Bread, Bathing suits, and Blisters

Yesterday, I walked into the local village, Charokopia, to explore a little.

Finding my way into the village with surprising ease (it was a gorgeous walk across the top of the valley, through yet more olive groves), my first stop was the bakery. There are a few local bakeries here, and I seem to be addicted to buying bread. It is the hearty "peasant" kind of bread: whole wheat, seeds, sourdough etc, and it is delicious.

Thus far I have eaten a slice or two out of each loaf before chucking it (*blush*), but I just love walking into a bakery and choosing a plump, fresh loaf. It seems so...storybookish, for some reason. And when faced with a slightly staling 1 or 2 day old loaf, put up against a baked-that-day loaf...which would you choose?

As my brother says, to justify his excessive drinking and occasional smoking "every man must have a vice." Since I don't drink excessively, and I only ever smoke when I drink (so it doesn't count), I have counted my vice, up to this point, since I am otherwise perfect, as watching every single episode of every single season, of every single city in The Real Housewives empire.

Having given up trash tv for my foray into Greece, I now count my vice as buying excessive amounts of bread that I will never eat and having to throw most of it away.

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After buying my bread, I meandered down the street to this bizarre shop that had socks, underwear, bathing suits, notebooks, pens, towels, shirts, and random piles of other things.

I think I was possibly the only customer of the day, and so had the undivided attention of the proprietress. I motioned towards the swimsuits, and she gave me a quick updown.

"A 46, I sink." What the sam-hell is a 46, and does she really think I am the size of a moose?!

She pulled a coraly red suit from the rack. "Color, for you. Size, perfect!"

She showed me the label sewn onto the swimsuit. " Greece, size 46; Great Brittania, size 10; USA, size six! Perfect size for you. Good color."

Glad, at least, that I had not expanded to fit into the largest size I had ever heard of, I took her at her word, seeing as how there was no change room, and plunked down 27 Euro for the privilege of having a bathing suit chosen for me, with almost no say on my part.

She was right, though. It fit perfectly, and it is an excellent color.

I made a sad effort to say thank you in greek (efharisto), asked her what time church started the next day ("You, Church?! Goot girl!), and went on my way.

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It was nearing one o'clock by this time, and having had breakfast at 6, I should have been hungry. But I wasn't, so my original plan of going to the local taverna and sampling some pig, or whatever else they put on a spit and roast all night, was scrapped. Instead I headed for the coffee shop on the corner and plopped my sweaty self down on the patio.

...where I was confronted by a gorgeous Greek man who waited eagerly for my order. I think he had the nicest smile I have ever seen; it struck me, quite literally, dumb. I tried to form words that would convey the type of drink I wanted, but most of my mind was taken up with why he was running a backwoods coffee shop, instead of knocking in Calvin Klein's door in New York.

I mean, really.

And then I created a fiction for myself, about how he had been given the opportunity to leave, but had chosen not to, because he wanted to save his soul from the bleakness of the modeling world. Because, you see, he is not only beautiful, he is virtuous.

All this before I had a chance to spit out "frappe!"

At which he smiled, bowed, and said "sugar?"

Oh, yes, I will be your sugar.

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I rounded out my day with a long swim in the sea, which, along with the sand, aggravated a blister (that I had popped) on the inside of my baby toe to such an extent that it crossed my mind that I should just cut my foot off.

It still hurt at bedtime, and this time pain was shooting up my leg. When I looked at it carefully, my toe was the color of a lobster, twice its normal size, and rather hot to the touch. I started to hyperventilate, convinced that I was going to die of blood poisoning in about 2.5 seconds.

I wracked my brains for something, anything, that I could do to save my life. For some reason, the chamomile tea that I had bought that day popped into my head. Chamomile is supposed to be soothing, right? It made sense at the time.

Hobbling to the kitchen, I grabbed the tea, and noticed my jar of honey. Well, honey has antibacterial properties, right? Or something.

So, I soaked the tea bag in hot water, slathered honey on my aching toe, wrapped the toe in the hot tea bag, and then swaddled the whole thing in paper towel.

This morning my toe was back to its normal size. And then I remembered the tube of antibiotic cream that I had the foresight to pack, but not the brain to remember.

Hopefully I will remember it the next time I contract deadly blood poisoning.