God Bless Cambodia

by Randy Ross

  Next I wander the narrow alleyways of the Monastiraki shopping district. In one boutique, a tourist couple is trying on hats and leather sandals. The woman giggles too much and her dangly earrings remind me of Dani. I leave without trying on anything.

  More ruins. More marble columns. Moth-eaten dogs sleeping on ancient slabs. Poor Harold. I drift by outdoor tavernas trying not to notice the couples gazing into each other’s eyes over warm candle light.

  Sightseeing has never been my thing. As a kid, I didn’t like to just look at pretty stuff. I drew on it, jumped on it, and threw it to see if it would survive a crash landing on a tile floor.

  Sightseeing is now one of those activities, along with furniture shopping and apple picking, which I do only with a girlfriend, and even then, only as foreplay.

  Dani once dragged me to a Vermont country fair. While she gazed upon the distant mountains, I contemplated her tanned thighs. While she marveled at the works of local artisans, I thought about her extensive bra collection: lace, pushup, plunge, backless, racerback.

  Dying dogs, gazing couples, memories of Dani’s fabulous rack. I haven’t gotten laid, in what, six months? My mood is starting to spiral. Time for a gym.

  Back at the Kalamata, there’s a new desk clerk, an attractive thirty-something reading a magazine. She’s pregnant and puffing on a cigarette. Same overflowing ashtray.

  “Signomi,” I say. “This may not be your area of expertise, but is there a health club nearby that’s open tonight?”

  Through a plume of smoke, she answers in a heavy accent: “Who greatest football player of all time?”

  My toe starts to throb. I feel my jaw tighten. This Hellenic Who’s Who is getting old.

  I reexamine the photos on the wall behind her. “Let’s see. It’s not Alex Karras. Not Fred Smerlas. Must be Olympia Dukakis.”

  “Good one,” she says in perfect English. “I couldn’t resist. I heard my father busting on you last night. Here’s a free pass to Stefanos Gym two blocks away, open till ten. Try to relax, koukla mou. Remember, you’re in Greece.”

  Blog Entry, September 10

  Omonia Square, Athens

  The people, the sights, the culture—I could go on and on, but these Internet cafés charge by the hour.

  The highlights:

  People

  • As advertised: More warm and welcoming than the Mediterranean sunshine. (Lenny: The women are all smoking hot.)

  • Big on relaxation and fun. Only thing that puts them in a bad mood: A no-smoking sign.

  Sights

  • How to describe the awesomeness of the Acropolis or the majesty of the Temple of the Olympian Zeus? Impossible, so let’s move on.

  Culture

  Went to Monastiraki, the party district last night. Ended up in a taverna: ouzo, bouzouki music, belly dancers, plate throwing, waiters setting fire to the floor. Danced around the flames and shards. Greeks yelled “opa.” I yelled “huppa.” Somehow I ended up back at my hotel before lunch.

  Got to run. Catching an eighteen-hour, overnight ferry to the Greek island of Cyclonos for a week of windsurfing and plate Frisbee.

  Antío sas,

  —Burns

  At three A.M., eight hours into the ferry ride, I am standing on the rear deck of the Patsas Express, wide awake. The deck seats are empty except for one in the far corner occupied by a tall blonde in low-slung jeans. She’s gabbing on her cell phone in a language I don’t recognize.

  I look away and pretend to take in the Mediterranean. Engines hum, water whooshes and swirls behind the boat in an endless wake. The moon reveals passing islands that vanish into shadows. I glance back. Her belly-button ring twinkles in the moonlight.

  I move to a seat at the opposite end of her row. White lights strung above us illuminate the now familiar blue and white flag.

  She finishes her conversation, snaps the phone shut, and waves me over.

  I start to move. Then reconsider.

  What the hell am I doing? She must have a boyfriend. She’s too young, too hot, too out of my league.

  But why is she up here alone? More importantly, am I as mighty as an oak or as meek as a potato aphid?

  I take the seat next to her and give her my only pickup line: “Having fun?” I ask.

  “I am Nadine. From Russia.”

  “You speak English?”

  “Speak the Russia and the Germany.”

  It turns out she does speak some English, including a few phrases this insomniac longs to hear:

  “Me divorce.”

  “Whisky-whisky.”

  “You look like Bruce Willis.”

  She finishes her cigarette and throws the butt overboard. She lights another and hurls the lighter into the water.

  Good arm.

  She says she’s going to Crete, a few stops before Cyclonos. We’ve got six hours together.

  “Whisky-whisky?” she asks.

  Before I can answer, she bolts inside, and soon emerges with two Cokes and two cups filled with ice. From her handbag, she extracts two nip-sized bottles of Johnny Walker Black.

  Maybe Pittman is right, “On the road, all things are possible.”

  As she’s preparing to throw an empty bottle overboard, I put my hand out to stop her. “Your velocity is good,” I say. “You just need a little motion on that fastball.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What is this? What is this?”

  Did I just blow it? What do I do now?

  I caress her throwing hand. Her fingers are long, her nails are lacquered, and her skin smells like a fresh sliced apricot. I spread her fingers into a little peace sign around the bottle.

  “Split fastball,” I say.

  She smiles and whips the bottle into the Mediterranean.

  I hand her another empty. “Nadine, if you mix in some off-speed stuff, you’ll be unhittable.” I move her fingers into another grip and show her how to impart topspin. “Curve-ball,” I say.

  Splash.

  She opens her purse and starts grabbing things: a tube of eyeliner, a plastic comb, a portable mirror, more tubes, more combs, a tampon.

  As she throws, I yell out pitches. “Change-up, four-seam fastball, forkball, fuckball, spitball, snotball, red-eared slider.”

  She reaches for her wallet.

  “No, no. Wait. Not that.” I try to distract her. “How about a whisky-whisky?”

  She nods.

  As I’m fixing her a drink, I hear a splash. “Fuck the money,” she yells to no one in particular.

  I snap my head in her direction. She’s smiling and holding her wallet. The cushion from the seat next to her is gone.

  “Messing with you,” she says.

  I mix another round.

  As we drink, she talks nonstop in what I’m guessing is Russian with some German thrown in. At one point, she flashes her middle fingers overboard and yells: “Scheisse!”

  Then she waxes lyrical: “Scheisse, scheisse, meissa, mouse-a, moose-a.”

  I join in: “Scheisse, scheisse, fo-feissuh, banana fana fo feiss-uh.”

  “Bruce Willis, you funny man.”

  The engines rumble and the ferry begins a wide turn, then it backs up to a concrete pier. Nadine points beyond the pier to an illuminated switchback of roads leading to the top of a thousand-foot cliff.

  “Santorini!” She jumps up and starts to dance.

  I yell “Santorini!” and jump up to join her.

  She brushes against me. She brushes against me again.

  Then we’re in a full-body embrace. My lips are inches from her right earlobe. It looks like a tiny grape. I take a nibble. Nadine groans and pushes me away. She shakes the ice in her empty cup. “Excuse,” she says and heads inside.

  Good idea, Nadine, this party could use a little more whisky-whisky.

  I stand at the railing and wait.

  And wait.

  There’s a commotion on the gangplank below. A uniformed man is gesturing to a young woman. Nadine. “Lady, lady, your ticket for Crete, Kr
iti.”

  Nadine shouts: “Santorini! Santorini! Fuck the money. Scheisse! Banana fannah fo feishuh.”

  She stumbles onto the pier, a little purse in one hand and a seat cushion in the other. She smiles up at me and waves. “Auf Wiedersehen, Bruce Willis.”

  I watch her zigzag into the night.

  The engines start to hum. Water begins to swirl behind the boat in an endless wake. The moon reveals a drifting still life of the night: a soda can, a crumpled cigarette pack, a fish gone belly up. I head inside for a whisky-whisky.

  The ferry reaches the craggy Cyclonos coastline twelve hours later at five thirty P.M. Tambonia, the main town, is ringed by low-rise, alabaster-white hotels and boulder jetties. Moored fishing dories bob in the water. Taxies idle on a stone quay. A scene straight from Pittman’s guidebook. I exit the ferry, hung over, and spot a stocky, middle-aged woman standing in front of a black Volkswagen Beetle. She’s holding a sign that says “Club Monsoon Welcomes Rudolf Burns.”

  Must be a typo. I let it go and offer a smile as warm and welcoming as the Mediterranean sunshine.

  “I’m Randy Burns,” I say, raising my sunglasses to be polite.

  The woman does not smile or raise her sunglasses. “I am Charlotte. Welcome to Club Monsoon.” She has a gravelly accent that I’m guessing is German. Or Russian. Or Israeli.

  “Was that you I e-mailed last month to make my reservation?” I ask in my friendliest tone.

  “Ya. Now come.”

  Charlotte weaves her Beetle through the quiet streets of Tambonia. Outside of town, rolling brown mountains rise like the shoulders of the Minotaur. We pass boulders, hills dotted with shrubs, small trees bent at forty-five degree angles, a flock of shaggy goats, more boulders, more goats, fewer shrubs and trees. A lone donkey on the hillside. After a night of Scotch nips, my mouth feels as parched as the landscape.

  Club Monsoon consists of a rustic main building and taverna, windsurfing facilities, and a dozen blue-trimmed, white bungalows. The guidebook says the Monsoon offers a Club Med experience at half the price.

  “I will show you to your room,” Charlotte says. “Come.”

  I follow obediently along a dirt path to a bungalow sporting an oversized wooden door. Inside there’s a queen bed facing a Mediterranean view: setting sun, rocky cliffs, miles of azure sea between us and the nearest landmass. I imagine sharing this scene with a Bennie or a Nadine or an Irene Skliva.

  The next morning, I am in the Monsoon’s taverna for a late breakfast. A blackboard on one wall describes the day’s windsurfing conditions as “Beaufort 5,” whatever that means.

  The spread resembles the one at the Bonzi: cereal, cold cuts, bread, and fruit.

  “Guten morgen, Mr. Burns.” So Charlotte is definitely German.

  Her skinny, severe glasses are like Zofia’s. I’m not sure if this is a good omen or bad. She directs me to a table for two overlooking the beach. Glass salt and pepper shakers, a flower vase, and an unlit candle form a perfect arc above the silverware. A woman would love this.

  I scan the room for available women. There’s only one, seated alone by the window, an extra place setting and a steaming coffee cup opposite her. She looks to be in her thirties and is wearing a black T-shirt for the band Scorpions and not much else. Her thighs are coppery, her lips are glossed, and her earrings are hooped. She notices me noticing her and looks away.

  Charlotte fills my juice glass and confiscates the extra setting.

  “Danke,” I say. Other than the lone woman, the other diners all appear to be in their sixties and speaking German. “Is everyone here German?” I ask.

  Charlotte scowls. “I am Austrian.” She points to the buffet.

  Two older women look on from a nearby table. They probably feel sorry for me eating alone. One of the women is wearing a jean jacket over her bathing suit. She’s wearing punchy red lipstick. Her gray hair is long and plaited. She was probably a beauty in her day. Maybe she has a daughter. I smile. She smiles and toasts me with her juice glass.

  At the buffet table, I start piling on the food.

  Next to me, a blond guy about my height and age is filling two plates. “Guten morgen,” he says.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  He introduces himself as Karl. We appraise each other. He’s wearing the same Scorpions T-shirt as the coppery girl. Bummer. I am in full windsurfing regalia: sunproof shirt, swim tights, rubber booties.

  “Wind is not so very much strong today,” Karl says. “Beaufort 5. A day for 7.2.”

  I still don’t know what a Beaufort is, but I do know that a 7.2-meter sail is larger than anything I’ve ever used. Karl has just established which one of us is the hotshot windsurfer.

  “Good idea,” I say. “How far is the windsurfing center from here?”

  Karl points down the beach. “Not so much far. See you on water.”

  “See you on water.”

  He sits down with the girl, reaches over to rub her thigh, and kisses her on the mouth. I turn away and watch a paper bag on the beach spiral up and out of sight.

  The view on the way to the windsurfing center is disquieting: swaying trees, spraying white caps, several sixty-year-olds on small boards zipping around.

  “I’m Randy Burns,” I say to the guy behind the counter. “Or maybe Rudolf Burns.”

  He checks a clipboard. “Not on list.”

  He looks at my outfit. “You know the water start?”

  The key difference between a beach start, which I can do thanks to Edmundo, and a water start, which I can’t do, is that you perform the former in two feet of water while standing on a sandy bottom. The latter you typically perform offshore in water over your head.

  “I’ve seen it performed on TV,” I say.

  He doesn’t laugh.

  “You know the jibe?” he asks.

  A jibe is a maneuver in which you change direction at top speed. Edmundo, Aurek, and Zofia can jibe. I say nothing.

  After a few moments of silence, he points to a small cove a hundred yards away. “Tadpole Beach,” he says.

  At the Tadpole windsurfing center, two teenage guys run out to greet me. They know my name. They are expecting me. They tell me I am going to be the only tadpole this week. I feel a spasm in my nearly healed toe: Empty windsurfing center, remote island, cranky women in severe glasses. I’m being punished for something.

  I ask about the weekly barbecue, the one with the beer and bikinis featured on the company website.

  “Only for summer,” the taller guy says.

  I point to the sun. “What do you call this?”

  “Autumn,” the shorter guy says.

  A gust of wind kicks up some sand that ricochets off my sunglasses and stings my cheek.

  I point to the whitecaps and spraying sea. “I’m a low-intermediate,” I say. “Can I windsurf in this?”

  “We give you small, slow sail. If very too much wind, you blow to other side of cove. Water shallow there, you paddle back.”

  A hundred yards across the cove there’s another windsurfing center, Viva Windsurf, Pittman’s top pick for partying. Even at a distance, I can see that the place is hopping—guys waving beer bottles and girls in stringy bathing suits.

  Originally, I tried to sign up with Viva, but like Club Monsoon, it’s a German-speaking company and their e-mail English wasn’t very good. Being a good consumer, I had questions.

  • How far are you from the ferry?

  • Do you stock light beer?

  • What did your grandparents do in World War II?

  After a few days, they stopped responding to my e-mails, so I went with Club Monsoon, the guidebook’s backup recommendation.

  I am set up with a windsurfing rig that includes a 3.7-meter sail, which is about the size of a king-sized sheet. I point to a sail about the size of a wedding tent.

  “How big is that one?”

  “It is 7.2 meter. No good for you,” says the tall guy. Karl’s sail.

  The wind must be pushi
ng twenty-five miles per hour, stronger and gustier than anything at Mojito. The water is also choppier with waves about three feet high. I decide to make the best of the Beaufort 5 situation, manage a wobbly beach start, and start whipping across the cove.

  Through my rubber booties, the water is noticeably colder than the water in Mojito.

  My sail has a transparent panel for seeing obstacles on the other side. I look for buoys, oversized waves, or oncoming windsurfers but notice, in the distance, only a beach full of wasted girls and chest-bumping guys. Why isn’t anyone from Viva windsurfing today? Novices.

  I pull in the sail to pick up speed. The nose of my board shudders.

  I am approaching the Viva end of the cove, which means I have to turn around, a maneuver called a tack that I’ve never been good at. I shudder.

  I slide the sail toward the back of my board to tack. The trick in tacking is knowing when to hop to the other side of the board, slide the sail forward to catch the wind, and begin sailing in the other direction. Tacking is as confusing as it sounds. If the process does not go smoothly, you stall out, oversized waves knock you off the board, the wind blows the sail onto your head, and you find yourself in the situation I’m in now.

  As the sail presses my face under water, salty water burns in my nostrils. A breath would be good about now. The sail pushes me farther underwater until my feet touch bottom. I push off and swim out from under the sail.

  A crowd at Viva has gathered to watch. I pretend to ignore them and climb back on the board, which is now drifting out of the cove toward Turkey, which I hear is full of skata and malakas.

  At this point, a novice windsurfer might give up and paddle his board to the nearest beach. But I am not a novice.

  I attempt to lift the sail, but the wind blows it out of my hands. A four-foot wave tosses me back into the water. I rinse and repeat several times. Each time, I drift farther toward Ankara. In the distance, I notice a guy from the Tadpole windsurfing center who has stopped what he’s doing to watch.

  For the low-intermediate windsurfer, there is only one thing more humiliating then being unable to reboard your board, and that’s having the beach staff rescue you with a powerboat, while a beach full of drunken douchebags watches.