Tag: writing

Tippling Through Lisbon in My Lounge Wear

lesleyklenk

Our journey to Portugal began with the most innocuous question.

“Where did you get those pajamas?” It was Paul asking the question and we were on the plane from Seattle to London.

“They aren’t pajamas,” I was indignant. “They are lounge wear. They will be very comfortable on the plane.” I held up my leg and pulled the fabric up to my knee. “See, no seams, soft lining. Perfect.” I reached out my toe and kicked him gently. “You are so silly. They are not pajamas.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled and settled his glasses on his nose. It was to be his most frequent comment of the next twenty-four hours–and more.

It was an uneventful journey, but seeing how we were sitting in row 52, it took us ages to get off the plane and into the main center of Heathrow Airport. We looked at our watches. We had twenty minutes to get across the airport and get on the plane to Lisbon. I shouldered my backpack and looked grimly at Paul. “Ready?” He nodded. We began to skirt around the edges trying to get around the Seattle crowd that had flown with us. Every time I managed to inch forward, an older lady with hair that looked like George Washington’s, shuffled in front of me. She was really shuffling–her heels never left the floor. I looked at Paul and the woman’s husband was blocking his progress. Fuming, I bounced behind them on my tip toes like Mohammed Ali psyched for a fight. “Come on,” I urged silently. When they broke left for the escalator, Paul threw his head right towards the elevator.

From there we climbed more stairs, took more elevators and finally arrived at Terminal 5. Terminal 5 in Heathrow is the gateway to Europe, and with the right timing, you could fly right through. This is where I prepared myself. My new favorite TV show, Border Security, Australia, had taught me how to sail through Passport Control without being pulled out of line for an inspection. I steeled myself. I did not know where Paul was, but it was every person for herself now. Don’t be too friendly; don’t stare; don’t look away; don’t tremble, don’t cut lines, and above all–don’t bring fruit. The sniffer dogs will get you every time. I passed.

I turned around and looked for Paul. He too, watched a lot of Border Security, and he had survived the non-inspection. So had shuffling George Washington and her silent husband. We jostled in line to get on the plane. “Paul, I don’t think our bags are going to make it.” I scanned the row of suitcases riding up the ramp of the plane outside the window. I did not see any robin egg blue bags. I began to worry.

The pilot and the stewardesses were obnoxiously cheerful.

“We’ll just go once or twice around the hole and then we’ll be on the way,” the pilot said with a note of satisfaction in his voice.

“What hole?” I hurumphed.

“Hmm. I think it is the city,” Paul said not looking up from his book.

Two stewardesses pulled their cart up to us after we had cleared the hole’s airspace.

I’m starving,” I whispered. “What the best sandwich?”

“Oh, darling, you’re peckish,” the blonde one cooed. “You might fancy a Jolly Hog Sausage Bap.”

I looked at her blankly. “A sausage sandwich?”

“Yes, with ketchup and brown sauce.” Her eyes were merry as she returned my gaze.

“I think I’m going to just get a cocktail,” I announced weakly. I was still pondering the origins of brown sauce. “Do you have an apperol spritz?”

“Orange?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“Madge, will you go to the back and get a bottle opener from my purse? 22A fancies a tipple.”

“Tipple?” I squeaked.

“You did say a spritz?” I nodded. “Yes, it’s definitely a simple tipple once we get the bottle opener.” She expertly flipped the lid off the bottle and handed me a cup of ice. “Here you go, dearie.” She looked at Paul. “You want a tipple too?” I turned to look out the window. I have a history of not being able to control my giggles.

“Glass of wine, please.”

“Why didn’t you order a tipple?” I swirled my orange drink in my glass.

“Please.”

I smiled at him and placed an impulsive kiss on his cheek. “We can discuss this later, okay?” I saw his eyes blaze with recognition. First, I must search Google for the murky origins of the word tipple. Perhaps it was a British Airways pun. Or not.

“Hmm.”

We got to Lisbon, fought a crowd of welcomers and searched for our bags. Paul checked the airtag. There they sat, the robin egg blue beauties, on the runaway in Heathrow. We were stuck with the clothes on our backs and whatever we could snuff up in our backpacks. It was a disaster: we each had one pair of underwear, one pair of socks, and the pants and shirt we were wearing.

“Paul…” I wailed.

“Hmm,” he responded with raised eyebrows.

“You are right,” I pouted. “Lounge wear is just another name for pajamas. What am I going to do?”

“Hmm,” was Paul’s careful response.

I’ll tell you what we did. We filed a claim with British Airways and, as I read the paperwork, I saw that I could claim up to $1000 in toiletries, clothes, shoes, and meals until our bags arrived.

The next day I hit Portugal’s main shopping district, Rua Agusta, and proudly marched through the stores wearing my cozy, no-seam, flannel pajamas. It was hot, the crowds were dense, and my thighs drowned in the flannel garb. I couldn’t manage to max out my British Airways claim, but I did buy some Portugal-only clothes for the beach while also scoring four sweaters for the upcoming Olympia winter. I failed in one capacity: I could not find Paul his favorite “whitie tighties” that seem reserved for men over age sixty. In our case, he was ahead of his time, I guess.

I tossed my overflowing bags under a table graced with a crisp white table cloth and pulled my sticky shirt off my skin.

“Sangria, please, white.” I huffed. Oh dear, that was rude. “Por Favor,” I waved. The waiter nodded his head knowingly. I don’t often have a drink on my own. My grandmother would have called me a hussy, but Paul had a different reason.

About ten years ago, we were in wine country in California. Paul had a headache and I was starving. I ended up sitting at a bar at a country club eating a French dip sandwich and arguing with the bartender about the need to recognize the designated hitter as an approved position. I guess I raised my voice because I was politely escorted from the building because of “non-member entry.” I should go back. I’d taunt him with Edgar Martinez’s acceptance into Coopertown.

So here I am in Portugal a decade later sitting in my pajamas at a ritzy restaurant on Rua das Portas de Santo Antao. The sangria arrived, and I knew instantly mine was better. I make it every year on the first ninety degree day in Olympia. I lifted my finger for one more glass, and I debated with myself whether or not to tell him a glut of brandy would bring out the fruit flavor. I smiled and kept silent. I’ve grown in ten years and I am pretty sure my pajamas would not support my cause.

It Was Not My Birthday–Reykjavik’s Small Lie

It Was Not My Birthday–Reykjavik’s Small Lie

lesleyklenk

It all started because of a tiny white lie, but by the time we tried to catch it by its tail, it was too late. It was Saturday night in Reykjavik, Iceland, and the Spring crowd was itching for a party.

“Let’s go for it,” I murmured to Paul while keeping an eye on the growing crowd in the bar of the Apotek Hotel in downtown Reykjavik. I fluffed the large, colorful pillows behind my back on the bench seat as we surveyed the tight of group of people waiting for dinner reservations or drinks in the bar.   

“It’s 8,900 kroner,” Paul replied sipping his martini. “Do you think we need a $75 dollar dessert?” He pointed to the cost of the humdinger in the menu and tapped his finger on the price.

“It comes with fireworks,” I said lifting my chin to the ginger-haired waiter. “How often do you get fireworks?” I asked and placed our order.

The Apotek hotel is located in the center of the city. Large windows face out onto Althingisagardurinn Street, where restaurants, a church, and the original parliament building, Althingi, straddle the city park. The hotel was originally known as the “Reykjavík Apothecary” or Reykjavíkur Apótek. It was designed and built in 1917 and renovated in 2014. Think of it as an iconic building as well as a hotel. It is an architectural gem in the city as well as party central.

“You know it’s her birthday,” Paul commented as the waiter placed my rosy, pink gin drink on the table in front of us.

“Really?” the waiter’s face brightened. ‘I’ll tell the wait staff.” He turned away.

“Wait,” I called. “Will you take our picture when it comes?” He nodded and hurried out of the room.

That is how the innocent lie was spun.

Slam!

The front door opened and shut in the ferocious Icelandic wind. A large, blonde man with Nordic-blooming red cheeks wearing electric blue, spandex jogging pants sauntered to the corner of the room where an aging, but carefully put together, woman was cocooned in the far window of pillows and fluffy, wool blankets. He held out his arms and roared hello. The woman jumped up and wrapped her tiny legs around his torso.

“My goodness,” I whispered to Paul and sipped my pink concoction.

“Shhh,” Paul said staring at his phone. He was working on a deal back at home, and as long as I didn’t wrap my legs around his waist and make a scene, he was content.

Slam!

A large family squeezed past the door and into the vestibule. The mother had that look of exhaustion I remembered from 25 years ago. She was literally on her lips, or her last leg, or just one moment short of hysteria. Her husband looked around for the restroom and ditched her with two children under the age of six and her elderly in-laws standing next to the largest window facing the park. The kids immediately climbed up onto the bench and began blowing wet bubbles on the glass. The mother sank onto the jewel-tone hassock and peeled the jackets off the kids.

“She needs a drink,” I observed and tipped my head in her general direction.

“Sshh,” Paul said under his breath. “You have no idea how your voice can carry in a small room like this.”

Slam!

We all looked towards the door as a young, twenty-something woman with impossibly long legs with equally impossibly long blond hair burst into the bar. She sashayed into the noisy, bright room wearing patent leather black boots that stretched above her knees. Up top, a short rabbit fur jacket grazed the top of her bare tummy. Paul lowered his phone to peek at her.

“Better not. Remember, it’s my birthday,” I said slightly louder than necessary as the woman took off her coat and shook out her platinum tresses.

“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you,” three waiters bearing a large copper platter of desserts rounded the corner and placed the enormous tray in front of me. A fireworks cone in the middle of the ice cream and cake hit its stride and began spurting fire in earnest. Dried ice snuggled around the dishes began to smoke and waft towards us grower thicker and thicker.

People began clapping and whistling and Mr. Spandex stood up and motioned the bar to join him in singing happy birthday.

“Sing, Paul.” I said under my breath. “The birthday girl can’t sing to herself.”

Paul looked at me and warbled weakly as the ginger-haired waiter took my camera and clicked a few pictures.

“Thank you,” I said smiling at him as I dug into a pink, rosebud piece of cake.

“This was more than I expected,” Paul said rotating the tray to him. I placed one finger on it and stopped it in its tracks.

“If you touch the rosebud cake, I’ll make a scene.” I let the platter swirl towards Paul and licked my spoon.

“Happy birthday, dear girl, you don’t look a day over fifty,” the large Nordic man and his girlfriend patted my shoulder with enormous hands. “Goodbye,” they called.

Thank you, my fifty-eight years love you odd people. I thought.

I looked down and a sticky child with defeated brown pig tails stared up at me.

“Here,” I said sighing and held out two macaroons. “One for your brother too.” She scampered back to her mother and buried her face in her mother’s shirt. When she sat up a chocolate smear was emblazoned across her mother’s chest.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said to Paul. “Touch the rosebud cake and you will regret it.” He nodded and dug into a caramel-looking flan.

When I emerged from the toilet, there she was—tall boots, short jacket, fake hair.

“Oh hello,” she said smiling, “Happy birthday!” She had a pile of bobby pins scattered next to the sink. One by one she pinned them up into some secret location in her hair. “How old are you?”

I thought for a minute. All this subterfuge was getting tiring. “As old as your mother, dear.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with the bobby pins clenched in her teeth. “My mum’s not forty yet.”

“So,” I said slowly as I did the math, “You are saying I am like your grandmother’s age.”

“About sixty?” she smiled dazzlingly.

“Not quite but yes.”

“Yep, that’s how old my mum’s mum is.”

I thought of all the comebacks I could possibly summon in that moment.  My mind went blank. This girl’s life was a blank slate. She had no idea how many dumb men she would date much less might marry. She had no idea that menopause would make her waist into a tree trunk. Someday she too would pee when she laughed and fart when she snorted. I knew in that moment that I needed to hug that mother in the bar and bless that woman who loved the man in spandex.

“Have a great life,” I said over my shoulder.

Slam! The Icelandic wind wound its way through the Apotek hotel and restaurant and closed the door firmly on my exit.  

The Button Men of Greece

lesleyklenk

Buttons. It is possible to tell how much feral masculinity a Greek male has based on how many buttons he has undone on his shirt. I’m sorry. I don’t have visual proof of this phenomenon–the men did not cooperate, but I am sure you can envision it.

Men in Greece—as most men in the United States—start with their top shirt button undone. It only makes sense. No guy wants to be so buttoned up his Adam’s Apple is straining to maintain its blood supply. Now, two buttons undone reveal both a healthy Adam’s Apple and a titillating peekaboo view of a man’s chest.  It’s the third button that separates the wheat from the chaff—and the easy going from the creeper.

Throughout our travels in Athens, the Peloponnese Peninsula, Corfu, and Crete, lots of Greek men have so many shirt buttons undone I can envision exactly what their first-of-the-morning belly scratch looks like. The more undone buttons, the more audacious the behavior, in my experience. Add in a few gold necklaces and mats of thick black hair, and the air practically buzzes with overt machismo like bees suckling at the breast of the hive.

My first experience with a triple button undoer was our tour guide for the Acropolis and the Parthenon. Small in stature, but large in Greek pride, Spiro wore a Jumanji safari hat and spoke into a microphone.

“Athenia, the goddess of our great country, was bestowed the honor of the dedication of the Parthenon for her wisdom and for her love.” He smiled at the group, sweat trickling down the inside of his shirt. My hand shot up in the air. Spiro paused and desperately looked around at the group. He sighed. “Yes, Madam, you have a question?”

“I was just thinking…how is it that Greek men thousands of years ago did not let their women leave the house, but they worshipped a goddess?”

Spiro stared at me for a long moment and straightened the collar of his shirt. “Athenia was not a woman. She was a goddess.”

Okay, well then.

My next experience happened a few hours later while Paul was napping, and I was shopping. We have an unwritten rule we’ve used for 23 years. While on vacation, he yawns and says he’ll take a rest after lunch while I sit up tall and suggest that I shop so as not to disturb him. It works.

I was in a dress store. We didn’t know it, but most of Greece shuts down on October 31. Only a skeleton crew of tourist-related activities continue until March 1 when the country awakens from its slumber and throws open its doors for the visitors seeking Greek salad, windmills, and ruins. Dresses were on sale, and I was flinging them over my arm envisioning dinners in which I looked like a local. Never mind the fact that the locals were the ones cooking and serving the food.

 “Madam, I take these for you to the dressing room.” The shop owner held out his arms, and his too-tight shirt lifted up exposing a dark tunnel of a belly button covered by a thick fringe of hair. His shirt was unbuttoned three buttons down, which, when you think about it, means a single button was all that stood between me and a half-naked man.

I dutifully followed him to the “dressing room” which turned out to be his office/lunchroom. He draped the dresses around the room and then pulled the door shut behind him. I didn’t know where to put my purse, so I plunked it in the middle of the desk. It was somewhere between removing my shirt and sliding out of my pants that I realized there could be a camera mounted somewhere in the messy room. I yanked my clothes back on and threw open the door.

“I’ll take this one, and I must leave. My husband is waiting for me.” I held up the dress and extended thirty euros to him.

“No, I have more for you.” He dove towards me holding a necklace and earring set. He grasped me by the shoulders and turned me around, so I was facing a mirror. He whipped the necklace around my throat and purred, “Beautiful, yes?” My shoulders shivered. His hot breath fluffed the hair just under the nape of my neck.

“Okay, I am done,” I said firmly. “Put them both in a bag.” I grabbed the necklace and tried to turn around. He didn’t move. Smiling smugly, he whispered, “beautiful American woman.”

“Agnacious!” The necklace slid to the floor and the rotund man knelt to pick it up. Head down, he tugged on the tails of his shirt in a desperate attempt to cover his sagging belly. A tiny woman dressed completely in black from the scarf on her head down to the manly black leather shoes on her feet, slammed a purse the size of a suitcase on the table next to the cash register. A large gold cross swung wildly across her chest.

She shoved the bag containing the dress and the necklace at me, and I left the store. I had just one question: was it his mother or his wife?

Just after we got to Crete, I woke in the middle of the night with the flu. In a tiny part of my brain, I knew I would be fine, but during the hours of vomiting, body aches, chills, and fever, I was certain I was going to die.  

Paul left to find a pharmacy as soon as it was light. When he came back an hour later, he lined up box after box: Tylenol with caffeine, instant glycerol enema, colon probiotic, herbal relief for constipation.

“Who talked you into all of this?”

“The pharmacist.”

“Get me in the car, Paul.” He paused and gave me that look. He was weighing his options: give in and drive me there or go back again by himself.

“Now,” I growled. He pulled the keys out of his pocket.

We parked our tiny rental car in front of the pharmacy and Paul helped me in. Yep, there he was. The Greek Creeper. He had three buttons undone, two thick gold chains, and a big, gold coin ring on his middle finger which he tapped on the Formica countertop as we negotiated my symptoms.

“Look, I’m not constipated. I vomited. I need something for my stomach,” I croaked. I tried to peer around him at the medicines on the I shelf.

“Nauseous?”  He asked and crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the shelves.

“Sort of, but not really. It’s my stomach.” In my delirious state I knew what I needed, but I couldn’t remember the name of the medicine.

“Ah, pregnant,” he said smiling and shaking his head in approval at Paul.

The utter absurdity of his statement made it impossible for me to speak for a moment.  “No,” I said deliberately shaking my head back and forth. “I’m not pregnant, it’s my stomach. My stomach hurts,” I wanted to call him some vile names, but I didn’t know any in Greek.  “I’m old,” I stuttered. “Too old.”

“Not too old, maybe.” His eyes flicked to Paul. He turned and began looking through his shelf of boxes with pictures of women holding babies.

“Pink,” my eyes flew open. “Pink medicine. Pepto Bismo. There. Right there.” I pointed to the shelf where a box of Gaviscon sat. “It is the same medicine, just a different name.”

“No, that is not the right one for you,” he said and turned back to his shelf to rearrange the boxes again.

Paul cleared his throat. “We’ll take that one.” He tapped his finger on the Gaviscon.

“Very well.”

It was silent in the car as we retraced our route back to the rental.

“Pregnant?” Paul’s timing was perfect. Even as horrible as I felt, I couldn’t help but give him a small smile. Now we had to decide what to do with all the constipation medicine.

Two buttons—just right. Three buttons? Watch out!