Imagine someone running into a crowded nightclub and screaming “FIRE!” — that’s how the Greek islands clear out on September first. Beaches are wonderfully deserted again, the screech of scooters has died down, everything is half price, and no more waiting in line for a cheese pie at the bakery.
I went alone to a beach in the remote reaches of the island today.
When I got there, the beach was completely deserted except for a man sitting outside a little whitewashed trailer on the hillside; below the trailer was a house with blue shutters.
I took some photographs then found a shady spot for myself beneath a tamarisk tree.
I won’t be posting any pictures of the beach because I think its subtle beauty would be lost in a blog post. You know how there are some people whose beauty comes across as worldly and proud, and other people who have a beauty so unassuming and soft you almost miss it? Well that’s how it was with this beach. At first glance you almost miss it, but then you think, “Whoa, this is incredible” — impossibly clear waters that stay shallow forever surrounded by cliffs still supporting the ruins of a forgotten shipping age.
As I was lying there on the beach, the man from the trailer came up and started a conversation with me. Where was I from? How did I like the island? How did I find the beach with all the dirt road detours and no signage? Would I like some coffee?
I thanked him, but said I was going for a swim.
A few other people arrived — a family from Denmark and a couple from Verona.
“Is this Agathia?” they asked the man with the trailer.
“Yes,” he answered, “how did you find it?”
About an hour later the man came up to me again, offering me a cold glass of water and a jellied sweet made from watermelon and sesame seeds.
“Why don’t you come for coffee when I invite you?” he asked me.
I looked at him, feeling a bit guilty but wondering what he wanted from me.
Then he read my mind and made everything alright by saying, “My wife will be back soon from collecting the seafruit, you come then.”
And so I did. The man who invited me for coffee was named Mikealis, his wife was Ana, and there were two other couples staying in the little white house for the summer. One of the men was named Adonis, and when I heard that, I blocked all the other names out. They were all retired people from the mainland who live the good life on the island for the summer, and they appeared to be the happiest, most colorful people I had ever met.
They turned everything around them into art. They collected crab shells, branches, and discarded CD’s and painted everything in bright turquoise, fucshia, and a color that can only be described as Helios yellow. They painted all the pots for the plants; they drew on an old stone wall; they hung branches painted lavender and sea shells painted electric green from the arbor. I wanted to live with them forever and help them paint their way from Agathia to the Acropolis.
Coffee turned into lunch, which turned into the best meal I’ve eaten in Greece. I know I’m prone to exaggeration, but believe me when I say it was the best meal I’ve had in over twenty years of travel to Greece. One of the men in this amazing group of artists was a fisherman who takes his boat out every day, and everyone eats whatever is in that day’s catch. We feasted on giant crab, calamari, spaghetti con fruiti de mare, and little fried fish I can’t even name. There were garlic potatoes, sun ripened tomatoes, and fresh green bean salad. I learned that you’re supposed to keep eating in Greece until everyone is finished, or your plate keeps getting filled. There’s a subtle timing at play. Fresh melon was served for desert.
When the time came for me to roll myself out the door, one of the women offered me a crab shell art piece to take home with me. I chose this one because it was sea blue and reminded me of a Venetian Carnevale mask I once had:
I left marveling at this beautiful life.
I want to thank the people of Greece for feeding me when I was hungry, giving me water when I was thirsty, offering me a ride when I was too tired to go on, inviting me along so I wouldn’t be lonely, helping me breathe when I thought I would faint, giving me the keys to your home just in case, loading my suitcases when they were too heavy, never making fun of my driving, helping me out of that tight spot between a Mack truck and a stone wall, giving me medication for migraines and mosquito bites and that nasty scrape on my back, and for letting me photograph your beautiful children.
Thank you for all your wonderful gifts from the sea, and for always, always, making me feel welcome and at home. I never felt like an outsider — not once.
There’s an island I went to at the end of July that I haven’t told you about yet. I stayed there for ten days and it’s vying for a piece of my heart. I’ve saved it for my last post from Greece this year.
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