The Hotel Kyma sits on a tiny promontary overlooking the Turkish coast and the harbour of Chios Town. Small but with the faded grandeur of a much bigger establishment. Its cosiderable charm is matched only by the owner Theodore and his lovely wife Guher. He is Greek and she a Turk which makes for a powerful combination and hard to resist.
I had been fretting that I couldn’t get my car booked on a ferry, across the straits to Cesme on the Turkish side. I said that I was going up to the port to try to sort it out. ‘No, don’t do that. Have a coffee in the lounge and I will make enquiries for you.’
I wandered to the terrace beyond the lounge and sat outside in the sunshine.
There was a considerable wind blowing. The northerly Meltemi. It belied the heat of the day and made it a very refreshing place to ponder and watch the ships going in and out of the harbour.
After a bit Guher returned with the phone and said that the earliest boat with availability was at six pm tomorrow. I agreed that was fine and she suggested that I pick the tickets up soon just in case.
Finding the Turyol office I presented all the relevant documents and returned. ‘All ok?’ asked Theodore, I nodded my thanks. ‘Good good, did they ask if the car was in your name?’ ‘Yes they did.’ The logbook was in my name but it was not something that I had thought about. ‘A month ago this couple stayed with us and left for Turkey.’ he said. ‘When they arrived they said the port authority had examined their docs and found that the car was in a company name. This meant that they were made to go to the regional capital to sort out the paperwork, taking the best part of a day. I found this out because they told me all about it on their way back.’
Phew, I thought, no matter how much you research you still have to learn on the ground.
I trudged through the town to a restaurant they recommended north of the port. I was told to avoid the castle which blocked off the coast. But after an hour I was completely lost. My right middle toe that had been dogging me most of the trip was now throbbing and making me limp badly. Coming to a tyre fitters I went to ask for directions.
I was immediately taken to a woman sitting in isolated splendour in a soundproofed and air conditioned office at the back of the shop. She brought me a cup of coffee and called a cab. ‘You are completely in the wrong part of town. It is a 40 minute walk from here and at midday you will fry.’ We got chatting and I told her that I had driven from London. ‘Oh!’ she said smiling ‘I don’t suppose you need any tyres?’ I laughed. ‘I had to ask’ she said, ‘my boss would beat me if I didn’t!’
The cab dropped me at a concrete pier. Trawlers moored alongside. And tables set out around the building with blue and white tablecloths flapping in the breeze. It’s the simple welcome that you see everywhere you go in this country. The promise of good food and great hospitality.
On the way the driver had said that it was a very good place for fresh fish. Make sure you drink ouzo with it, it goes very well with seafood. I told him my ouzo drinking days were behind me. ‘If you don’t drink ouzo I’m not picking you up again!’
‘Okay, okay…I’ll give it a shot.’ Easily led.
The restaurant was no more than the kitchen of a house attached to the market. Outside, two fishermen had just finished a plate of shrimps so I ordered that. And a bottle of ouzo and a beer. They were fantastic and yes, I believe their flavour was enhanced by the ouzo. Ahem..!
The waitress came and cleared the fishermen’s table by dumping all the remains onto the paper tablecloth. Immediately around 20 very skinny cats arrived from nowhere and followed her around the building for their midday feast.
Nearing the end of service the waitress clocked off and walked out to her car giving me a wave. A black and white cat -obviously her favourite – walked on its hind legs alongside her as she stroked its head. It jumped through the window into her car as she started up. She got out and removed it from the passenger seat and it ran around and got into the driver’s door. After seeing her remove it twice more I went over to help her and picked up the cat, waving his paw at her disappearing car.
When the cab arrived. He sat with the engine running and the doors locked until I walked back to the table and showed him the empty ouzo bottle. ‘Ok then, let’s go.’ he said with a grin.
Back at the hotel I stumbled up the impressive marble staircase to my room. I opened the shutters which looked original and were rounded by thousands of coats of paint against the sea breeze. Outside on the generous balcony I sat in a chair and tried to read. But the gentle warmth and soothing zephyrs (and of course the bloody ouzo) had made me sleepy. So I got into bed, under sheets so heavily starched that I had to pat them down around me.
Falling asleep with the doors open and the muslin curtain wafting in the breeze I was reminded of Tennyson’s The Lotos Eaters:
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.