POTATO TIME™

I wake up at 4am and 8am, before finally dragging myself to the living room for breakfast at around half 10. The AC in my room had left me shivering under the thin bedsheet, and a quick step out onto the patio restores my strangely adjusted body temperature to a normal roasting.

Today is the day that we are going to experience some culture. We taxi to a place called the Tomb of the Kings, almost accidently ending up at the nearby King’s Avenue Shopping Mall. There are in fact no Kings buried here, and seemingly no one at all anymore. The tombs are cut out of the sandstone, larger spaces for adults, and some small alcoves to hold the bodies of children. Where those laid to rest are now, I have no idea, and it is not explained at any point. We haunt the shady spots under olive trees and wooden pergolas, and linger in the cooler of the underground caverns, amongst the broken columns and dust.

At around 2pm we take another taxi to a local restaurant in the hills called Muse, to meet with the rest of the wedding party for a day-after celebration. I have two frozen mango margaritas, and my friend two frozen strawberry daquiris. This combined with the freshest spinach and ricotta ravioli I have ever tasted, laden with pesto cream and flakes of sharp Italian cheese, causes me to nearly nod off at the table. Even a lively discussion of musical theatre and Derren Brown shows with some of the groomsman cannot save me from the slumber, and we retreat to the apartment to read.

Once the sun is behind the opposite building, we head into the courtyard to have our final swim. Neither of us wants to say goodbye to the pool, although we agree it’s splendour would not translate to home. We alternate between floating and swimming, watching birds flock in the cypress trees, and lizards scale the apartment balconies. When we finally drag ourselves away, it is still 25 degrees, and we leave our swimsuits and towels out to dry overnight. We ate so much at lunch that we just snack on some of the remaining cheese and crackers, balancing knives and plates on the coffee table, and I finish reading my third novel of the trip.

I think it is nearly half 9 when I wake up, and so immediately and hurriedly start packing, something I had neglected to do before falling asleep the night before. I realise when I stop for breakfast, my last bowl of chocolate cereal, that it is only 8.15, and something had gone very wrong in my clock-reading skills. I had actually been up since about 7am. I luxuriate upon this discovery and eat my cereal at the dining table.

I had suffered a flight-based nightmare. To my recollection I was flying from Manchester to Birmingham, a flightpath that for obvious reasons does not exist, and that when the pilot pulled off the runway, he did not manage to climb, and instead continued driving down the motorway, until we were towed back to the airport. My friend was also not there, though my mother was, and it was at her insistence that we were flying. Clearly, I was a little nervous about the return flight.

By 11am we are both packed up, and have said goodbye to Slim Jim, our nickname for the skinniest of the complex cats, and are sat awaiting our taxi into Paphos on the steps outside the apartment. The taxi driver who has ferried us around the most is not available, but she offers up her husband as an alternative, and he takes us into central Paphos, to the Lock and Go luggage storage that will house our bags until we have to head to the airport for our evening flight.

Paphos is hot, but there is a breeze coming in off the sea, which is more blue than any ocean I have ever seen before. We hit the tourist shops. I buy multiple fridge magnets, unable to choose between the sentiments of ‘Live Love Laugh’, and the cats of Cyprus cartoons, and am later seduced by a fake lavender Prada mini-bag. I am surrounded by 4 women in the shop, who I think are primarily concerned that I am out on the rob, over making a sale, but as I rationalise that this purchase of stolen intellectual property is actually supporting a local business, I purchase my first ever fake designer item. I imagine that one day it will be chained to me like the moral burden it is, ala Marley in A Christmas Carol, but for now at least I am shamefully proud of my purchase. I spread the guilt by buying my husband some fake Pokémon cards. My friend buys the most amazing hat, transforming into Sophia Loren in front of my eyes. I feel quite shabby in my dungarees, which I am stubbornly wearing despite temperatures hitting 35 degrees.

Shopping finished, we wander slowly to a beach bar and café, and bask in the electric fans over a four hour lunch. We are joined by the bride and a friend who we sat with and danced with at the wedding, and we sip virgin and not-so-virgin cocktails, and cherry soda, until the breeze is stiff enough to tackle the open-air archaeological museum.

In the first villa we enter, a mother cat is sat feeding her brood of about 6 kittens. I am captivated and instantly max out my phone’s memory taking pictures and videos. The cats skitter and stretch themselves across the thousand year old mosaics with zero concern for their historical significance, and it warms my heart that these long abandoned and derelict houses have become homes again for the strays of Paphos.

The sun beats down and bakes both us and the ruins, as if we too are clay bricks drying out in the sun. I am convinced and terrified that prickly heat is going to rear its head on the plane, and I scrutinise the pink flesh of my inner arms and wrists and try to remind myself that heat rash is not fatal.

At around 5.30 we slowly make our way out of a ruined medieval castle, and walk back to the luggage storage, where at the touch of a button on my phone, we are reunited with our suitcases. Our taxi to the airport is a black Mercedes, and we whizz down 30km an hour roads at nearly 75km.