Below Belief

Wake at 7.40am as our body clocks have become conditioned to do, but soon fall back to sleep and end up sleeping most of the day. It is not Rhodes itself which we find frustrating, it is the cheapness of the tourist industry – smothering all interest and culture here and taking away all that could once have been interesting to see. And yet looking out over the sea in the evening, now the crowds have gone away, and perched as we are on huge rocks silhouetted against the setting sun, I am once more struck by the amazing beauty of the place and its power to inspire me despite the filth crammed along the shoreline.
Only one more day in Rhodes. But the tale was guaranteed to get worse. In our efforts to get our hands on the plane tickets which guarantee us a seat home, we have returned to the travel agents no less than eight times. Each time we have been told to come back later or the next day during the ridiculously long hours Contours hold. The crowning turd is that on our last visit our cheerful assistant tells us she has the tickets. Our relief is audible. Unfortunately, nothing about the tickets m bears any resemblance to the ones we thought we’d paid for. These ones are to Birmingham at 3.25am on Thursday. We exclaim loudly in protest but her response is curt. ‘Say nothing, you are lucky to have tickets at all.’ There is not much we can realistically do. The Dear Sir letter is already mentally written.
Moods are not improved by a poor night’s sleep. This only reminds us of the lack of sleep we’re going to get at the airport tomorrow when we’ll have to wait there for 15 hours for our flight to come in.
We travel to Lindos on a cramped bus. It is different, with its little square whitewashed houses, a little more up market, but still Rhodes. We aim for a cheap day so when it costs 1200 Dr (£4) to get up the Acropolis on the hill, we decline. Instead we decide to break in from the rear. Considering the castle was built to keep intruders out, we find it surprisingly easy to get in. Chris scales the wall while I take pictures. Only when he reaches the top to find a group of German tourist looking down him, does he think twice about sneaking in. Too many people for me to try, but it was a moral victory. The Acropolis was breached.
We sit on the beach under the shade of bamboo umbrellas and try not to spend any money. Americans dance merrily away in the bar to loud taped Greek music – which is, when I come to think about it, a lot like Greek food in terms of originality and ability to poison. All goes well until at 6.45pm and last ones off the beach, we traipse up to the bus stop to find the last bus home went at 6pm. Our carefully calculated finances all go to pot and despite extensive efforts (some in German) to secure two more people to share a taxi, we are forced to take one ourselves and must pay the £12 fare between us. All hopes of food for tomorrow and tonight are gone – all my money is spent. Depression turns to amusement. Can there possibly be another blow to our happiness in the last few days of the holiday?
Dinner is Heinz chicken soup and two day old bread. A thunderstorm ends a sorry day.

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