This entry was written in 2005, many years after the event. In 1972 I was at the end of
my studies at the University of Exeter. I didn't keep any kind of diary at the time, so
much of this is hazy.
In early August I was in my cottage in Bow, on the north side of Dartmoor. I had just
received my car back from repair, and discovered that the idiots had not connected the brake
pipes properly; a heavy tread on the brake pedal was sufficient to cause the union to come
apart:
I had spent the afternoon fixing this, and in the evening I was lying in bed when Dave
Rozalla, a friend, walked into my bedroom and told me he was heading off on holiday to
Greece the following day. I asked him how he was getting there, and he told me that he was
hoping I'd take him in the car.
Of course we left, with my old 2CV fourgonette in constant need of repair. One day I'll write more details.
I lost track of Dave in Greece (in fact, I never saw him again), and
in Delphi I met a girl called Paula de
Jean, who came
from Berkeley—in fact,
she lived a block from where Kirk
McKusick now lives. The following photos were taken near the temple of Apollo at
Delphi. Paula thought we should drink water from a mountain stream; I was concerned about
infection, but she convinced me anyway.
About today I headed off back to Western Europe with Paula, picking up a Canadian hitchhiker
on the way. We got Gevgelija on the
Yugloslav border, where we required visas. Paula had one, but the Canadian bloke and I
didn't. That wasn't a problem: they could be issued at the border. The border guard told
us to go into the office and get them.
There was nobody in the office, just a counter on one side. I was wondering whether we
should fill them out ourselves, so I went to take a look. Nope—just a book with
handwritten entries in Cyrillic script.
Round this time, the border guard came in. He was not amused. He grabbed the first
passport, opened it, put in a stamp which presumably meant “VOID”, and threw it
demonstratively into a corner. I said “that's the wrong passport”. He
retrieved it, somewhat detracting from the gesture, confirmed that it belonged to the
Canadian bloke, put another stamp in it and gestured to him to go on his way. Then he put
the “VOID” stamp in my passport, decided it wasn't worth throwing into the
corner, and gestured to me to go back to Greece.
I've never been very good at accepting this sort of thing, so I said “Sorry, this was
a misunderstanding”. Another gesture towards Greece.
“Please call your superior”. The guard didn't speak any English in the whole
exchange, even before we entered the building, but he obviously understood. He took me into
a small room in the back, shut the door, drew his pistol, pointed it at me, and gestured
back to Greece.
OK, after three gestures even I understood. I had to leave the other two, of course—I
never saw Paula again either—and headed back
to Thessaloniki, where I met up with
some American blokes and headed off back to Western Europe via Bulgaria, Romania and
Hungary, overhauling the front axle of the 2CV one morning in Transylvania.
I originally told this story on IRC:
<groggyhimself> Mavvie: So, the moral of the story is, I *do* know when to stop complaining :-)
* groggyhimself hides Mavvie's gun.
<Mavvie> hehehehe
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