We got THE place. The one below the castle, above the sea. Maria had dreamed about it the first night, the only place she dreamed about. And it was trooo.
Last night we wandered over to toast the deal with an eight euro bottle of champagne. The key broke in the lock. So we had to climb over the wall. Then Maria sat on the couch and her ginormous ass broke that too.
Today was more constructive. We wrenched the fixtures out of the upstais room and began scraping the walls and sweeping the cobwebs inside, Chris wearing a pair of goggles and snorkel to fight the dust, Maria and Craig waging war over the radio – Maria in the red corner humming to ‘the best Greek folk music from the 50s’, Craig refusing to be cornered, searching for ‘anything but Greek.’ Maria reiterated the point that if we don’t like the music we should all just go home.
Though we should take this opportunity to describe the initial iteration of that phrase. Friday night, all of us low on patience and high on nerves, Tim pushed aside his dinner plate, began bashing his head on the table and exclaimed I’m tired of all this fucking homemade bread, the candles and comforts and Gregorian Chants and these fucking furry animals everywhere. He then calmly suggested that we all get whammed, a suggestion that met with immediate and unanimous approval. By the end of the first bottle Chris had taken over the role of cheerleader, interrupting our highly articulate conversation by putting on his jacket and dragging us out on a desperate search for fulfillment. And fulfillment, thy name is Cutty Sark Fine Scotch Whisky.
Having sunk the second ship, Maria played loud bad music and told us all to go home, while Tim on the floor filmed gems that will surely make the cut into our next video. Oh, and we danced naked in the snow. Must stop this story now because we know our parents are reading.
This all set us up nicely for the next morning. Four hungover bitches stumbling around with the sounds of Debussy grating against our heads like titanium razor saws. Tim shaved, showered, shat, even excused himself and BRUSHED HIS TEETH. Then he scoured his entire wardrobe in an earnest attempt to pass Maria’s inspection. In a shocker, he failed. She undressed (not herself, for a change) the fashion criminal , dressed him, undressed him, and finally faked him through. Several hours later, as Tim shivered and vomited, we realized we’d forbidden every piece of warm clothing the boy owned. Oops. Armed with a small box of local treats and thousands of dollars of other people’s money, we entered the presidential suite of Mr. Demetris. He told us his last name is not important. By the afternoon we’d paid too much (but we’re worth it!) and received the ill-fated key.
The guidebooks say this is the third best sunset in the world. Chris suggests nuking the Great Barrier Reef and whatever the other one is. Tim suggests just coming to visit.
Bottles of Whisky: +2 and quickly -2
Absolutely indifferent landlords: +1
Rooms to decorate: +9
Vegetable patches: +1
Balconies with incredible views of the setting sun: +2
Embryonic sacs in which to send an email to your special honey: +1
Days until the shop opens: -1
Donkeys that will be needed to carry all of our stuff: +0 (thus far. Much to Maria’s dismay)
Forecasted ‘partly cloudy’ (Greek for rainy) days we’ll have to work through before the sun comes out: +6
Satisfied adventurers: +3.5
Absent adventurers faithfully posting these reports on the website for us: +1
If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost. For that is where they should be. Now build foundations under them.
– Henry David Thoreau
-CW, TKVS, MP