VICTORIA CAULFIELD & GEORGINA TURNER seek sensual pleasure in Greece Clutching our factor 30 in true Brit style and looking for a change of scenery from the dreaming spires, we set off this summer to the land of sensual pleasures – Greece. Later, falling off the plane at a time when even Hussein’s is closed, collapsing under the weight of our rucksacks, and with a bus door slamming in our face, we were wondering when the holiday was going to begin. First stop was the medieval island of Rhodes – better known for its 18-30’s resort of Faliraki – where sex is as readily available as Retsina. After a year in the Oxford desert we couldn’t resist a stop. Sadly, fate became our contraceptive. Several hours later we woke up, blurry eyed having slept through the neon lights and the cries of Nelly’s, “its getting hot in here, so take off all of your clothes”. Lindos appeared to be our new destination. A rather more cultural one than had been intended but at least the rape alarm could be tucked away in the handbag. Tor, horrified at the thought of another “monument day”, decided it was an appropriate time to email the parents and impress them with the unexpected culture, rather than the usual suntan news. Yet before we knew it we are sitting in the ‘Luna Bar’ with cocktails being thrown our way by a big motorbike rider/cocktail bar tender called George. The decision is made and publicly broadcasted: George is the new guy in our lives. The size of a sumo wrestler, clad in a black vest, with tattooed muscled arms rippling, he is a surprising softie at heart, with a soft southern Texan drawl. As a local of Lindos for eight months of the year, he gives us a useful insight. Not only a local information point but George also offers free alcohol and provides us with private tuition in cocktail education. Achieving the feats of getting two past salmonella sufferers to drink a raw egg concoction. As the tax receipts pile up under the ash tray after numerous cocktails and shots are consumed, the enormous George doubling before our eyes, we make our broadcast. “George is the best cock…t…tail maker in the world, got something for…for everyone…we love him”. Collapsing back on our stools, Tor starts chatting to some English forty year old with a blatantly fake cockney accent and the subject seems to be Chemistry… we wonder what men find impressive… One thing for sure – it’s not working. Podge starts talking to a sailor from Plymouth who has never been further in his ship than Ipswich. Our own Faliraki is perhaps not so different after all. The e-mail Tor’s parents received that night was not the one that had been intended, the computer in the bar suddenly having a surprising appeal in the early hours. Luckily for us Greece may have its Falirakis but just around the corner is that perfect hangover retreat. Genadi, south of Lindos, proved to be ours. The peace was only disturbed by the formidable silhouette of George on his Harley Davidson scouting the beach for us – an abrupt reminder of our promised lunch date from the night before. The rapid dive under the sunbed was the only hindrance to our recovery… Contrary to what you might think, Greece does have places where you can whip your top off without the penalty of a £1500 fine. In Ikaria, a remote, secluded island where fishing offers tourism some competition, we discovered some more unusual sights than on your typical day at the beach. The nudist beach at Naz is the ultimate in liberation. Not only for the chance to bronze those always glowing in the dark bits, but also an impressive hippy commune, if you take the wrong turn. A few needles, and unintelligible conversations later we finally were pointed in the right direction. The hippy commune and nudist beach stand as a bizarre foreground to one of the most ancient ruins in Greece. Sun goddess Podge was in heaven – although finding it rather difficult to focus on the pages of Robinson Crusoe. The man to the left who should definitely try the latest anti-wrinkle cream, and the very fit Swede on the right with his porn star body were not conducive to our reading habits. The least pleasurable bit of any holiday is the actual travelling, not least when you are a definite Class C candidate. Somehow the rucksacks didn’t do much for the Class A quality we thought we could pass as. Made outcasts on top deck for the duration of a 22 hour ferry journey, our cafeteria no more than a sign, we certainly knew our place. Any attempt at entering the ’Saphire lounge’ below was thwarted by the little grey haired Greek man whose English amounted to “shoo”. Thankfully with bargains struck on a victorious treble win at backgammon, we claimed our bodyguards, Joseph and Jack – English gentlemen all the way – to guard us while we froze into sleep. We definitely felt like the stereotypical Bridget Jones when one day we were forced to ask some people where we were. I think the tourists who we targeted thought we were completely past hope when they initially replied, “Rhodes, Greece”. Then, when they replied “Mount Smithe” we gaily set out on a mountain hike without a map – all in aid of maintaining our mixed lacrosse fitness of course. After three weeks Podge finally weaned typical Brit Tor off factor 30 and was glad to report that the tans reached a satisfactory level. While we found that Greek sensual pleasures remain a myth, evident only on graphic sexual position postcards which could even outdo More’s ‘position of the fortnight’, Greece certainly gave us that alternative to the dreaming spires. Maybe looking back it was that clichéd girly holiday, but as the ancient Greek saying goes, “Girls justa wanna have fun!”ARCHIVE: 0th Week MT2003