A metallic crash announced the arrival of George’s bicycle.
Jean wondered how long it was going to take them both to learn to ride. This was yet another unexpected aspect of life on the island. Private cars were not permitted, and indeed were unnecessary, since the greatest distance one could travel in a straight line was less than fifteen kilometres. There were various community-owned service vehicles — trucks, ambulances, and fire-engines, all restricted, except in cases of real emergency, to fifty kilometres an hour. As a result the inhabitants of Athens had plenty of exercise, uncongested streets — and no traffic accidents.
George gave his wife a perfunctory peck and collapsed with a sigh of relief into the nearest chair.
“Phew!” he said, mopping his brow. “Everyone raced past me on the way up the hill, so I suppose people do get used to it. I think I’ve lost ten kilograms already.”
“What sort of a day did you have?” asked Jean dutifully. She hoped George would not be too exhausted to help with the unpacking.
“Very stimulating. Of course I can’t remember half the people I met, but they all seemed very pleasant. And the theatre is just as good as I’d hoped. We’re starting work next week on Shaw’s Back to Methuselah’. I’ll be in complete charge of sets and stage design. It’ll make a change, not having a dozen people to tell me what I can’t do. Yes, I think we’re going to like it here.”
“Despite the bicycles?”
George summoned up enough energy to grin.
“Yes,” he said. “In a couple of weeks I won’t even notice this little hill of ours.”
He didn’t really believe it — but it was perfectly true. It was another month, however, before Jean ceased to pine for the car, and discovered all the things one could do with one’s own kitchen.