Greg
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August 1972
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Groogle
This entry was written in 2005, many years after the event. In 1972 I was at the end of my studies at the University of Exeter. I didn't keep any kind of diary at the time, so much of this is hazy.

Saturday, 5 August 1972 Bow
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In early August I was in my cottage in Bow, on the north side of Dartmoor. I had just received my car back from repair, and discovered that the idiots had not connected the brake pipes properly; a heavy tread on the brake pedal was sufficient to cause the union to come apart:


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I had spent the afternoon fixing this, and in the evening I was lying in bed when Dave Rozalla, a friend, walked into my bedroom and told me he was heading off on holiday to Greece the following day. I asked him how he was getting there, and he told me that he was hoping I'd take him in the car.

Of course we left, with my old 2CV fourgonette in constant need of repair. One day I'll write more details.


Sunday, 20 August 1972 Delphi Images for 20 August 1972
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I lost track of Dave in Greece (in fact, I never saw him again), and in Delphi I met a girl called Paula de Jean, who came from Berkeley—in fact, she lived a block from where Kirk McKusick now lives. The following photos were taken near the temple of Apollo at Delphi. Paula thought we should drink water from a mountain stream; I was concerned about infection, but she convinced me anyway.


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Diary entry for Sunday, 20 August 1972 Complete exposure details

 
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Tuesday, 22 August 1972 Θεσσαλονίκη → Гевгелија → Θεσσαλονίκη
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About today I headed off back to Western Europe with Paula, picking up a Canadian hitchhiker on the way. We got Gevgelija on the Yugloslav border, where we required visas. Paula had one, but the Canadian bloke and I didn't. That wasn't a problem: they could be issued at the border. The border guard told us to go into the office and get them.

There was nobody in the office, just a counter on one side. I was wondering whether we should fill them out ourselves, so I went to take a look. Nope—just a book with handwritten entries in Cyrillic script.

Round this time, the border guard came in. He was not amused. He grabbed the first passport, opened it, put in a stamp which presumably meant “VOID”, and threw it demonstratively into a corner. I said “that's the wrong passport”. He retrieved it, somewhat detracting from the gesture, confirmed that it belonged to the Canadian bloke, put another stamp in it and gestured to him to go on his way. Then he put the “VOID” stamp in my passport, decided it wasn't worth throwing into the corner, and gestured to me to go back to Greece.

I've never been very good at accepting this sort of thing, so I said “Sorry, this was a misunderstanding”. Another gesture towards Greece.

“Please call your superior”. The guard didn't speak any English in the whole exchange, even before we entered the building, but he obviously understood. He took me into a small room in the back, shut the door, drew his pistol, pointed it at me, and gestured back to Greece.

OK, after three gestures even I understood. I had to leave the other two, of course—I never saw Paula again either—and headed back to Thessaloniki, where I met up with some American blokes and headed off back to Western Europe via Bulgaria, Romania and Hungary, overhauling the front axle of the 2CV one morning in Transylvania.

I originally told this story on IRC:

<groggyhimself> Mavvie: So, the moral of the story is, I *do* know when to stop complaining :-)
* groggyhimself hides Mavvie's gun.
<Mavvie> hehehehe

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