MAIN » ARTICLESCigarettes and Ouzo - Cretan Reflections
It must have been around four in the morning. I was stumbling along the second floor that looks out over the bar and swimming-pool area, I felt sharp but vaguely intoxicated and was clutching an empty bottle of Vodka in one hand. I had no idea where I was going. A shape appeared up ahead, dancing out of the stairwell, flailing, hideously animated and rapidly moving closer. Another sunrise drunkard I presumed and turned to retreat into the shadows and away from the madness. A familiar sound erupted from the beast, a voice, entering my ear, rattling around my brain and finally being interpreted just before I lost interest. It spoke in subtle yet agitated tones, I struggled to make a useful connection, removing my sunglasses and squinting, almost dropping the bottle onto the tiled floor. Suddenly there were more voice, more silhouettes, surrounding me on all sides. I took a hollow swig of Vodka and rested a hand on the wall for stability. Friends, clubs, drinks, fists, blood, these were ugly words and potentially uglier consequences.
By morning we had all calmed down somewhat but I was still drunk, jittery and paranoid. I sat out alone on the balcony sipping small amounts of whiskey from an unwashed glass and occasionally lighting a new cigarette. What had we entered ourselves into? I wondered, two of us were still in hospital; another was almost too hideous to look at, but impossible to ignore. The bottle was almost empty, all the bottles are like that in Malia, even the ones straight from the shelves. I needed ice. Soon the sun would creep round the corner and blind me, which was all I knew for sure, no mercy from the gods, just as it's always been. I found myself staring at the wall, mind numb, blank, my hand holding the glass but no longer raising it to my lips. I had no idea what the time was, but the sun was beginning to get threatening.
People came out, the victim sat down and smoked with me, mostly in silence, occasionally dabbing his eye with a cloth. It was another mean day in the middle of the Mediterranean. I had a cigarette holder and sunglasses now but I was trying not to move, the glass had been refilled. People came, they went back in, off to other rooms. We sat, mostly in silence, reflecting quietly, me sipping whisky and he dabbing away at his eye with the cloth, a prizefighter against the ropes for the first time in his career. Others joined us and we complained about the sun, I wondered what had happened to all the clouds.
The bar woke up after the swimming was over and we sat, perched on our usual seats, waiting for the football to begin. I forget who was playing, maybe no-one, but there we were anyway. It was cocktail hour and spirits had lifted. Not all of us were drinking but those who were knew it was the only way to keep going night after night, gunning the engine at full revs until the tank was empty, then we would lie down and admit defeat, never before. The food was terrible, but we had to eat, so we ate. And those who were drinking drank cocktails.
Written by Jay
By morning we had all calmed down somewhat but I was still drunk, jittery and paranoid. I sat out alone on the balcony sipping small amounts of whiskey from an unwashed glass and occasionally lighting a new cigarette. What had we entered ourselves into? I wondered, two of us were still in hospital; another was almost too hideous to look at, but impossible to ignore. The bottle was almost empty, all the bottles are like that in Malia, even the ones straight from the shelves. I needed ice. Soon the sun would creep round the corner and blind me, which was all I knew for sure, no mercy from the gods, just as it's always been. I found myself staring at the wall, mind numb, blank, my hand holding the glass but no longer raising it to my lips. I had no idea what the time was, but the sun was beginning to get threatening. People came out, the victim sat down and smoked with me, mostly in silence, occasionally dabbing his eye with a cloth. It was another mean day in the middle of the Mediterranean. I had a cigarette holder and sunglasses now but I was trying not to move, the glass had been refilled. People came, they went back in, off to other rooms. We sat, mostly in silence, reflecting quietly, me sipping whisky and he dabbing away at his eye with the cloth, a prizefighter against the ropes for the first time in his career. Others joined us and we complained about the sun, I wondered what had happened to all the clouds.
The bar woke up after the swimming was over and we sat, perched on our usual seats, waiting for the football to begin. I forget who was playing, maybe no-one, but there we were anyway. It was cocktail hour and spirits had lifted. Not all of us were drinking but those who were knew it was the only way to keep going night after night, gunning the engine at full revs until the tank was empty, then we would lie down and admit defeat, never before. The food was terrible, but we had to eat, so we ate. And those who were drinking drank cocktails.
Written by Jay