The first time we took a ferry from Greece to Italy, we drove to the port. Now driving to the port sounds like a perfectly simple venture, but it is not when a blonde is driving (mum) and an 11-year-old is reading the map (me).
So upon seeing the sign that said ‘Igoumenitsa’ we were all like YAY!
Then the glee came to a sudden halt around the time we were up a kilometre high cliff, clinging to the back of our seats and trying not to swerve off into the black abyss. (You know what’s not fun? Mountain drives at night. Learn from me!)
It should have taken about 2 hours, but because blonde driver thought it would be the best bet to go 10km per hour while anxiously smoking a cigarette, it took us more like 5 hours.
But in the mountain scattered along were tiny villages. Well, if a village is two tin shacks, a petrol pump leaning over a cliff and a donkey that looks like it has the plague, then it’s a village. And who inhabited these towns? Raisin people! These people clearly defied death, they were so wrinkled that they had wrinkles in their lines. One woman was so hunched over that you had to stand behind her to talk to her because her head was peering at you from under her ass!
And these people just walked the mountain with their walking-dead donkeys. I have no idea how they went the distance they did. There were no houses around for about a 20km stretch and there the Raisin People were, out collecting wood.
When we reached the end of the mountain I was so happy and vowed to never return to that road.
But we did. A month later. Map in my hand. Cigarette in hers.
At least it was daylight on the second go…