Little Girl

Me. And my Daddy.

My first experience with the radio . . .

Mom must have heard the sobs.

She came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Diane?”

More sobs.

“Diane, where are you?”

She followed the heartbroken sounds to the couch.

To behind the couch.

To the little four-year-old who had crawled between the piece of furniture and the large picture window just behind.

I looked up at her.

Can’t you just see the little tear-stained face?

Mom smiled at me and reached out to pull me into her arms. “Diane, what’s wrong?”

The two of us sat down on the couch.

Mom dabbed at my face with her towel. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“He left her, Mom!” I managed at last.

Mom stared at me. “Who? Left who?”

“He left her. His little girl. Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face was a veritable cornucopia of expressions.

Worry.

Defiance.

Sympathy.

Defense.

With a large dollop of confusion.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

“The man!” I looked at her intently through drenched eyes. Surely she knew him. She had been listening to him. I reached out and grasped her arm, giving it a shake. “The man you were listening to!” I looked away. “He was so sad ‘cause he had to leave his little girl in gings-tin-down.” I looked back at her. “Why did he leave her?”

Mom’s face suddenly lit up. “Oh. The radio!” she said.

It was my turn to stare at her. “The radio?”

She cuddled me closer. “Honey, you were listening to a man singing on the radio!”

“But he left his little girl! He said!” I scrubbed at my nose with a slightly grubby hand. “And he was sad.”

Mom smiled. “It was just a song,” she said.

“But his little girl!” I couldn't get past the thought that, somewhere, there was a little girl who was missing her daddy.

“He’s not actually talking about a little girl . . .” Mom began.

“But he said!” I broke in. “I heard him! He said his little girl!”

“In this case he’s talking about his wife or sweetheart.” She tightened her arms around me. “Sometimes men call their wives or sweethearts, ‘little girl’.

I felt my face twisting into my favourite - and most effective - confused expression. “What?”

She nodded. “It’s just their way of saying, I love you.”

“Oh.” I thought about that for a minute.

Just then the front door opened.

Tears and forlorn little girls forgotten, I leaped down from Mom’s lap and headed for the front hall. “Daddy! It’s Daddy!”

Tall and strong, he was there to scoop me up. “How’s my little girl?” he said.

True story.

And here's the exact song, by the incomparable Harry Belafonte. Enjoy!

I have Kleenex . . .

Elixir of Life

Cool, clear water.

The Stringam ranch had plenty of it.

Soft.

Pure.

Clean.

There was only one thing distinctive about it.

And I do mean 'stinc'.

Let me illustrate with a little aside . . .

My Husby's Gramma used to give her kids a dose of 'spring tonic' every year.

It consisted of sulphur mixed in lard.

Eaten from a spoon.

Ick.

But she maintained that it kept them healthy . . .

Well, on the Stringam ranch, we never had to be dosed with this old wives remedy.

Because we got it merely by living there.

Yes, our water was right full of sulphur.

I am not making this up.

Our water was plentiful and healthful.

But reeked like rotten eggs.

The smell of it permeated everything and everyone.

And, oddly enough, we loved it.

We drank it.

Bathed in it.

Cleaned with it.

Offered it, chilled, to anyone who happened to drop by.

And snickered silently when they would hold their noses to drink it.

Poor, unenlightened visitors.

Our animals happily drank it, too.

In fact, when we took our cattle to show, we always had to take time to get them accustomed to the water in the new place.

Most places added chlorine.

Now THAT really stank.

And tasted worse.

I miss our good old sulphur water.

That elixir that kept us healthy and strong.

There is an addendum . . .

The people who bought the old ranch from us hauled their drinking water.

And finally drilled a new well.

I can only shake my head.

Strange, weird people.

Pony 101

My sister on Nipper. He of the quick feet. And sharp teeth.

Horses are smart.

A little too smart.

At times, they are almost human in their need to be entertained.

Their ability to problem solve.

And their dislike of anything work-related.

Especially ponies. The height-challenged members of the horse family.

One such pony, Shay, a little grey Welsh/Arab, was uncannily adept at removing riders.

She would run herself along the fence wall, scrubbing off any hapless humans who may have been astride.

Or, barring that, would duck her head and drop her rider . . . any rider . . . onto the ground.

Fortunately, it was a short drop.

In fact, she was so clever at removal, that the only way she could be controlled was to blindfold her.

That made for an interesting ride.

Nipper, a small, black Shetland cross was known for two things.

His little . . . nippy . . . teeth. Thus the name.

And his own way of avoiding work.

Once his rider was aboard, he would immediately scurry – and I do mean scurry – under the clotheslines.

I should probably mention that there wasn't a lot of clearance.

Many a rider was quickly and neatly - with almost surgical precision – removed.

His patented technique was foiled however, when his rider, my sister, learned to duck.

Surprise turned to chagrin when he looked back after a clothesline pass and realized that his rider was still aboard.

Back to the drawing board.

Pinto, our cleverly named black and white Shetland pony, had the unique ability to ignore all attempts at enforcing a forward direction.

Or any form of speed.

Cajoling.

Kicking.

Shouting and screaming in frustration.

He was happily oblivious.

His downfall came when his rider – me – learned to lead him far, far from home.

Then mount up and turn his head back towards the barn.

Man, those little legs could go.

Star, another Shetland with a – go figure – star on his forehead, was actually quite well-mannered.

Until there were other horses around.

He was definitely one who was influenced by the company he kept. Then his innate talent would show itself.

He could ignore any and all attempts at enforcement-by-rein and follow the crowd.

Carrying his little, red-faced-with-anger passenger to the nearest far-away place.

When these ponies weren't being called upon to perform menial service, they could be found, at any and all hours, with their heads in the feed trough.

The only thing that surpassed their ability to avoid work was their ability to eat.

Why did we keep them around?

They were short and easy to get on.

They were gentle.

And if we could make them do what we wanted, we could handle any problem.

Anytime.

Anywhere.

Education by pony.

It should be a course in college.

And Shammy. Pony Perfection. She without faults . . .

It

Would you argue with that face?

What is it about some people?

They can walk into a room and you know, instantly, that they are a force to be reaconed with.

Growing up, my Dad was like that.

He had a terrific sense of humour.

But if he ever cleared his throat and gave you that blue-eyed stare.

You ran for cover.

And it wasn't even as though there was a threat of violence.

Although his knuckle, properly applied to the top of one's head, could roll your eyes around a bit.

Nope.

He just had 'it'.

Dad was the family disciplinarian.

Oh, Mom tried.

She did a lot of talking.

Actually got quite animated.

But it was Dad who was instantly obeyed.

And it carried forward into the next generation.

Allow me to illustrate . . .

My Husby and I had gone out for the evening.

Our (then) three boys were being cared for by my parents.

It had been a fun time for them.

Games with Gramma and Grampa.

TV.

Supper.

And then, bedtime.

Gramma bathed them.

Dressed them in clean pyjamas.

And tucked them into bed.

The youngest in a crib.

The two oldest in the double bed in the spare room.

All were told, firmly, to go to sleep.

Only the baby obeyed.

The older two laughed and giggled.

Bounced and played.

Several times, Gramma marched in.

Demanding quiet and slumber.

She was given neither.

Finally, she brought in the big guns.

She sent Grampa.

My Dad opened the bedroom door.

Two little boys turned to look at him.

“That's enough!” he said. “Sleep!”

Then he closed the door.

Silence descended.

A while later, Mom went to check on the boys.

Both were sound asleep.

But how they were asleep . . !

She gently closed the door and returned to the front room.

“Mark, what were the boys doing when you went to the bedroom door?”

Dad looked up and frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know,” he said.

Mom said, “Come with me.”

The two of them went back to the bedroom.

Mom opened the door once more and motioned for Dad to look.

Mark, Jr. was sitting up, leaning against the headboard.

Erik was laying on his side, propped up on one elbow.

Both were sound asleep.

Dad looked at them. “Yeah,” he said. “Like that.”

They had passed out almost the instant Dad had ordered it.

Now that's authority.

Larger Than Life

See? C.U.T.E.

How had I never noticed this before?

And how long had this been going on?

Maybe I should explain . . .

I was at the movies.

Something the kids in my family did at least once a week.

The highlight of said week.

This particular picture was a western.

My favourite.

But something was different this time.

Oh, there were the usual items of interest.

Horses.

Lots and lots of horses.

And I think there were cattle also.

But for the first time, I noticed that there were also . . . cowboys.

Cute. Cowboys.

Huh.

When did they get there?

One cowboy, in particular, caught my attention.

Black-haired and lithe.

Slim and well-muscled.

And oh-so-delicious in jeans and boots.

Wow!

No wonder people liked westerns so much.

And I had thought they came, like me, to see the horses.

I was glued to the screen every time he appeared.

Which proved to be frequent.

Being as he was the star of the picture.

I was so enraptured that I didn't follow much of the story.

Oh, there were a couple of noteworthy parts.

One, in particular, featured one of the secondary cowboys being captured by bad guys and then creatively tortured with cactus needles within earshot of his buddies.

The next morning, his badly abused body was dropped in the middle of their camp.

I will admit it. It made me sick.

Literally.

For two days.

But even that horrifying scene couldn't dim the splendour of my new hero as he saved the day.

I watched eagerly for his name to be mentioned in the end credits.

Audie Murphy.

I said the name over and over.

Committing it to memory.

Then I headed home.

“Mom, did you know that there are really cute guys in movies?”

My Mom stared at me. “Umm . . . yes,” she said, rather cautiously.

This was a new topic of conversation for me and I'm sure she was wondering where I was going with it.

“Well, the movie I just saw starred the cutest guy ever!” I said enthusiastically.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “His name was Audie Murphy! Oh, Mom he was soooo cute!”

“Audie Murphy? THE Audie Murphy?”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Have you seen the picture?”

Mom laughed. “No,” she said. “But I used to drool over Audie Murphy when I was your age!”

Now it was my turn to stare. “Really?”

“Oh, I was so in love with him!”

“Huh,” I said and headed for my room.

My mom had been – had been – in love with my hero when she was my age?

He was . . . old?

Yikes.

I never saw my new/old hero again.

I think the movie I had seen was his last.

Newer, younger heroes took his place in my world.

Heroes that my Mom had never dreamed about.

But, oddly enough, at this end of my life, it's Audie Murphy that I think of when someone mentions their screen heartthrobs.

I guess it's true.

First love is always the sweetest.

Good Prank

Tools for tagging and/or causing trouble

As the only veterinarian for 100 square miles, Dad was called upon for many different animal situations.

Some dire.

And some not so much.

It was also his job to carry out the government programs of the time.

Brucellosis testing, for one.

And vaccinating for whatever was currently deemed important.

I should probably explain that, when a government vaccine program was initiated, the bottles of vaccine were sent along with little, metal tags.

After an animal had been properly vaccinated, a tag was clamped at the edge of one ear.

Proof of the deed.

Both duties involved long hours standing beside a chute - vaccine gun in one hand and tagging pliers in the other - while cattle were shuffled and sorted.

One herd was taking a particularly long time.

Unseasoned help?

Uncooperative animals?

Whatever the reason, Dad found himself standing for long periods of time with literally nothing to do.

Not a good situation for someone like him.

Mischief happens.

The owner had turned away, trying to see over the fence at what was going on in the next pen.

Dad glanced over.

The coat and coveralls the rancher was wearing were . . . right there.

Hmmm.

He reached out with his tagging pliers.

And tagged.

Deftly (Ooh, I like that word!) and effectively pinning the man's coat and coveralls together.

The work continued.

Cattle were pressed forward down the chute.

Vaccinated and tagged.

And released.

Finally, the long job drew to a close.

As Dad was packing away his instruments, the rancher invited him inside for a chat and a hot drink.

I should mention here that the people who live in the wide stretches of ranching country are among the most welcoming and friendly in the world.

Any excuse is a good excuse for an invitation to visit.

I love it.

Back to my story . . .

Dad accepted the invite - albeit reluctantly. He knew what was coming . . .

The two of them walked to the farm house.

And into the back porch.

Dad removed his boots.

The rancher did the same.

Dad removed his coat.

The rancher . . . didn't.

Oh, there was an attempt.

Some grunting and a couple of gruff words.

But, for some reason, the man and his coat simply couldn't . . . part company.

So to speak.

Finally, the man stripped off his coat and coveralls together.

And discovered the little, metal clip that held both of them firmly together.

He turned an accusing glare on Dad.

Who, with a wide grin on his face, found somewhere else to look.

The tag was easily pried off.

And coat and coveralls hung neatly – and separately – in the closet.

But the prank was never forgotten.

For years afterwards, whenever vaccinating, my Dad, veterinarians in general, the Government, ranching, chores, or ranch life were mentioned, that rancher would recall the time that Dad stapled him into his clothes.

The days come and go on a ranch.

But a good prank goes on forever.

SOME Cat

My Kitty

We had two Jersey milk cows.

Jerseys are small, light brown, gentle cattle.

With enormous, soft brown eyes.

They are a joy to work with.

Easy to milk.

Patient and quiet.

Our two cows came to our family ready named.

Okay, the names weren't all that creative, I will admit.

Or suitable.

Still, they stuck.

The taller cow was Bunny. The one a trifle shorter? Kitty.

The two of them gave us enough milk to supply our needs.

As well as the dairy needs of half the countryside.

We drank the milk.

Separated out the rich cream.

Churned butter.

For three years, we lived in Jersey Heaven.

Enough background . . .

I had a friend who travelled about the area cutting hair.

Her skills were required at our farm every six weeks.

Obligingly, she showed up.

Scissors in hand.

To cut an endless parade of shaggy heads.

On one occasion, I was busily churning a batch of butter.

My friend was working in one end of the kitchen.

Me and my butter were positioned in the other.

As she worked, she kept one eye on what I was doing.

Finally, she had to ask. “So, where do you get your milk?”

I smiled. “From my Bunny,” I said.

Her eyes got big. “From your . . .?”

My daughter interrupted. “No, Mom. This milk came from Kitty!”

“Oh, yes.” I looked at my friend.”From my Kitty,” I amended.

Her eyes got bigger as she stared at the enormous amount in the butter churn. “You actually . . . milk . . . a kitty?” she gasped out.

For a moment, we stared at each other.

“Yes . . . I . . .” I stopped, suddenly understanding her confusion. I laughed. Not a real kitty,” I said. “A cow, named Kitty.”

“Oh,” she said, relieved. “For a minute, I wondered.”

I had a sudden mental picture of trying to milk a cat.

It wasn't pretty.

Then I glanced at the two gallons of milk in the churn.

Yep. I understood my friend's look of astonishment.

That would have had to be some cat.

Someone's History

The building beckoned, as they do,

With thoughts of finding something new.

I dropped the gate and rode on o’er.

Excited just to go explore.

What I thought was an abandoned barn

A stout refuge from storm, or harm,

Was definitely something more,

A house, a home. From years before.

Now windowless, shingle-less, too,

The door hung on one hinge, askew.

Old rubble did the floors pollute,

And glass was crunching ‘neath my boots.

A stove, a one-time work of art.

Inclusive of the nickel part,

Now lay supine and punctured, split.

Some degenerate had blasted it.

I wondered, “Could I haul it back?

And save it from its sad attack?

Then fix, repair or retrofit

And somehow make the best of it?”

But realized, as I sometimes do

There was no way I could renew.

And sadly turned away; To find,

Another treasure left behind.

In one old bedroom near the stair,

There was a box of letters there.

I sat down on the dusty floor

Soon deep in lives lived long before.

I tucked away the words of love,

And climbed up to the floor above.

To find some boxes neatly stored

With clothes and magazines galore.

But, though the find was truly grand,

I daren’t try to touch - with hand.

For broken panes allowed, unchecked,

With pigeon poop was all bedecked.

Then, at the rafters did I stare,

Some ancient denim dangled there,

So long forgotten by someone,

Tossed and left when work was done.

Moved over to the window then,

Looked out upon the fields again.

I thought about this home, bereft.

Why they came. And why they left.

It once had shone with tender care

As proved by what was left in there.

But abandoned by those that had made,

And from the landscape did they fade.

Was death a reason? Poverty?

Had fortune kicked them to their knees?

Old age? Illness? Friends with flaws?

I sighed. There must have been a cause.

As I rode home, my thoughts were few,

Considering a life askew.

But grateful to have chanced to see,

The glimpse of Someone’s History.

Each week, Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a six-word challenge.

And 'challenge' it is. Six un-related, very random words.

Her instructions? "Use them, me hearties!!! Mwahahahaha!"

True story.

This week's challenge?

Inclusive, retrofit, supine, dangled, denim, degenerate

I don't know about you, but they suggested poetry to me . . .

Many of you have heard this story - I've written about it before.

It just sounds different in rhyme.

The Best Hike

Mom and TYO. Below: Cascade Pond

If there’s a cute way to say something, kids will find it.

It’s up to the adults to remember . . .

Nearly every year, our family vacationed for a week in Banff, Alberta.

We loved it there.

We had a particular hotel we liked to frequent.

Our kids learned to swim in the pool.

Play kick-the-can in the nearby woods.

Use the workout room for . . . working out.

Climb a neighbouring mountain to breakfast at the top.

Wander through the nearby townsite.

Hike.

Avoid the herds of elk.

Fail miserably at tennis.

Play wall-e-ball in the squash courts.

And sit by the fire in the evenings playing games.

For that one week, we existed in paradise . . .

It is still our favourite destination.

Unfortunately, our little two-bedroom apartment no longer accommodates all of us.

But we arrange for extra rooms and those who can, come.

Now our children are passing their wonderful memories on to the next generation.

Teaching their children in the pool.

Showing them the best places to hike.

And that is where this story is leading.

I do take a while, don’t I?

Moving on . . .

We were doing the ‘little kids’ hike around Cascade Pond.

The easiest one of all.

It is a lovely spot, with trails and bridges in a figure eight around and over a pretty pond.

An opportunity to see nature up close without a too-arduous hike to and from.

The smallest children were with us.

Feeling very important as they participated in their first hike in the wilderness.

Our (then) three-year old granddaughter had stopped with her mother to look at something.

Seeing that the rest of us had moved on without them, she ran to catch up.

It wasn’t far.

Unless you were three.

By the time she caught up to us, she was pressing one small hand to her side. Obviously, someone had developed a stitch.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Oh, my feelings!” she said breathlessly.

What can make a stroll through the beauties of nature just that much better?

A little touch of ‘cute’.

Going hiking?

Take a child.

Yep. Just add 'cute'.

The Ugly Tourist

A GUEST POST BY GRANT TOLLEY

See? Invisible.

Tourist.

The word evokes many images – almost all of them negative – in the mind of anyone who is not one.  Yet, it cannot cease to amaze one, that we can despise the tourist in others, while adopting so many of those . . . er . . . interesting characteristics when on vacation ourselves.

My wife and I recently toured the islands of Greece.  I am an anthropologist by training, so invariably we spend a lot of time people-watching, as well as enjoying the sights and scenery. While overall it was a truly memorable and delightful trip, we inevitably encountered a variety of tourists, exhibiting a variety of ‘touristy’ characteristics, all of which we tried desperately to avoid, even though we were, technically, in the ranks.

I swear that what follows is an accurate representation of our observations of fellow tourists.

The Loud Tourist

This category of tourist has a number of sub-groups.

The first is The FogHorn Tourist. This is the traveler who doesn't seem to mind announcing, at 100+ decibels, intimate details of their life to the entire world.

“But Henry, I’m sure I packed your hemorrhoid salve!  That’s just awful, to get hemorrhoids.  And on your birthday too!”

I've heard a lot of sad tales, but I've never heard of hemorrhoids appearing on someone’s birthday. I always thought they appeared somewhere else.

And another FogHorn, who told the following tale of woe :

“I was so sick! First I was throwing up.  My supper and everything! And then I had diarrhea all night! Oh, I tell you, Mildred, it was just awful!  I didn’t know which end was which!”

No comment.  I only hope that at half time, she switched ends.

Second in the Loud Tourist category is The Anglocentric Tourist.  This is the one who believes that any foreigner can understand English if it is spoken slowly, and loudly enough.

“Toi-let pa-per.  Toilet paper.  You know [insert largely obscene but mostly incomprehensible hand gestures here], TOILET paper.  In the BATHroom.  TOI-LLL-LET! TOI-LET-PA-PER! IT’S ALL OUT! IN THE TOI-LET!! [more incomprehensible hand gestures]”

One can only smirk when, at the end of this performance, the hotel clerk says, with a straight face and in Oxford English: “We’ll look after it right away, madam.”

The third sub-group in the Loud Tourist category is The Airhead Student Tourist.  This category consists of students fresh out of a college semester, who apparently are touring exotic lands for the first time.  They can be both Loud and Ugly, and for all their education, are seemingly under the impression that because they are in a non-English-speaking country, they are the only ones on the bus who actually speak English.

The following particular pair stood eight feet apart during a 45-minute bus ride, sharing their intimacies with – they thought – no one, again at 100+ decibels.

“They didn't check my ticket.  How do they know I paid?”

“Well, like, when I first came, I thought the same thing, so once I didn't buy a ticket, and the ticket inspector came and asked me, and I, like, totally freaked, and they hauled me down to the police station, and I was, like, totally hysterical, and then you know what?  Like, then I got my period, and it was just awful, a big mess, and I started crying, and they still fined me 65 Euros, and then they let me go, but on the way home, I was attacked . . . ”

After 20 minutes or so of this, the conversation turned to :

“I am so jealous of you, you've had so many loves in your life!  Like Jeff.  Was he, like, a major love, or just a mini-love?”

“Well, he was kind of a mini-love, but turned into a major love, and I was, like, so totally in love with him, but he dumped me, and I was sad, but I got over it quickly . . .”

When this pair got off the bus, someone behind us breathed out an exasperated “Thank goodness that’s over!”

We were not alone.

The High-Tech Tourist
This is the tourist who carries:

·         a regular camera

·         a digital camera

·         a video camera (sometimes two)

·         a cell phone

·         an electronic chronometer watch

·         a digital light meter

·         a GPS indicator

·         an IPad

·         an IPod

·         several other indistinguishable gizmos

This particular breed of tourist becomes totally dysfunctional when something – anything – beeps.  I took perverse delight in sidling up close behind High-Tech tourists and making the alarm on his watch beep.  I have to admit that the unfortunate victim looked like a human windmill as he tried to figure out which toy was making the noise.

The Bleary-Eyed Bar Tourist

Truly amazing to us were the people who spent thousands to travel half-way around the world, only to spend thousands more getting plastered, day after day, in the hotel bar.  There were a few on this most recent trip.

“Why, shore, when I [hiccup] was in Australia, they got good wine there, you know [urp], the bar at the Hilton had ‘em all, it was great . . . [hiccup] . . . an' I even got to see one of them weird kangaroo thingys . . . "

 The Map-Impaired Tourist

 These hapless souls are the ones standing on a corner peering at the street signs, while wrestling with an indecipherable, gigantic map that is desperately trying to be a kite.

The same ones you will see, two hours later, on another corner a block away, with the same map.

In the same wind.

And the same helpless, confused look on their faces.

“Harriet, I know we've been here before.  I remember this bakery.”

“Are you sure, Harry?  I don’t remember a bakery.  I don’t recognize anything!”

Harry then squints at the street sign.

Harry then turns the map upside down. 

And peers at the street sign again.

And at the bakery again.

“Just give me a minute.  I’ll figure this out.  What street is our hotel on again??”

The Know-it-All Tourist

 “Look, honey, your favorite perfume.  L’Air du Temps.  Look at the price!  It’s really cheap here.”

And suddenly a helpful, friendly third voice joins the conversation.  It is the Know-it-All tourist standing next to you who jumps in to show off his or her supposed knowledge about the country you are visiting.

Or anything else.

“Oh, yes! It’s because Greece is part of the European Union now, and they can get things from other countries in Europe really cheap.  That’s a marvellous French perfume.  L’Air du Temps.  That means Birds in Flight, you know.  I’ve been to France three times now . . . . . ”

The Obnoxious Tourist

 “Take this back!  This is . . . this is disgusting.”

The Obnoxious Tourist is rejecting his meal in a four-star restaurant.

As loudly as he can.  For the whole restaurant to hear.

“But sir,” objects the server in her faltering English, “eet is zackly what you order.”

“I didn’t order no #@&% rabbit-food crap like this!”

“Sir? Did you not order the horiatiki?”

“No, @#$%&*.  I ordered the @#$&% Greek salad!”

“But sir, that is what horiatiki means.  Greek salad.”

“Well, %$#*& it, why didn’t you tell me there were $%#$ black olives in it!  I hate olives!  They don’t make Greek salad like this back home.  Why don’t you @#$%& foreigners learn how to make it right!”

The Insensitive Tourist

 There are several sub-species in this category as well.

First is the Intellectually Insensitive Tourist, (as in just plain stupid).

“Sir? Sir! Sir, please don’t touch . . . Sir, please don’t climb on the statue!  Sir! Sir!? . . . . Security!!”

Next is the Socially Insensitive Tourist.

“Sir, this is a no-smoking area . . . .No, sir, that rule applies to everyone, not just to Greeks.”

And, there is always the Culturally Insensitive Tourist.

“Excuse me, sir, like the sign says, photography is not allowed in the Church . . . . well, sir, because it is a sacred place, sir . . . . well, maybe not to you, but it is to the local people, and out of respect . . . . How would you feel . . . . Oh, I see, well . . . er . . . Churches are places where millions of people go to worship . . . . “

The Invisible Tourist

 Alas, I must confess, we fall into this category.

We try hard to blend in.

Not to be Loud.

Or Insensitive.

Or Obnoxious.

Or Anglocentric.

We try desperately to learn a few phrases of the local language, and practice them rigorously.

We eat the local food.

And pretend hard that we omnivores really enjoy boiled octopus and eggplant mush.

We take the bus.  And the subway.  We refuse to be seen emerging from a taxi.

We are invisible.

At least, we would like to believe no one can tell that we are that most abominable of creatures, tourists.

But still, people know.

Somehow, they know.

They speak to us first in English.

How could they tell?

Maybe it’s the lobster-red, sunburned noses.

Maybe it’s the broad-brimmed sun hats we wear, out of mercy for our noses. 

The ones in which no self-respecting Greek would be caught dead.

I think I get it now. 

Maybe it’s the small Canadian flag.

Embroidered on our shirts. 

And the flag pins on our hats.

And the ten pound camera hung unobtrusively around our necks.

And the brilliant whiteness of winter legs sticking out of really scary Bermuda shorts . . .

Maybe we're not so invisible after all . . . .