JUGGED
Harriet wasn’t really clumsy. She had, after all, a reputation as a good tennis player so that counted for something. But she would flick her hand at dinner and tip over wine glasses or, once, she turned too quickly in a store and her backpack swept clean the shelf behind her. It was only toilet paper but it could have been glass figurines. Of course, in light of what she did later, these were minor incidents, rehearsals to the grand finale.
As good as she was at her job, an accountant for a large firm in Chicago, her college degree had left her lacking in any humanities or history. She knew who Kim Kardashian and Beyoncé were but nothing about Homer, the Iliad, the Odyssey or Socrates. At the Parthenon and the Acropolis she was so bored, she played with her phone the entire time, a Philistine, low-brow to the core. Yet even Philistines can have epiphanies.
She had joined the Greece tour because she was sick of the gray cloudy weather at home, the cool temps and was tired of staring at numbers. She wanted to get away, to go where there was sun and some excitement. Sun came with the territory. The excitement Harriet herself provided later.
We flew from Athens to the Greek island of Santorini, enjoyed the fresh seafood and spectacular views from the cliffs, and on the second day walked over to the Fira Historical Museum. A docent gave us a quick explanation of the place and said the signs around the museum would answer most of our questions. Harriet’s eyeroll was almost audible but she moved to a glass case and peered in.
“What’s this? A frying pan?” The small sign read ‘Brass skillet used to fry and make flat bread. 1700 BC’, but Harriet moved along too quickly to read. “Are those toys? Really? Kids had toys back then?” She was glancing at small terra cotta figures and miniature dolls, identified as ‘Toys’ and sounded a little curious.
She stepped into the next room to the center display, a large jug on a plinth. She seemed to be admiring the shape of the vase. Then she said, “Are those Botticelli shoes?”, to a woman standing a few feet from the large piece of terra cotta. “Wow, I love’em! They’re amazing.” The woman stared back at Harriet, not understanding.
Harriet moved between the artwork and the Shoe Lady, backed up a bit, and knelt to take a photo of the shoes. Oblivious to what was behind her, Harriet stuck out her bum. Contact! The large vase in back of her teetered, off balance, while the Shoe Lady clapped her hand to her mouth and ran for help.
Harriet spun around to see what was happening and smacked the swaying piece of terra cotta with her hand. It leaned even more and in slow motion, rolled onto its side and spun tin a blur. Harriet fell over in a heap then scrambled on all fours after the whirling crock. The giant jug swiveled and headed toward the stairs, propelled by her failed efforts to grab it.
Harriet had no time to stand up and give chase as the jug crossed the tile floor and neared the stairwell. She threw her phone aside and crawled on her knees after it. The jug appeared to be alive, lured toward the precipice, running from Harriet like a little kid from its mom.
The first docent on the scene was too far away to help, and a guard, who had just rounded the corner, stood stock still, horrified. In one last desperate act, Harriet jerked herself around, ripped her skirt, and flung herself onto the stairwell. She put up her hands as the heavy jug reached the edge and teetered. Harriet fought the jug’s weight with outstretched arms and put her shoulder into it, managing to roll it off the edge to safety. She sat, heaving for breath, sweating with the effort and the strain of fear.
Alarms blared, staff ran into the room, grabbed the vase and Harriet, who was scraped, bloodied and choked with emotion. It was clear, the staff saw her as the hero who had saved the piece, not the cause of the accident.
A docent ran off for bandages, others secured the vase and Harriet slumped in a chair, exhausted. She began to apologize, explaining it was an accident, but no one heard her. They were too busy praising her, and smiling their thanks. They weren’t interested in how it had toppled over, only that she had saved it. They hugged her and would have shaken her hand but for the bloody. She stopped talking and stared at the vase. She stared for several minutes.
“I touched it,” she whispered to me as I wrapped the bandages on her left hand, still oozing blood. “A 4000 year old gorgeous urn, and I touched it. How did they make something so beautiful back then? And why?!’, she said with real curiosity. When I’d finished, I told her it was time to go to the hotel and rest.
“I’m gonna stay a little bit. Is that OK?” I nodded. “I want to ask some questions.” Since she was calm and in control, we left her in the museum and went to lunch.
In the evening when we met her at dinner, the transformation from bored account into historian was compete.
“The population, the towns, the whole place was run by women!!,” she said as she wagged her bandaged hands. “WOMEN! Can you imagine that! 4000 years ago.” Harriet’s hands flew like wild birds and we moved our wine glasses out of her reach. She’d spent 2 hours with a docent at the museum and was bubbling with enthusiasm.
“No wars! Isn’t that amazing. And the pottery! It was their culture, their art, they kept food fresh and safe and, well, ya know, it was kind of like early Tupperware.” We laughed at this. “And then the volcano erupted and BANG, it was all gone, just like that,” and she tipped over her water glass.
Another lady cut up Harriet’s dinner since the bandages got in the way and I ordered her another gin and tonic while she talked away, still flapping her hands. She swept along with more of what the docent had told her, her epiphany complete and all it took was a touch and near disaster.
