August 2011 Calis
BLOG 70 Here!
The mini-bus passes the Escape Bar; there are still people sitting outside under the large canopy, sipping their Efeses. We’re just a minute away as we bump our way down the dirt road . . . and there it is! Our villa is on the corner, all lit up, garden, pool and terrace. I can see the yellow and white stripes on the umbrellas so carefully chosen months ago. I’m breathless with excitement. OH is staring through the window.
“Is that our villa?” he asks in astonishment. (he has not been gazing at photos month after month, looking at the inch-by-inch progress or lack of it, as I have.)
As I clamber down the steps of the bus, I can hardly wait to enter. The driver has the keys and he brings our cases to the front door and opens up. I help OH to the door. I hardly know whether to rush around outside or see the inside first. I suppose, the inside, as I want the driver to carry our cases upstairs to the bedroom on the first floor.
Finally, we’re here. The driver has gone, our cases are in our bedroom and we can look around and take it all in. I gaze around me in the bedroom where we have elected to sleep. The beds are made up with the linen and covers I chose so carefully to match the curtains. Those curtains are so bright! Did I really choose that lime green? Why? Now, I remember looking at a number of tiny material samples when choosing the colour of curtains for each room. Sure looks different when hanging ceiling to floor. I resolve to create a suitable painting to go with the curtains to enhance the bright, tropical feel (I’ll call it that rather than a garish green)– maybe a still life of lemons –or white and yellow daisies? All those lovely white walls, just crying out for my paintings! I’ve run out of wall space at our home in London. I leave OH and dash downstairs again. There, in the centre of the dining table is a bunch of flowers in a vase with a note pinned to them. I want OH to be with me and call to him to come downstairs too. “Hold onto the rail!” I call (don’t want him slipping on these marble stairs).
“What do you think?” I ask.
“It’s amazing” he replies and points to the vase with flowers. “Who put that there?”
I open the small envelope pinned to the cellophane. Inside is a card with writing that says: “Welcome to your Turkish home”.
We just stand together, holding hands like a pair of young lovers. “It’s from L.” I answer at last. I can be sure of that as I know that neither of the directors nor the new manager would have thought of it.
Our Turkish home and we haven’t been upstairs to the top floor yet – or explored outside. We open the sliding glass door to the pool, glimmering and shimmering, lit from beneath the water. The lights are on in the garden showing the newly planted ‘limone’ (conifers) trees and the oleanders; the grass is just beginning to come through the soil. The evening air is warm as we walk slowly around our newly planted garden. We go inside and close the curtains, looking for the light switches to turn off the outside lights. I find the switches for the garden lights but not the pool. Oh well, we’ll find it in the morning. Plenty of time to explore - now for the top floor –
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. . . to be continued . . .usually posted on Thursday
