October 11, 1996

One of our last Greek adventures was to the villages of Zagorohoria and the Vikos Gorge - very steep, very deep and, to walk out on a finger of trail to a place where the earth ceased to be, very scary. Seeing the Gorge wasn't originally in our plans, but, since we were only 50 kilometers away, why not? To get there we wound through slate mountain villages, past orange and yellow foliage (ah - a change to see some colors), onto gravel, past tall slate-layered hills, sheep, sheep dogs and shepherds, until the road ended high on a mountain. We took a short trail that began where the road left off, crept to it's thinning end and took a look 90 degrees down. Wow! Once again proof that sometimes it's the things you don't plan that make the best experiences. But then again...sometimes not.

Our evening was an experience too, again totally unplanned, but the word 'best' isn't the adjective I'd use to describe it. Bad things come in threes it seems (perhaps good things do too, but no one bothers to count those). Our count began when we parked the vans at the top of a mountain pass. It seemed like a fine place to spend the night, until John started questioning its safety. A truck out of control on the bend could smash into the Kiwi's Blue Chunder, sending it slamming into us, and we in turn would be history over the cliff. Initially we all laughed at his paranoia, the more we discussed it, however, the more we believed. Just as we were pulling out the dinner pots and pans, Hana remarked that if you believe something enough, it comes true. That was the clincher. Away went the pans and we started the motors.

By now the sun had dropped below the horizon, its last rays not far behind. John and I led the way down the mountain, through a small village and up another hill on the other side. We spotted a large gravel pullover and stopped to wait for Hana and Craig. Then suddenly, "Psssst-Psss." John and I looked around for the truck that had released its brakes. "Psssst-Psss", again, but there wasn't another vehicle in sight. John inched the van forward then brought her to a complete and absolute stop. "That's as far as she goes," he said. We hopped out. The driver's front tire was pressed into the gravel, it's bottom flush with and as flat as the ground. It had failed; there was a two inches long gash in the side wall. The release of 36 lbs of air was instantaneous. "Looks like we found our spot."

It took all four of us to change the tire to the spare. That's because it was on so tight. Hana held the flashlights, Craig held the tire iron and John and I both put our weight on its end and jumped. It took a while, but eventually we heard the metallic crack as each gave up its hold. Just as the rain started (it always rains in situations like these), we finished, packed up the jack stand, managed to smudge tire smut on the rear cushion and retired inside. But the counter was still running. I flicked on the light above the stove. I flicked it again, and once more. Nothing. The bulb had blown too. But at least at that point it was still a bulb. Shortly thereafter, when John started to fiddle with it, it turned to tiny shards of glass, scattering everywhere.

By 9:30 pm that ordeal was out of the way. Two problems checked off, but we weren't quite cursing the night yet. That didn't come until we were finally sitting down to dinner. "Can someone shut the sunroof, it's raining in the van?" I can handle that, I thought. I stood up, but I didn't make it beyond a crouch. My head slammed into the door jam. Down I went. A bit dizzy, a bit rattled, a lot sore, I sat there. This was the second smack I'd taken to my noggin in a week. The last one had left me with whiplash. Ok, enough for one night. We washed the dishes and went to bed.

In the morning things improved. The sun came out, we were fitted with a tire for only $21 and, although I had a throbbing headache, I had no serious damage. (That's three 'good things' - anyone counting?)

Their Turn

With all that excitement, the Kiwis must have felt jealous. We drove into Igoumonitsa to catch the car ferry to Italy when their ballgame began. Strike one: the return ferry ticket that they'd purchased in Italy was useless. That particular ferry had stopped running. They were forced to pay twice as much for a one way and hope for a refund on the other end. Strike two: their car insurance had expired, yesterday. No the insurance company couldn't just extend it. A new policy had to be written, payment by credit card...and they don't take American Express. Guess which card the Kiwis carry? Strike three: a dead battery one hour before boarding time. Of course we don't have jumper cables, that would be too easy. We had to roll start her on a flat stretch of parking lot. Three of us ran as fast as we could with hands plastered to her behind. Our run might have qualified as a slow jog. Craig put her in second and popped the clutch; but there wasn't enough momentum. We quickly reached the lot's end so we turned her around and tried it again. A Scottish man saw our plight and came to offer a hand - one hand. Finally, on try three (what else), the engine sputtered and caught; lucky for me since the dinner we had just finished was beginning to wrap itself in bands around my waist.

The end of hard luck? Well, not quite! What's this? A fourth strike? The next morning when we arrived at Italy's Brandisi port there was a bit of a problem. The border guards approached the Kiwi's van and asked to see their proof of insurance. It was almost as if there had been a tip off. With no insurance, the van was forced to stay on the boat. By five o'clock, if no insurance was provided, the van was heading back to Greece. The policemen were quite friendly considering. They offered to drive Craig, at high speed, through the streets of Brandisi to an insurance office. The last we saw of him he was pressing his face to the side window as he was whisked away, a prisoner of the system. The whole matter did eventually get sorted out ($75 for 15 days insurance) and they did get a refund on their unused ferry ticket. But those things took most of the day and, when we finally got under way on Italy's roads, it wasn't 50 kilometers before we pulled over on a beach. We were exhausted. Bottom of the ninth, the score four to three, we threw in our mitts for the night.