Adonis in Adidas

Seán was gorgeous, an Adonis in Adidas with a huge grin that would make anyone smile. I had been in shock ever since he asked me out, gazing into space in class muttering “Moira and Seán, Seán and Moira.” We had only known each other a few months before we set off Greek Island hopping together. I was madly in love with him and so was he. Apart from that, we didn’t have much in common. He was training to be a surveyor and I was struggling through catering college but my mother loved him. He had a way with mothers.

We were on a tight budget but the pre-Euro living was cheap and the island of Paros had the best pizzas in the Aegean. The tomatoes were so fresh, we could see them growing in great gangly clusters behind the restaurant. The local wine was drinkable too. (You know the type. It tastes like a urine sample when you get it home, but under a foreign sun, it slides down like nectar.)

The beach was to one side of the small town. Beyond the windmill with its washing line sails, it petered out to shingle. A straggled line of trees provided shade. As the sun plopped into Homer’s wine dark sea, groups of people sauntered up to the edge and staked claims on the soft sand with rolled up sleeping bags. The breeze was keeping most of the mosquitoes away but I slapped some stinky repellent on my exposed skin, just in case.

“Do you want some?” I asked Seán, waggling the bottle under his nose.

He flared his perfect nostrils. “You know they don’t bite me, Moira.”  He checked his smile was as white as ever in my handbag mirror and sat watching some French girls in lethal cutoff shorts who were bruising their perfect knees trying to break sticks for firewood.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” he decided.

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” I started.

Now, I was not known at the time for my spontaneity nor my easy agreement to experimentation. I was always the one carrying aspirins and plasters. If factor 100 suncream existed, I would have had that too. My shoulder bag weighed more than a small Labrador. This had been driving Seán crazy.

“Come on. Sleeping under the stars? Wait until I tell the others. They’ll be so green.” When I hesitated, he crinkled his beautiful forehead. “Don’t be an old fogey, Moira. Try something new.”

The fire smouldered to a start and soon resin scented smoke drew the various huddles into one group. We sat cross-legged, passing bottles and swapping stories of cheap ferries, cheaper rooms and nudist beaches with the multi-lingual, multi-cultural campers. Soon the restrained splashes of the waves were drowned out by bad but enthusiastic singing. One girl thought she was Kylie. Seán knew he was Bob Dylan and he had the whine to prove it.

Hoarse from singing and dizzy from drink, we crawled into our sandy bags as the stars were fading and the black sky was thinking about turning blue again. Maybe this outdoor sleeping was romantic after all, I thought, rolling closer to Seán’s sleeping bag.

I was woken by a shiny boot. As I swam up to consciousness, I could hear scuffles and shouted whispers around - “Schnell,” “Allez.” Half the night time group melted into the trees, some so quickly they left their sleeping bags behind, still caterpillared in sleeping forms.

I squinted up at the sky. “Kalimera?” I said, squandering a quarter of my Greek vocabulary in one go. There were three uniforms. They took everyone’s passports and told us to report to the station at noon.

We consulted ourraggedy guide bookover coffee, but it didn’t cover our situation. Wheelchair access? Page 42. Jellyfish stings? Pee on them. (Failing that, maybe the local wine?) Unlicensed taxis? Yes. Passport confiscation? Nothing.

“This is all your fault.” I hissed.

“That’s typical. Haven’t you got anything useful to say?” he hissed back.