A Fall from Grace

I can’t really even begin to explain this. But on our last day at the flat, I fell down a hovel. Picture Alice falling down the rabbit hole.

Stan and I had packed up our junk to move to the Pera Rose Hotel for one night, before flying to Athens the next day. In our possession were two large suitcases, two small suitcases, a shopping bag, and a backpack. Over one shoulder I was wearing the computer bag and over the other, my cool new Matt and Nat vegan tote bag. It was raining.

To get to the hotel with all of this crap we needed a taxi, even though the distance could easily be walked in 15 minutes. The nice guy working the Kismet market called a cab for us and we were standing in the rain, waiting.

I was loaded down with my bags, my coat, scarf, hat and umbrella. If you look at the picture on the top, from last summer, you can see where I was standing. Now look at the bottom picture. See those steps? They go down to this below street level room I’m calling a hovel. And some guy lives there. Let’s call him Mustafa. Well apparently Mustafa decided between the day last summer when these pictures were taken (he was the one who housed and fed those new kitties and their mom, by the way) and this gloomy rainy moving day, to do a little home improvement by sticking a 2” x 8” wooden plank under that corrugated tin overhang. The board looked to me like it was supporting the roof.

See where I’m squatting in the picture on the bottom? The plank comes down from the tin roof to exactly the spot where I have my foot. It looked like a support post, so I leaned against it to get out of the rain. The board was apparently just a design accessory??? As I put my weight against it, it gave way and sent me down those steps, feet flying, bags flying, fall softened by my I-Mac. I was certain the tin roof was coming down on me.

The five or six men hanging around the alley gawked at me. Stan tried to grab me, but I went right on down that hole. I feel bad calling it a hovel and a hole, because Mustafa lives there, but that’s really what it is, a dank hole.

This particular little man, who reminds me of a hobbit or a troll, seems to be sitting in this dark dusty place all of the time. Before I noisily invited myself in, he was in the process of cooking his lunch, a skillet of fried potatoes, on an open flame fueled by a gas tank. This was probably the most excitement he’d had all week. I’m sure I was the first white woman to ever barge through his open front door (the door is always open, thank God or surely he’d suffocate.)

The gypsy dad came running out of the Hamburg tea shop where he plays cards and drinks tea all day to offer me his hand and help me up. The troll came running out of his hole flashing a toothless smile. I’m guessing it was pretty funny. Ha. Look at the stupid white lady, loaded down with all that excess baggage busting down poor old Mustafa’s front porch. The hovel dweller mimed hammering a nail and was having quite a laugh, suggesting I fix his porch.

Lucky for Mustafa, AND me the roof did not come falling down. Even luckier for me, I didn’t fall onto any of the rusty nails sticking out of that board. Nothing like a nice dose of tetanus to ruin a vacation. Lucky for me there wasn’t a piece of broken glass where I caught my fall with my hand; the ally is littered with shards of glass. Really, it could have been bad. I credit my yoga with helping me keep enough body awareness to fall in a semi–intelligent if not graceful manner so I didn’t break anything.

It was embarrassing. Thank God we were leaving and not just arriving. But what was more embarrassing is I was sporting more gear than Mustafa owns. We had more in our bags than he had in his hovel. I think this is probably why I haven’t stopped thinking about that gum-toothed man. My first thought was “wow, good thing I didn’t scuff up my cool new boots.” Then, “Wow, did I rip my leather jacket? Did I break the computer?” I covered all the important questions. The more I relived the incident, however, the more gratitude I felt. Not only because I wasn’t injured, but also because it isn’t me living down in that dark hole. I don’t think I could be as happy as Mustafa.