When we arrive at the airport, we realize there's no petrol station, so we drive to the small nearby village of Dromolaxia. We have to ask our way to the petrol station, where we tank up and get the car washed, although I'm not sure whether the latter is really necessary. Finally, we return the car, buy the bus tickets to Nicosia, or Lefkosia, as it is locally known, and wait around until the departure. The freshly landed are a who's who of whom I'd rather not be around: there's scores of dull, tacky-looking tourists, including bald blokes wearing English football jerseys and clutching Carlsberg cans, their upper arms tattooed with the standard club crests and their forearms with those squiggly Latin dicta or their kids' and ex-wives' names, popularized by David Beckham and scores of
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