Pamela can take a day off from the house because none of the workers are going to show up since we have already seen them working on the house next door. It's a struggle for her because she has to track them down in the cafeneons and drag them to work, and then she has to stay on the site to make sure they do. Because she has planned the house down to the most intricate detail, they are afraid to make a move without consulting her first, in fear that she will make them tear it down and start all over as she made them do with the wall that surrounds it. It's a never ending battle for good taste and tradition and the stress of it shows on Pamela. She has lost ten pounds. When Andrea goes to get her from the house she is screaming at the plumber. He didn't show up yesterday and the workers piled rubble on top of the water meter that he was going to work on. If he'd been there he could have told them not to do it. Now he tells Pam she has to pay someone to move the pile. Pam says it's his fault for not coming, bu t for now he holds the cards since she needs the plumbing and he doesn't need the work. I tell her to wait until he has done the work and it's time to pay before she negotiates. Then she's the one dealing the cards.

While this is going on Amarandi is devouring three fried eggs at the old cafeneon of Vatoussa which is full of old men. We are sitting next to Pam's neighbor who seems nicer then he was yesterday when he yelled at her about moving the stump of a fig tree that had been dumped in front of his front gate until she could figure out a way to get rid of it. I ask him about the sardines of Kaloni but he's a non-believer.

"The sardines from the bay of Yeras are bigger and better" he says authoritively. Later, Thanasis the Australian tells me that the sardines from Kaloni are smaller but have more oil in them.

"Some say it's because the olive oil from the trees washes into the bay when it rains." He laughs.

But Pamela's neighbor gives me no usefull information beyond the girth of the Yeras sardines. I want to know where I can buy some fresh sardelles pastes but he either doesn't know, or he's not telling. Finally he gets bored with my pigeon-Greek, and leaves. When Pam comes back from her construction site we extricate our car from the narrow streets of the village and onto the main road to Petra and Molyvos.

The trip is uneventful but beautiful as we drive over mountains and through olive groves. Petra is noticibly more touristy with signs in English for restaurants serving mousaka and shops with motorbikes for rent. Still it was done in good taste with the exception of the disco on the hill that looks like a giant flying saucer. We race through the town without stopping, careful to avoid running down the pale skinned colorfully clad British tourists on their tiny motorbikes. Around the bend Molyvos comes into view with it's spectacular castle perched on top of the town. We have to make a snap decision to either veer off and take the coast road to Eftaloo, or stop for lunch in the scenic harbor of Molyvos. I choose to drive straight into town on the cobblestone causeway that borders the village and the sea. We park on the dock but Pamela says she feels sick and won't get out of the car. Amarandi refuses to leave her side so Andrea and I take the scenic harbor tour on our own. The architecture is all traditional s tone but the signs are all in English and the restaurants, even though they advertise lobster and shrimp, all serve sardines. Even so I can't imagine convincing Pam to leave the safety of the car for what looks like a typical tourist trap of a town. Pam is much more hung up on tradition then Andrea or I and while we don't mind sharing a restaurant with foreigners as long as the food is good and the price is cheap, she would. Or might. I don't even suggest it. We just get back in the car and drive to Eftaloo where we find a nice taverna hidden among the tall reeds on the coastal road. There are sardines on the menu but none in stock so I settle for mackeral, my second favorite. We order squid which is fresh and local instead of imported from Monterey, California like the squid we eat in Sifnos.When we arrive there is one table of Greeks. By the time we leave the restaurant is full of foreigners but by then Pamela has escaped to the beach.

When we reach the old stone building that housed the ancient hot spring of Eftaloo we are in for a shock. The door that lead to the simple stone pool containing the supposedly healing water is blocked by two large pieces of wood. The building next door which had been a ruin three years ago was now totally rebuilt. They had diverted the water into it and for 250 drachma you can sit in a big shiny white bathtub with clean shiny faucets from which you control the sacred life-giving water. It looks alot like taking a bath in America and we can't convince ourselves to do it. Instead we sit outside where the hot spring water pours from a crack in the old building and mixes with the waves in a little pool made from piled stones. By changing your position and moving closer or farther from the sea you can find the perfect temperature.

But my first impulse is to don my mask and flippers and go spearfishing. I immediately spot a small octopus but before I can grab him to show Amarandi, he disappears. There are many fish but the tip of my spear is appropriate only for very large fish and is rusted on. The only reason it's on at all is because we were traveling and it seems to me that there's less chance of accidentally stabbing someone with a single tip then a trident. So unless I spot something really big I'm merely sightseeing, even though I'm armed and dangerous. There are also cold springs emptying into the waters and by the time I leave the water I am frozen solid. The hot pool of water that the girls have been wallowing in is like a gift from God and in a few minutes even my bones feel like they are glowing with warmth, if not radio-activity.

Instead of continuing on to Skala Sikiamninos to see the church of the Mermaid Madonna we opt to go to Kaloni so Pam can pick out her bathroom tiles. Andra convinces me by suggesting that I can most certainly find sardeles pastes in the many fish markets in the town that sits on the great bay. But by the time we are finished, all I want to do is drive back before it gets too dark. Besides, we don't see one fish market. While I wait in the car with a sleeping Amarandi, the women go inside to haggle over texture, color and price. Andrea returns with infrequent reports. She understands why Greek bathrooms are so garrish and tasteless. That's because the only tiles the stores carry are the garish and tasteless ones. Everytime Pam would find a tile she liked she was told they didn't have it and would have to order it. Andrea found one she liked especially and was told that it was only a 'sample'. "Can you order it?" she asks. The answer is no. "Then what's it a sample of?" she asks.

Finally we are done but Pamela continues to have tile flashbacks all the way to Xidera.