At the printer in the office the other day, my Italian colleague remarked on my nice summery tan (and plethora of freckles!) and asked where I had been on holiday? When I informed him that I had spent a glorious week on the island of Zakynthos in Greece, he became very excited and started reciting the following sonnet (which he later emailed to me... someone had had too much coffee...). I stopped him around the second verse, politely, reminding him that although I was impressed with his Poetic Recall, my Italian does not extend far beyond "buongiorno principessa" (from my favourite film "La vita è bella"). Anyway here she, is, and beneath, the translation.
Sonnet IX, "A Zacinto" - Ugo Foscolo written 1802-1803
Sonnet IX, "A Zacinto" - Ugo Foscolo written 1802-1803
Nè più mai toccherò le sacre
sponde
Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque,
Zacinto mia, che te specchi nell’onde
Del greco mar, da cui vergine nacque
Venere, e fea quelle isole feconde
Col suo primo sorriso, onde non tacque
Le tue limpide nubi e le tue fronde
L’inclito verso di Colui che l’acque
Cantò fatali, ed il diverso esiglio
Per cui bello di fama e di sventura
Baciò la sua petrosa Itaca Ulisse?
Tu non altro che il canto avrai del figlio,
O materna mia terra; a noi prescrisse
Il fato illacrimata sepoltura.
Ove il mio corpo fanciulletto giacque,
Zacinto mia, che te specchi nell’onde
Del greco mar, da cui vergine nacque
Venere, e fea quelle isole feconde
Col suo primo sorriso, onde non tacque
Le tue limpide nubi e le tue fronde
L’inclito verso di Colui che l’acque
Cantò fatali, ed il diverso esiglio
Per cui bello di fama e di sventura
Baciò la sua petrosa Itaca Ulisse?
Tu non altro che il canto avrai del figlio,
O materna mia terra; a noi prescrisse
Il fato illacrimata sepoltura.
Translation by Nick Benson:
Never will I touch your sacred shore again
where my young form reclined at rest,
Zakynthos, regarding yourself in waves
of the Greek sea, where Venus was
virgin born, and made those islands bloom
with her first smile; nor did he bypass
your lacy clouds and leafy fronds
in glorious verse, the one who sang
of fatal seas, and of the broad exile
after which, exalted by fame and by adventure,
Ulysses kissed his rocky native Ithaca.
You will have nothing of your son but his song,
motherland of mine: and our fate already
written, the unmourned grave.
So that's a bit beautiful - Ugo Foscolo was born on Zakynthos in 1778 when in was under occupation by the Venetians. He moved to Milan after the collapse of the Venetian empire and never returned.
My time in Zakynthos may have been a bit less poetic, but no less epic.
The Spartan Run
I was really nervous about this. The longest and most important training run of the entire marathon running period. Really nervous. I calmed my nerves by telling everyone all about it and putting a tonne of pressure on myself. This didn't help a great deal, but I certainly learnt a thing or two about the way I cope with obsticles. Or something.
Anyway, I didn't want it hanging over me the whole holiday, so I had some massive pasta on the first night and snuck away early to bed, while the party rolled on. Rising early (maybe 5am?!) I had some of the bagels that I have brought with me, a load of water and then I went for it.
I had already measured out a 15km loop on the island, so the idea was to do that twice and then a bit more, and come back, and lie down. I set out as the sun rose, a little after. As I had already feared and joked about with my friends - there were loads of people still out from the night before, drunk and stumbling around, being sick, being carried home or wondering around aimlessly, wondering where their hotel was.
I'm not gonna lie and put a false smile on this. It was really, really hard. It was hot, dusty, the route was boring, long. It was the hardest physical training I had ever done.
I got alot of thinking done. I had alot to think about. So it was good to have this time with just me and the road (and a couple of guard dogs testing the lengths of their harnesses, some zippy vespas and the odd car).
Then I ran out of things to think about, and spent the time drawing nice parallels with the birth of the marathon in Ancient Greece and my training, and how I'm just like one of the 300 Spartans. This made me feel strong and legendary and wonderful. 33km or 4 hours and 13 minutes later, I was done.
It was hard - I was slow, dehydrated, and I really struggled, but I still can't wait for the Marathon. This whole thing has been completely incredible.
Then I went to a Tinie Tempah concert, because, yeah, I'd earnt it.
No Panties in Zante
If you thought that Zakynthos, or Zante, its Venetian name, was an island of poetry and endurance running, then I'm sorry, my preciouses, but I have been leading you up the garden path.
Zante is a hedanistic playground for twenty-some-things to dance around, act irresponsibly and have a wonderful time. It's a right-of-passage for British culture to do these types of holidays, with your mates, preferably in matching t-shirts, to spend far too much money, get up to all sorts of mischief and get a glorious suntan.
All of the clubbing package destinations offer a similar set-up, Malia, Zante, Kavos, Ayia Napa, Magaluf... all the hotels are located around a central strip. Everyone goes out for dinner and drinks in their hotels until about mid-night. Then people start going to a few bars, alongside the strip. The bars all have attractive "promoters" outside. These are usually people who have come out for the whole 5 month season and spend their time luring groups from the street into their establishment, with shouts of:
"Alright ladies, where are you off to tonight? Fancy coming in here for a cheeky little one?"
If you don't want to stop, but want to take advantage of a good offer, you can take a drink for the road, in a plastic cup. Drinking on the street is positively encouraged. As is the inhalation of laughing gas, which is sold everywhere, by the balloon.
Then, around 3am, you hit the strip.
This is where all the big clubs are - and the foam parties, and colours parties, and themed things, and big giant clubs, and full moon nights. For girls it's free to get in everywhere, for guys, less so.
And then you finish up around 8am, grab a gyros, and go on home. Simples.
I got to thinking in my pensive drunkenness how different this was from Tunisia (and yet how physically close we are) and I started to think is this liberating? is this better? Girls and lads feeling free from judgement and social pressures and an oppressive society. I certainly felt happier and more free, but was this just because I understand this culture, it is mine and it has shaped me, that I don't feel the entrapment of it? Because there is still the way we judge one another on looks, still the social pressure to drink and enjoy feeling out of control and still the shaping of a society that encourages an extended youth, a Peter Pan culture of Manchildren and Lolitas, whose lack of responsibility is endearing and playful, why be "only young once", when you can be young forever?
It was wonderful and I was delirious with happiness, but I kept my panties.
Girl vs. Food
This is hard to write you about. On a holiday when I achieved, probably my biggest feat of human endurance, that 33km run, my body also let me down in epic proportions. If you've run long, you'll know this, but after a long, long run, you usually have no appetite. Nada. Not to be too graphic guys, but, all that motion... your tummy is usually in pieces. Just have some protein and some water and wait until things are a bit more settled to replenish those calories.
So after all that running and then the concert and subsequent afterparty. I woke up the next day, with a hangover and the hunger of the Incredible Hulk. So I was ready for a food challenge. Very ready.
It was the perfect challenge. I have been eating Sunday dinners all my life. Big ones too. When I was 18, I went through a summer of eating a Sunday dinner at the pub I worked at, then going home straight afterwards and eating my Mum's roast too. Sometimes I would even go round my then-boyfriend's Mum's too, and so clock three in one day. Good British food, I have no limit for this stuff. The odds were all in my favour, all we had to manage was the execution. The waitress came over, I made my order.
She recoiled back, alarmed. "No girl has ever attempted this," she said. I assured her, I could do it. I must have had a determined look about me, because suddenly she seemed to understand.
I waited nervously, strategically going to the toilet at intervals - Then it arrived:
It was a MONSTER. The waitress warned me, it's the Yorkshire Pudding that will do you in, but my stomach was in lieu of at least 2 years' of Yorkshire Puddings, so I went straight for the meat and potatoes. It was so hot, the gravy was on fire, and the 20 minute time limit had my heart racing.
I did my best. It was delicious, but here's how my plate looked after 20 minutes.
Heartbroken, I fell at the last hurdle. I was so sure and so confident, but alas, it wasn't meant to be.
I saw that waitress many times over the rest of the holiday as her boyfriend worked in out favourite bar. She always seemed to give me the eyes that told me: she knew I was a winner and a champion in my heart, but that Yorkshire Pudding had just caught me on an off day.
My time in Zakynthos may have been a bit less poetic, but no less epic.
The Spartan Run
I was really nervous about this. The longest and most important training run of the entire marathon running period. Really nervous. I calmed my nerves by telling everyone all about it and putting a tonne of pressure on myself. This didn't help a great deal, but I certainly learnt a thing or two about the way I cope with obsticles. Or something.
Anyway, I didn't want it hanging over me the whole holiday, so I had some massive pasta on the first night and snuck away early to bed, while the party rolled on. Rising early (maybe 5am?!) I had some of the bagels that I have brought with me, a load of water and then I went for it.
I had already measured out a 15km loop on the island, so the idea was to do that twice and then a bit more, and come back, and lie down. I set out as the sun rose, a little after. As I had already feared and joked about with my friends - there were loads of people still out from the night before, drunk and stumbling around, being sick, being carried home or wondering around aimlessly, wondering where their hotel was.
I'm not gonna lie and put a false smile on this. It was really, really hard. It was hot, dusty, the route was boring, long. It was the hardest physical training I had ever done.
Then I ran out of things to think about, and spent the time drawing nice parallels with the birth of the marathon in Ancient Greece and my training, and how I'm just like one of the 300 Spartans. This made me feel strong and legendary and wonderful. 33km or 4 hours and 13 minutes later, I was done.
Then I went to a Tinie Tempah concert, because, yeah, I'd earnt it.
No Panties in Zante
If you thought that Zakynthos, or Zante, its Venetian name, was an island of poetry and endurance running, then I'm sorry, my preciouses, but I have been leading you up the garden path.
Zante is a hedanistic playground for twenty-some-things to dance around, act irresponsibly and have a wonderful time. It's a right-of-passage for British culture to do these types of holidays, with your mates, preferably in matching t-shirts, to spend far too much money, get up to all sorts of mischief and get a glorious suntan.
All of the clubbing package destinations offer a similar set-up, Malia, Zante, Kavos, Ayia Napa, Magaluf... all the hotels are located around a central strip. Everyone goes out for dinner and drinks in their hotels until about mid-night. Then people start going to a few bars, alongside the strip. The bars all have attractive "promoters" outside. These are usually people who have come out for the whole 5 month season and spend their time luring groups from the street into their establishment, with shouts of:
"Alright ladies, where are you off to tonight? Fancy coming in here for a cheeky little one?"
If you don't want to stop, but want to take advantage of a good offer, you can take a drink for the road, in a plastic cup. Drinking on the street is positively encouraged. As is the inhalation of laughing gas, which is sold everywhere, by the balloon.
Then, around 3am, you hit the strip.
And then you finish up around 8am, grab a gyros, and go on home. Simples.
I got to thinking in my pensive drunkenness how different this was from Tunisia (and yet how physically close we are) and I started to think is this liberating? is this better? Girls and lads feeling free from judgement and social pressures and an oppressive society. I certainly felt happier and more free, but was this just because I understand this culture, it is mine and it has shaped me, that I don't feel the entrapment of it? Because there is still the way we judge one another on looks, still the social pressure to drink and enjoy feeling out of control and still the shaping of a society that encourages an extended youth, a Peter Pan culture of Manchildren and Lolitas, whose lack of responsibility is endearing and playful, why be "only young once", when you can be young forever?
It was wonderful and I was delirious with happiness, but I kept my panties.
Girl vs. Food
This is hard to write you about. On a holiday when I achieved, probably my biggest feat of human endurance, that 33km run, my body also let me down in epic proportions. If you've run long, you'll know this, but after a long, long run, you usually have no appetite. Nada. Not to be too graphic guys, but, all that motion... your tummy is usually in pieces. Just have some protein and some water and wait until things are a bit more settled to replenish those calories.
So after all that running and then the concert and subsequent afterparty. I woke up the next day, with a hangover and the hunger of the Incredible Hulk. So I was ready for a food challenge. Very ready.
She recoiled back, alarmed. "No girl has ever attempted this," she said. I assured her, I could do it. I must have had a determined look about me, because suddenly she seemed to understand.
I waited nervously, strategically going to the toilet at intervals - Then it arrived:
I did my best. It was delicious, but here's how my plate looked after 20 minutes.
Heartbroken, I fell at the last hurdle. I was so sure and so confident, but alas, it wasn't meant to be.
I saw that waitress many times over the rest of the holiday as her boyfriend worked in out favourite bar. She always seemed to give me the eyes that told me: she knew I was a winner and a champion in my heart, but that Yorkshire Pudding had just caught me on an off day.
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