Pedro Lilienfeld

Herein I describe our experiences during our trip to the Greek island of Syros in the company of Paul and Mary (names changed for anonymity), in July 2015.

Don’t misunderstand me. I like Paul with all his idiosyncratic warts. We first met him and his wife Mary on the Caribbean island of St. Kitts in the mid-90s. They both embody an atavistic version of the perennial Manhattanite. A mixture of self assuredness, provincialism, compartmentalized sophistication, ecological naiveté. Paul is cultured, up to a point, incredibly conservative in his lifestyle, and yet sufficiently intelligent to be politically left-of-center – a recent evolution presumably to be attributed to the inanity of the republicans – although socially mildly right-of-center. Otherwise he sports an irascible, confrontational and variably misogynic nature. When confronted – especially by a female – with an incontrovertible proof of his error he retreats into a self-saving and passive-aggressive “maybe”.

Paul and Mary live in a time warp. Their attire resides somewhere between plain old-fashioned and patently bizarre. He travels sporting a blue blazer, black leather shoes and white long sleeve shirt, the latter even when hiking as if he were perennially marching to a 1950s IBM corporate meeting. Mary, although approaching 60 – from the top – lives in girlish sundresses and high heels. They have advanced technologically to somewhere around 1970: smart phones belong to a futuristic utopia, although a Manhattan-bound computer is used sporadically to send emails, and no internet connection in two of their three properties. Paul proudly introduced me to his  collection of vintage vinyl disc recordings with 1950s musicals, which he played on a monaural sound reproduction system (possibly with vacuum tubes).

But what really sets them aside from the rest of 21st century travelers is their luggage. It is definitely 1930s vintage: unwieldy heavy leather suitcases so numerous that the liberal availability of butlers and porters must be taken for granted. Of course, reality has a way to intrude rudely and frequently thwarting the smooth and uneventful handling of such baggage and resulting in frantic and desperate heaving, moving, pushing, stumbling and sweating transfer operations.

However, it is when I try to characterize Paul’s automotive driving that we reach the true summit of his idiosyncrasy. He had driven us previously in sedate and non-confrontational eastern Long Island and we had no inkling about his motoring style under more demanding conditions. When we arrived on the island of Syros in the Cyclades where we were to stay at Paul’s villa, he rented a little Hyundai with manual transmission to tool around the island. Invariably, he would be driving, Mary on his side, and Evelyn and I in the rear.

Paul has an extreme case of what I like to call reactive/possessive style. He tends to straddle the center line (of a single lane road) whenever possible. As he comes barreling into a curve in the road and is faced with a heretofore unseen vehicle coming from the opposite direction, he engages in a violent avoidance maneuver. The immediate result is a loud complaint emanating from his long suffering spouse: “Paul, please don’t do that!”, to which the imperious driver responds stentoriously with: “SHUT UP, Mary!!!” and proceeds to escalate his driving aggressiveness. Evelyn and I, in the back, resort to mutual hand gripping that intensifies as we approach every turn of the winding and narrow roads of the island.

Paul’s reactive – rather than preventive – driving style also governed his gear shifting. There are numerous steep inclines to be negotiated on the island, and some of them also end in intersections. Often we would arrive at such crossings stalling the engine at which moment Paul would frantically try to shift into first gear while restarting the motor. The inevitable result was that the vehicle rolls backwards on the steep incline while our fearless driver tries to engage the clutch while pushing the engine to its red line, all with attendant tire screeching, Mary’s desperate entreaties and further irate shouting by our intrepid motorist.    

Paul’s irascible driving style, however, finally met its match as he had to face defeat one late evening. It was about midnight and we had concluded dinner at a restaurant in the main town of Syros, Ermoupolis, and our return home was thwarted by blocked streets – presumably due to demonstrations. Paul, most probably with an excessive ethylic brain load, managed to enter a curvy alley that left less than two feet on either side of the car. One of these sides was occupied by parked motorcycles and mopeds. After proceeding for a couple hundred yards into this urban canyon, Paul – and the rest of us – found ourselves faced with the stark reality of a dead end. So, our heroic driver proceeds to back out of this narrow alley. His first attempt is thwarted, he hits a stoop protruding from one of the houses. He attempts to correct his alignment and backs up again, but this time he hits one of the parked motorcycles. I get out of the car and reposition several of these two-wheelers to provide Paul with a clearer path. He resumes his backing up but runs into more motorcycles: the noise of banging, scraping and rubbing against various surfaces becomes frightening, and Evelyn expresses well founded fears that Paul is courting police detention if he perseveres in his wrecking attempts. Finally, I step up to the driver’s window and, considering the untenable situation leading us towards a rapidly escalating disaster, I firmly suggest to him that he step out of the driver’s seat and let me extricate us from this trap. Surprisingly – or perhaps not – he acquiesces and I proceed to drive backwards relying on my long reverse motoring experience, freeing us from this nightmarish situation.

As a fitting coda, I must salute the resiliency of the little Hyundai which apparently survived – albeit with some scratches and dents – Paul’s violent and pitiless treatment.

Now, having ranted sufficiently about Paul, I need to return to the reality of his and Mary’s hospitality. They are good friends, they received us generously in their beautiful villa in a stunning setting on a gorgeous Cycladic island. The rest can be reduced to an occasional –  sometimes copious – pinch of astonishment and excitement.