back!”
The art of passing some filthy lucre into his palm had not yet been acquired by me at that stage. I was philosophical about it all, after I had stopped crying.
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It was a turning point. I had become increasingly intense, something I normally only do when camping. Every day had become a ritualised routine of wake up, cycle to the nearest café for breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, then crash. I felt relaxed as I headed by ferry to Thasos.
I enjoyed chilling on the beaches. One evening I heard terrifying screams coming from a girl. I looked up and saw her brother chasing her with an octopus in his hand. Priceless!

It was at a small restaurant where I devised my cunning plan. I turned the pages of my passport and noticed a similarity to another stamp from a different country, which was partially washed away from when I went swimming in Cuba, a stupid moment. A lightbulb switched on inside my brain and, with carefully moistened tissue I gradually erased the Turkish stamp and scrawled across in biro and I was in business. Fortunately, Midnight Express was not starring me this year and I arrived on Turkish soil.
     
My intention was to cycle across to the Syrian border, but the roads were just too bumpy. When one is pushing 40 a more comfortable ride is required without the extravagant undulations that makes one tired and sore. From Izmir to Marmaris, Rhodes and then a long boring boat journey. I played I Spy with myself but most things started with ‘S’, not a great deal of fun. After what seemed like a week I caught glimpse of Mount Carmel, something I wanted to do to that English blues singer.
I would leave the Holyland a different person. I did not know how long I would be there and really did not care. I was alive and well and looking forward to the adventure.



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