Batsi busies itself for the upcoming season. From my small patio, I hear its sounds contending against the waves of the Aegean, lapping up to shore like tongues over ice cream. Sanders grind stucco, the whinny of saws slice up new planks for outside dining framework, soon to be open under white or blue canvas; the clank and drill of metal into place; the shouts of the painters, the Greek pop songs from radios as old facades get a cleaning. Behind all of this, the dogs will bark from a distant yard, roosters call out despite the hour, the mourning doves remind us all to rest a little more, the wind lifts its assault, and the waves continue to lap.
Over the course of my first week at the hotel I remember what it feels like to work. I set up the breakfast buffet with the standard selections. This simple and routine setup leaves little for but it’s not just for taking pictures. When real, live people come in you realize that there are wide margins for disappointment. Is the coffee not strong enough? Or too strong? Is there a tea variety they wished was in the selection box? Are the cereal selections adequate for hikers, not muesli-mixed enough, not grain free, not fortified with seeds and trail mixes, not fun enough for vacation week, not enticing enough for their children? Is the cheese and ham variety sufficient and should there be more variety to top the pre sliced toasting bread? Is there any gluten-free? I’ve forgotten to purchase the fresh fruit from the market the day before. Will the one banana and softening apples look too pathetic to put out? Will they even mind? Will today be the day that the one who wants an orange not get an orange?
The guests come from Germany and Holland. “Americans never come here,” my boss says matter-of-factly. “It’s too difficult for them to get to. It’s off the beaten track.” From Germany and Holland they may arrive with palettes accustomed to sour dough dark rye and pumpernickel; seeded boule and the sunflower seed molasses blends to the Gouda and Edam and wedge of lingenberger. But they have a rich assortment here. The granola is full of grain, nuts and fruit; the yogurt is thick and creamy and no fat spared; the tahini is dark and rich and slides off the spoon; the honey is from the island: raw, granular and redolent of the fields; and the lemon marmalade is a family recipe, picked from the local trees, rinds and pulp and cardamom spice. Warm boiled eggs of various sizes and brown colors sit in a basket. And then in case you missed it: an aroma of freshly baked wheat bread in the bread baker that perfumes and permeates the dining room.
There was a Dutch man who stayed four days. I had just come into the lobby from a two-hour walk down the coast to find him waiting at the front desk. “Kalispera!” I greet him. He says in English that he rang the bell, but that there is no answer. A recognizable accent. “How can I help you?” I asked him. I sounded confident, but I had no idea if I could help him at all, this being only my second night. “I would like to have breakfast tomorrow.” Ah! A simple thing, I thought. Of course! “Yes, I answered, what time?” “Eight o’clock.” “Yes, it will be ready,” I reassured him, and he went back upstairs. I hoped he hadn’t been waiting long, but he said only four minutes. I wondered about the unlocked door, the absent reception, the owner who fled to a spelunking conference in Athens, and the fortuitousness of my returning to keep the hotel in good standing. I didn’t have Julia’s number to tell her someone wanted to eat at 8, which would require her to be here by 7:30, and the owner’s father wasn’t around anywhere either, so I figured I’d do the set up myself, risking a pantomimed admonishing I may get from Julia the next morning when she found me catering to guests and not sleeping till 9. I went to my room for the night.
Around 8:30 that evening someone hammered away at the reception bell followed by Greek exclamations that sounded like “any one home?” echoing off the walls and cool marble floors. I was sure the father who was in charge for the weekend would emerge from a spare room to accommodate the guest, but the visitor was unrelenting. I found myself wondering what to do. Should I see what was going on? Does he need help? Is that even part of my job? The instructions I was given yesterday were all very elusive. Just be around in case Julia needs anything. Be around? What times of the day should I be around?
I enter the lobby but he looks at me with little hope, and resumes a mouthful of into a phone. Apparently, he has also drawn out Switzerland from the kitchen where he was eating a late night snack. “Yea, he wants a room. D— isn’t answering his phone. He isn’t coming down.” I wasn’t even aware the spelunker had made it back from his Athens cave seminar. “Not coming down?” I tried calling him as well, but the other end went dead. “He’s here?” I didn’t understand how a cook and painter, non-basic Greek speaking foreigners to boot, could possibly appease this obtrusive, unwanted guest who made the owner hide up in his room. “Yes, I went up there, up to his room,” Switzerland continued when the unwanted visitor spewed something awful sounding into the ears of someone on his phone, “and he told me he’s not coming down, and to just ignore the man.” I replied “I guess there’s some bad blood going on here.” The intruder who in the interim had stepped outside now returned. “Souvlaki. Restaurant?” Switzerland pointed in the direction of the port. “Έχουν souvlaki?” I know this word! Do they have souvlaki? I assumed they did. Someone ought to around here. “Nai, nai.” Yes, yes, I told him, brushing him away with my hands in a assuring gesture that would make Julia proud. He left.
But as is the custom, the front door remains open all night, and he returns after his dinner to ring the bell incessantly a few more times, to no avail. No one goes out to help him. He eventually leaves, and I set the alarm for seven to feed the hungry Dutchman.
Write Down the Road 