Heading for Mourtos
Jul. 28th, 2007 07:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sawylI was woken by my nephew pounding on the cabin door to tell me that Constantinos had just arrived from Athens, after catching the 06:30 flight. C and I went for a wander round the town before stopping in a cafe for breakfast and to catch up on the last decade of our lives.
Having studied economics in Athens, C was very unimpressed by the lack of scientific rigour involved. He said that most of the course was about how to use market economics to get rich quick and that a number of the professors were either government ministers or civil servants with monetarist axes to grind. He said that at one point, when they were studying the stock market, the professors encouraged the students to make investments based on their theoretical knowledge and as a result, one student managed to lose $20k when the market bombed. Fed up academia, he abandoned the scholastic life in favour of jazz piano and career behind the scenes at Greek TV.
Returning from breakfast, C and I passed our time boggling at the people on the other side of the quay. We even got to see the Great Man himself, who C was convinced was a James Bond villain, as he returned from his morning cycle rid. We knew it was him because he was leading a skein of security people, wearing a bright fluorescent Lycra top (all the minions were wearing black) and when he arrived, the yacht crew stopped goofing around and brought out towels and glasses of water on salvers for him. A few minutes later, the helicopter pilot — again in his socks — came round to warn us about an impending departure, and the Great Man off back to Moscow or London or wherever it was he'd sprung from the previous evening.
We too decided to make our excuses and leave. We tanked up with water and headed over to Mourtos on the mainland. A mere three hours later — there was no wind and we were forced to motor the whole way — we were tied up on the quay (next to a boat proudly flying the Devonian flag, no less) so that pater could spend the evening gluing the rubbing strip back on to the dingy using some Greek glue he'd bought to replace the stuff he'd had confiscated at Birmingham airport.
Once the glue was dry, we had dinner at Maria and Georgio's taverna where, as usual, we managed to over order. Not the worst thing in the world, considering the quality of the stuffed aubergine.
Having studied economics in Athens, C was very unimpressed by the lack of scientific rigour involved. He said that most of the course was about how to use market economics to get rich quick and that a number of the professors were either government ministers or civil servants with monetarist axes to grind. He said that at one point, when they were studying the stock market, the professors encouraged the students to make investments based on their theoretical knowledge and as a result, one student managed to lose $20k when the market bombed. Fed up academia, he abandoned the scholastic life in favour of jazz piano and career behind the scenes at Greek TV.
Returning from breakfast, C and I passed our time boggling at the people on the other side of the quay. We even got to see the Great Man himself, who C was convinced was a James Bond villain, as he returned from his morning cycle rid. We knew it was him because he was leading a skein of security people, wearing a bright fluorescent Lycra top (all the minions were wearing black) and when he arrived, the yacht crew stopped goofing around and brought out towels and glasses of water on salvers for him. A few minutes later, the helicopter pilot — again in his socks — came round to warn us about an impending departure, and the Great Man off back to Moscow or London or wherever it was he'd sprung from the previous evening.
We too decided to make our excuses and leave. We tanked up with water and headed over to Mourtos on the mainland. A mere three hours later — there was no wind and we were forced to motor the whole way — we were tied up on the quay (next to a boat proudly flying the Devonian flag, no less) so that pater could spend the evening gluing the rubbing strip back on to the dingy using some Greek glue he'd bought to replace the stuff he'd had confiscated at Birmingham airport.
Once the glue was dry, we had dinner at Maria and Georgio's taverna where, as usual, we managed to over order. Not the worst thing in the world, considering the quality of the stuffed aubergine.
