The loveliest holiday ever. A peaceful four bedroom villa each with its own en suite bathroom. A spacious open plan lounge with a large and well-equipped kitchen area. A large swimming pool with twenty sun loungers. One indoor and four outdoor dining tables including one on the roof. A lawn with a day bed under a bamboo canopy. A pool table.
And then there was Yuri.
Ian and Sarah hired a large black Toyota Hybrid and Frances and Stew hired a Nissan Qashqai. Grandma and Grandpa decided not to bother hiring a car. Instead, we travelled from the airport in a Yellowfish taxi. Our driver was a young Portuguese woman who drove competently and safely. We had some polite conversation as we left the airport and then she settled down to do her job as we quietly surveyed the passing kilometres. Forty five of them.
And then there was Yuri. She was different from him.
On the last morning, Yuri arrived fifteen minutes earlier than the appointed time which was in itself quite annoying. Yuri said that he was a "professional driver" and that he came from Ukraine. After saying our now hasty goodbyes to the London contingent because of Yuri, he lugged our suitcases to the Yellowfish taxi's boot (American: trunk) and we set off.
Stocky fifty two year old Yuri began his largely one-sided "conversation" as we headed up the lane from the lighthouse. He spoke rather quietly in broken English, looking at me via the driver's mirror. Shouldn't he have been looking at the road? And there was also tarmac and engine noise to contend with.
Yuri spoke about the war in Ukraine, Russian motivation, Russian tactics, the involvement of banks and greedy money people, Putin, the merits of different weapons, his own brother, President Zelensky, Boris Johnson, Joe Biden, Japanese support, the history of Ukraine prior to the dissolution of the old Soviet Union before moving on to other subjects such as the war in Afghanistan and the Taliban and Gaza and the Israelis.
Yuri never prefaced any of his remarks with "In my opinion..." or "I think...". His points were entirely made as if they were undeniably true. And what is more, Yuri only wanted me to nod and listen as if captivated by some intellectual giant which he was certainly not. He had no interest in anything I might have to say. This was "The Yuri Show" starring Yuri.
The kilometres flashed by on the motorway signs. Thirty five dropped to twenty five, then fifteen and before too long there were only five kilometres to go to the airport. Not long to go until the endless jabbering finally ceased. Surely I could hang on to the end.
It was my idea of hell. Leaning forward forever from the back of a taxi listening to the quiet monologue of a Ukrainian man called Yuri - delivered in faltering English. Perhaps I should have said what my head was telling me to say: "Now listen up Yuri. We have paid for this taxi ride and we just want to sit quietly in the back so SHUT THE **** UP! And drive us safely to the blasted airport. Thank you!"
After listening to enduring Yuri, I almost wanted Putin to be given Ukraine on a golden platter. Almost but not quite.
from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/HLApP9f