Unable to cope with life in doom-laden Douglas, Bettie tries to find comfort in a dirty weekend in Greece that turns out to contain entirely the wrong kind of filth.
The real, sorry, scratch that, the only joy of being in the United Flag-waving Kingdom of Queen Elizabeth II is that Europe is less than an hour away. So when I got what I thought was another call from a rabid family member, it came as a pleasant surprise to find that it was in fact the man I had woken up with at The Dorchester. Yeah, him. Once I’d got over the shock, recovered, then navigated past the twin terrors of “How’d you get my number?” and “Sorry to hear you lost your Rolex”, he dropped the bombshell of asking if I’d like to meet again.
I was, like, ‘Whoa! Gimme a moment here!’ but in light of the current state of my latest marital mess, the offer of a weekend in Greece was too hard to resist. And, yes, what this also meant was that technically I was now having an affair.
After telling Big Frank I was at Time To Dye for a crack-wax super-intensive, I arrived in Athens a day early. At loose ends for a full eight hours, I took some pictures of the surrounding buildings in case they decided to fall down before I got back and went in search of the Acropolis. Never did get there, but instead ended up at several other must-see places, such as the Tower of Wind (which had blown down), Socrates’ Prison (he’d escaped) and the Roman Angina for a view of the entire city – which, if you get a hot flash flipping through Construction Site Quarterly, is a must.
I came, I saw, I ate a little lunch and that’s when I felt the first twinges of what swiftly became a chronic case of the poop cramps. Here, diary, is where the real horror began as the last restroom I’d seen was at Heathrow Airport.
Wildly searching the streets, I went into Café Sappho and asked Madame X behind the counter, “You got a ladies room?”
Bad mistake. And once that little misunderstanding was sorted out, the she-man explained: “We no got toilet. We got cappuccino, Coca Cola, Seven-Up…”
Rushing outside I managed, between spasms, to discover there was a public restroom in Greece, but it was located on the Piraeus dock front – over ten miles away. Helpfully manhandled onto a bus, I was squeezed between the collective armpits of eighty-five Greek fisherman who’ve lived their entire lives on a diet solely consisting of garlic fish paste sandwiches. Arriving hours later, I staggered into what can best be described as the vilest torture device ever invented for the weak of bowel. The toilet – and I use the word in its loosest possible sense – consisted of a sludge-filled hole with two footplates positioned at the optimum crouching distance from a gurgling funnel that in any other country would be called the seat. But, by now, I had to go, and that was that. And, je t’adore, it’s funny how you never realize there’s no toilet paper until it’s far too late.
Not what I had in mind when I planned a dirty weekend, I can tell you. Still, at least I’d wasted the entire day.
Rushing back to the hotel, I waddled in and there he was. Tall, handsome, blond and reading a copy of The Reader’s Digest Atlas Of Places Americans Will Never Go To. He was perfect. He’d also bought me a thoughtful gift – a Tiffany something-or-other – which only served to remind me how the last time Big Frank tried to buy me a present, he went to the local jewellery store, asked for something cheap and they handed him a mirror. For the first time since setting foot this side of the Atlantic, I was feeling fabulous.
Later, as we lay alone together, he said, “Ever since our eyes first met across that crowded casino, I wanted to make love to you in the worst possible way.”
