There is nothing sexy about the flight from Geneva to Zakynthos. Rather the opposite, as a matter of fact, as the screaming, sneezing, snuffling toddlers at the back of the plane are enough to put one right off.
After the shock of the almost completely empty Geneva airport (where only the smoking areas were jammed chock-a-block full), it is a wondrous scenic ride as you majestically pass over the Alps into the flat Po valley of Italy and down the coast of Croatia to the Ionian Sea.
The passengers are youngsters with buzzed hair (men) and casual top-knots (women). Everyone sports bare limbs and tattoos. To pass the time, you count the moles on the head in front of you. His companion lifted her mask frequently in order to bite her fingernails. Nerves are on edge as the pilot tells you NOT to turn on the over-head air-blower and that masks must be worn at all times EXCEPT when the emergency oxygen masks pop out.
Most passengers sport ear buds and with blank eyes make small vibrational movements. They are already dancing in their heads.
At least with the 150-minute ride, you do reach a real destination, unlike the planes that are flying in circles these days. (The Quantas “flights to nowhere” are selling like hotcakes.)
Going to Zakynthos is going back in time. Back to the ‘50’s perhaps …. and simple excitement abounds.
Our hosts warn us immediately about the shooting around the house every morning. These are the fall hunters whose sport is to dress in camouflage gear and blast shot in the direction of small birds. Hosts are quite sure that they never hit any of them (as no bodies have been found), but it is quite dangerous and going for a swim or to collect figs from the fig tree is best left until they have run out of ammunition.
There were old-fashioned visit-the-kitchen restaurants, a swim on a turtle-nesting beach, delightful retsina, ruby-red tomatoes, bricks of feta, an ice cream parlour, and souvenir shopping.
Then there was the boxy airplane that flew low over us on the road and disappeared into the sea. This it turned out, was Canadair fire-fighter as there was a blaze in the dry country to the north.
The bush fire was definitely doused by Cyclone Ianos that landed and stuck for a few wind-whipped days. There was no electricity, no water, and, most importantly, no coffee. It was quite a relief for the birds, however, as the hunters all disappeared and dozens of swallows came to our balcony to discuss affairs and dry off.
The airport re-opened and we regained our seats amongst the weary strong-lunged toddlers. My prized souvenir had been confiscated of course, as the customs man, obviously a hunter in his spare time, had taken away my little olive-wood rolling pin.
I suspect marital problems; or, more optimistically, perhaps it was the wife’s birthday?
