I called my mom from Greece. She told me about the dog.
Thirty-six years later, I finally understand that conversation differently.
I had written out our nine-week European backpacking itinerary, erased it, and rewrote it multiple times. I had consulted all of the pertinent travel books at the time to decide exactly where we should go: Let's Go Europe, Europe Through the Back Door, Europe on $25 a Day. Through all the revisions, the one place I put on the agenda and never moved was The Pink Palace in Corfu, Greece.
Everyone we talked to, and every guidebook we read, told us it wasn’t to be missed.
With only a black-and-white thumbnail photo in a guidebook to go on, we could only imagine how great it was going to be: the sun, the warm water, the dancing, the other travelers.
My two friends and I had spent the summer of 1990 working multiple jobs after college to pay for this adventure, so we embarked on our trip in September. Traveling through Europe in the fall, we were met with cooler temperatures than we had hoped, but we kept reminding ourselves that we had the warm beaches of The Pink Palace to look forward to.
Eight weeks into our trip, we took an 8-hour train ride from Rome to Brindisi, and then an 8-hour overnight boat ride where we slept on deck chairs under a small overhang—the only sleeping accommodations our Eurail pass afforded us. With the sun just breaking onto the boat deck, we were deposited on the island of Corfu at 6:00am in mid-November.
Before we had a chance to get our bearings, we were shuffled into a windowless white van and carted over the island to the long-awaited Pink Palace.
By 6:30am we were in the dining room being given shots of ouzo to start our Greek experience, and by the time we made it outside and down to the beach I was feeling the effects. But also, thanks to the ouzo, I wasn’t fully registering the raindrops hitting my face.
Walking back from the beach, I glanced up at The Pink Palace and noticed the closed umbrellas, chairs up on patio tables, and windows with no lights on.
That evening, the hotel employees gathered the ragtag 10 or 12 of us who were staying there and sat us in a circle. They broke plates on our heads, gave us more ouzo, and then initiated a game of Spin the Bottle to decide our dance partners.
The next day was much of the same. More rain. Instead of lying on the beach, we watched Crocodile Dundee II in the dining room and ate pizza covered in feta cheese. And this, I suspect, was the source of our troubles.
A few hours later, my friend Polly said she wasn't feeling great and left our little group to head back to our room. When my other friend Amy and I arrived back at the room later that evening, we found Polly had been throwing up since she left us. Amy and I kept saying how bad we felt for her, how terrible this was. And then it started up with me.
One thing about me, I do not like to throw up. And at that age, throwing up was usually accompanied by lots of crying. The next twenty-four hours felt like my body was performing an exorcism. Luckily for us, Amy doesn't eat cheese, so she was unaffected, except for stepping in and taking care of us.
The following afternoon, despite feeling like we were near death, the hotel told us we had to leave early the next morning. If we didn’t catch the boat off the island the next day, we’d be stuck there for another few days.
So in the pouring down rain, we somehow managed to drag ourselves down the beach wearing our heavy backpacks and make our way to the taxi pickup spot by 5:45am. Every few minutes I’d have to stop to get sick, my friend Amy would hold back my hair, and then I’d pick up my backpack and we’d keep going.
After waiting for over an hour, the taxi never came. We had to beg The Pink Palace staff for a ride back to the port in the windowless white van. After much back and forth among them, including acknowledgment of a taxi strike, they reluctantly agreed.
Once we arrived, we discovered that we had indeed missed the boat, but we found a hotel we could crash in for the day or two until we could get off the island. The three of us promptly dropped onto our hotel beds and slept.
The following morning, I was still exhausted and ached all over, but the worst of it was over. I managed to gather up the energy to go find a payphone to call my mom.
This stop had not been on the carefully planned itinerary I had left her. She had no idea where I was.
While I waited for the international call to go through and the collect call to be accepted by my mom 6,000 miles away, I thought back through the past 48 hours. By the time I heard my mom’s voice on the other end of the line say, “Hi sweetie. How are you?” I couldn’t hold back the tears.
I started to explain to her what had happened, the white van, the rain, the feta cheese, that I was close to death, and then I just started crying. My mom listened. I’m sure she responded with something like, “I’m so sorry, sweetie. That’s the pits. I’m glad you’ve made it to the hotel now.”
After more listening, and probably a few more empathetic phrases, she launched into the details of her day back at home, ending with a bit about taking our dog, Meggie, to the groomer.
By the time I hung up the phone, I had stopped crying. I turned to my two friends who were waiting there, and one of them asked, “Well, what did she say? What did your mom say we should do?”
I explained how I had told my mom I was near death, and she had responded by telling me, “I took Meggie to the groomer and she looks real cute!”
The three of us stared at each other for a beat, and then we just started laughing and couldn’t stop.
I wonder now if my mom was more worried than she let on. But what could she do? Her daughter was sick and stranded on an island thousands of miles away.
Once we hung up, she had no idea when she’d hear from me again. There were no cell phones. No texting. No Find My.
She couldn't send a doctor or get me on a boat in that moment. She could give me a little bit of life at home and trust that I could figure it out.
My youngest is currently traveling around Greece and Turkey. When I texted him asking about Athens, he responded with: “It’s extremely intense and crowded.”
And I responded with things like, “Sounds amazing. Like nothing you’ve experienced before. Incredible. Are you loving the food? The gyros from the street carts? Let's make sure to get coffee when you're back."
I know his general itinerary still has stops off-the-beaten-path before he comes home. I can’t make sure nothing goes wrong, but I can trust him to figure things out and remind him that home is still here, carrying on as usual.
And it makes me think how sometimes in life, we’re not always sure if we can do the next hard thing. But maybe confidence isn’t always something we find before we do the hard thing.
Sometimes we only recognize it later, when we look back and realize that when life went completely sideways, we kept doing the next thing in front of us. And the next. We picked up the backpack and kept going.
Meanwhile, ordinary life continues alongside us. Dog groomings. Coffee invitations. People who love us.
Cheers,
Carrie
PS: Photo by my youngest. :)
The more life I live, the more I understand how precious our time is. What even a few minutes is worth. It doesn't go unnoticed that you spend some of your day here with me. Thank you for letting me be a small part of it. I hope you always leave with something meaningful.🤍☕️