From Job to Job around the World

by Alfred C. B. Fletcher

"No place," answered Charlie.

"Come along with me then," said the Greek in good English.

"Where are you going?" I enquired, preferring to know something of my destination.

"To call on some of my relatives and friends." My boat for Brindisi did not leave until midnight and I had plenty of time to learn something.

We strolled along a winding road lined on each side with little native houses. Our first call was on the Greek's aged aunt, a peasant woman, whose husband had been killed, a few days before, in a duel with a neighbour. The house in which this simple and grief-stricken woman lived was a low thatch-roofed adobe structure with the earth for its floors. It was a near-to-nature residence and I was impressed by its almost spotless cleanliness and neatness. We remained in this little home for nearly an hour while the poor woman poured out her troubles to her nephew, who later informed me that he had assumed the responsibility of her support since her husband's death. We next called on the Greek's older sister. This Grecian peasant home was also an interesting place and was as immaculate as its predecessor. With this second visit completed, my companion evidently had performed all his obligations and he now felt at liberty to call on some of his girls. Our last visit was at the home of a travelling butcher, who saunters about the town pushing a one-wheeled vehicle, resembling a wheelbarrow, laden with carcasses of cows and sheep, from which he hacks off a chunk whenever he finds a customer. The walls of this modest mud house were literally plastered with calendars, newspaper pictures and display advertisements. It was inhabited by a most interesting set of human beings. There was the mother with her three youngest huddling around her skirt like little chicks around the proud old hen; there were twin girls of about twelve years, who spent their energies giggling at the idiosyncrasies of the American guest and there were two young women of some twenty-one summers. There was also a boy of about sixteen and from the accounts of his mother he must have been the tough lad of the neighbourhood.

The two young ladies, whose names were Miss Vaseleki Caetina and Miss Caraperpara Caetina, were bright, healthy creatures in spite of the fact that they worked fourteen hours a day, one in a stocking factory and the other as a dressmaker.

My visit was considered a great distinction and my presence was soon noised about the neighbourhood and an endless file of proud mothers came to exhibit their offsprings to me as I handed out compliments and passed comments on them by means of my Greek companion. The Misses Caetina became so infatuated with the sample American, in spite of my travel-worn and trampish appearance, that they insisted on their mother's inviting me to dinner. What they would have done to a regular American one can only surmise. I was enjoying the affair to the limit of my capacity and if I had been invited to a suicide I would have accepted.

The meal was served in the most informal way in what might be termed the parlour. Informal is hardly the word. Jam came straight from the jar to the eater's mouth. One spoon did service for the entire gathering, each one using it in turn without any cleansing process intervening. Still having some ideas of hygiene in spite of my unsanitary experiences, I considered myself fortunate in being the guest and, therefore, getting the first fling at the much-worked spoon. Greek wine was poured out in lavish quantities and, not being acquainted with the inebriating efficiency of this liquid, I partook of it cautiously. Strips of dried meat, squares of bread and walnuts completed the repast.

The evening was an entertaining one and I took my leave while the young Grecian maidens danced with joy as I wrote down their names and promised I would drop them post cards from Italy. This promise I fulfilled.

I now turned my thoughts towards Italy. A much-travelled man once advised me that if I had but six months in which to tour Europe to spend four of them in Italy. Although I do not agree with his ratio, I do thoroughly believe that four months is much too short a time to even get a start in this wonderful land, rich in everything that interests an intelligent human being. But lack of funds haunted me with the necessity for speed and, much as I regretted it, I had to keep moving on.