Cleaning

This morning I went into Koroni with my landlord his partner/girlfriend/wife (not quite sure about the status) - they have been together 11 years, and this is the second go around for each of them, so I believe that they are steering clear of the whole marriage thing. That is, at least, what I have gathered without directly asking.

They asked me to go out for coffee with them because they wanted to get to know me better, as well as show me the best places to eat, drink, buy bread, and lounge in Koroni. I had only been onto Koroni once before today, and I am certainly going back, probably tomorrow. It is about a half hour bus ride away, through bouganvilla drenched side roads. I am hooked.

It is the loveliest Greek town - white washed buildings with red doors, and blue doors, and yellow doors and orange doors, covering the hillsides, going all the way down to the water. It has cobble stoned streets, stone steps leading up the hillside, and is really like something from a storybook.

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After getting back from coffee at about 2:00, I knew I had to confront what I have been dreading since my second week here: cleaning.

I don't mind organizing - I love it. But cleaning - actually sweeping and mopping and scrubbing toilets and dusting are a huge struggle for me. I have been known to pay a sister or two an exorbitant fee to do cleaning for me.

I know you would never suspect it, but I am really, really squeamish. The detritus of living never ceases to disgust me, even if it is solely my own. I knew I had to do something though, because the bathroom was looking a little sketchy, and the floor was kind of shameful. I am a fairly tidy, clean person, and I have done random cursory cleanings -- but after four weeks of living here, it was time for something official.

So - I popped some gum into my mouth (the minty freshness counteracts the waves of grossed -out inspired nausea), and put on some Eminem (the best kind of distraction from a distasteful task), and got to work.

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About twenty minutes in, I started to wonder if I could hire one of the old ladies in the village to do my cleaning for me. I was having such a hard time not throwing up all over the floor, that if I hadn't known that there was no possible way that I could be pregnant, I would have thought I was.

I thought only a pregnant woman could suffer from nausea that severe, over something so inconsequential.

Because, truly - I was only sweeping up my own hair, and my own dead skin cells, and occasionally beating a spider to death with my broom; I was swallowing every 2.5 seconds to try and quell the rising bile.

When I was finally done - after cleaning out the shower probably better than anyone has in the last year (Believe me: I have been wearing flip flops in there, and shaving my legs in the sink in order to spend as little time as possible in its vicinity. It has taken me this long to psych myself up to clean it.) - and on my way to wash my hands for about 20 minutes, I passed a mirror and yelped in horror.

My face was a grayish white, and drenched with sweat. I looked like I had been to hell and back, and would never recover from the experience. As I stood by the sink and dumped half a bottle of dish soap on my hands and arms, my hands were shaking so much I could barely manage to turn on the tap.

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I just have to realize that I am a delicate rose bud, there is nothing I can do about it. As a consequence, I really have to find someone who can find me a maternal, grandmotherly cleaning woman. I can't go through this again.

I just can't.

Alternatively: Jane, how would you like to visit Greece?!

Be proud, my parents, for raising such a delicate specimen of womanhood.