Carol and I spent almost the entire month of September in the Greek islands, gorging ourselves on their compelling vistas and sapphire waters, not to mention the calamari, feta cheese, tzatziki, taramasalata and ever-flowing retsina. On the boat from Ancona, Italy to Piraeus, Greece, we met two young, sweet Italian men, practically boys. Verbal communication was extremely simple because of the language differences, but our two new friends clung to us anyway. A mate of these boys had given them the name of a centrally located, supposedly decent, yet inexpensive hotel. Carol and I decided to tag along and give it a try, as we did not have a clue about any other accommodation, and if we could save the hassle of the search that follows arrival to any new destination we would be very happy. We hopped a bus to central Athens and were led to Omonia Square, which obviously was not the chicest part of the city, but very busy, noisy, and seemingly central, with cheap stores, fast food restaurants, and an urban energy that somehow felt very safe to me. Several streets arced out from the main square like the rays in a child's drawing of the sun.
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The Paris Hotel was located on a slightly quieter side street off one of these rays and we entered to find an attractive blonde woman behind the desk. Her name was Helen. She was very friendly, spoke fair, heavily accented English, and best of all, delivered the good news that she had two available double rooms. Next to the lobby was a small area with a few tables and chairs where, we were told by Helen, we would be served our continental breakfast. Beyond this “dining room” was a lounge area with well-seasoned cushioned sofas and chairs, a few tables with worn old lace, and a small black and white television raised high up onto a wall. This room, we found, was always occupied by a few old women who seemed to be glued to their seats, necks craned, watching TV. The women all wore babushkas and long dark dresses. We never learned who these people were, but they appeared to be part of the decor and we figured they were the requisite widows we had seen in Hollywood movies about Greece. Our room had a small balcony overlooking roofs and a quiet street. As soon as we settled in, I did some laundry in the sink and used the grating around the tiny terrace for hanging my wet clothes. Doing laundry when arriving at a new place seems to be a ritual for me that I've carried through my travels to Asia, the Middle East and Central America. I suppose it makes me feel secure to have clean clothes, but more importantly, doing a domestic chore such as laundry gives me the feeling of a temporary “home” and becomes a sort of christening act.
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Carol and I changed our names for the Italian boys, as we frequently did in our travels. This practice started due to the fact that many people of other lands have difficulty pronouncing the name Carol, getting the R and L stuck somewhere in their mouths, so she often used the name Stella instead. I varied my alternate names, but on this particular occasion I had renamed myself Arielle. The Italianos invited Stella and me, Arielle (they called me Ariella), to join them on their visits to the islands, but we graciously declined. They were mildly pushy, but remained youthfully appealing without becoming burdensome or melodramatic. We spent one Athens evening with them having dinner, during which Stella and I conversed mostly with each other, and the boys mostly between themselves. The restaurant was not particularly fancy, but the typical food of salad and chicken souvlaki was scrumptious. On the morning the Italian boys left, we missed their departure but Helen presented us with a note they had left for us. It was poorly written in English and its basic message was to say goodbye and to wish us a good time, but the greeting I remember perfectly well and will never forget. It began: “Dear Ariella and Stella bella…” Is that classic, or what? Just say out it loud a few times with an Italian accent, it’s pure poetry.
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The Paris Hotel became our home base while in Greece. In a locked-up storage room, we were able to leave the possessions we opted not to bring to the islands. On various visits to the Paris between our island hopping, we sampled a medley of rooms, all of which faced onto a cramped, smelly alley, decorated with trash cans, behind the noisy kitchen of a restaurant across the way. We began to think of our very first, quiet room as a figment of our imaginations.
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Our first wonderful island experience was on Skiathos, with its lovely harbor and hilly streets which, at the time, were lined here and there with many partially finished houses. Skiathos was on the verge of a booming tourist industry, yet seemed uncertain about how to build for it. Upon arrival, we were accosted by several young children, each ready to take us to his or her family's guesthouse. The most aggressive little boy won out and we followed him up and up many rutted and pebbly streets, where I more than once had near ankle mishaps. The incline finally came around a bend to a two-story, ostensibly half-built structure, where we gratefully climbed the stairs at our own risk and collapsed onto the less than comfortable beds in our sparse and tiny room. We got used to that hill from town which really wasn't so bad without our backpacks, and actually provided the only real exercise we were getting in those days lazing on the islands of Greece. I tend to think of our visit to Skiathos in in two parts according to the people we were hanging out with.
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Part 1: Each morning before boarding the bus to Banana Beach, Carol and I went to the market to purchase our lunch, which consisted of dolmades (grape leaves stuffed with rice), yogurt (which in Greece is like eating crème fraîche because it is 10% fat), pistachio nuts, tomatoes and butter cookies. The rate at which I was becoming wider was greater here than at any other time in my life. But it was from eating heavenly food out of sheer delight. Every human should have the opportunity to spend some days of total decadence in the Greek islands. Banana Beach was so named because of its crescent shape and most people alighting from the bus would head directly down the path to Banana Beach proper. But a small group, including Carol and me, would climb up a rocky hill and then descend down through the trees to the nude beach below. What was so special about this island was that it was green and there were trees behind the sand, unlike other isles in Greece, which are mostly dry and rocky.
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It was on the last part of the walk to the nude beach where Carol and I met Eitan and Talia, a young couple from Israel. Eitan was up in one of the fig trees picking the delicious ripe fruit. “Do you want some figs?” he called down to us. We looked up to find an incredibly animated man with a mass of red hair, a red beard, and wild eyes. Eitan possessed a bizarre sense of humor, while Talia was his antithesis, quiet, shy, and very pretty. With her pixie-cut black hair and large dark eyes framed by enormous eyelashes, she resembled a child in a Keene painting. We became fast friends, which is the way of travelers and Eitan was openly thrilled to be hanging out with three (nude) women. One day we rented one of those boats that are accelerated by pedaling, as on a bicycle. We took turns, two pedaling two lazing atop the plastic hood of the little boat. With the energy of eight legs fueling us, we traveled quite far indeed, around numerous bends, and were able to explore other beaches. Like Robinson Crusoes, we discovered one beach with a population of hippie nudists from various nations living in tents, and other makeshift homes. It was a bohemian paradise and sometimes I think I may have imagined it. This day spent in the nude and then with a population of nudists was probably the only time that I have ever felt completely unaware and relaxed without my clothing.
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We had met Eitan and Talia at the end of their holiday, so our time together, though lots of fun, was short. But like the natural rhythm of a river ever bringing in something new as a carries away the familiar, we almost immediately met Sabine from Germany, with whom we connected instantly. Thus began…
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Part 2: Sabine’s warmth and social ease were infectious, though she claimed this vital aspect of her personality emerged almost only when on holiday, in opposition to her more staid demeanor which fitted her lifestyle as an interpreter in the rather conservative government city of Bonn. Sabine and I stayed friends for many years and I even had the opportunity to visit her five years following our initial encounter, when I stopped in Bonn on my way from Amsterdam to Zürich. We were so genuinely happy to see each other, that our joyous emotions erased any need for forced politeness or uncomfortableness. It felt as though five days rather than five years had passed since we had last shared a bottle of retsina with our moussaka.
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Through Sabine, we met Martine, a woman from France who had traveled much of the world speaking only her native tongue, which I found impressive. Martine was staying at a guesthouse more centrally located and less expensive than ours. Carol and I checked it out right away, only to happily discover that not only was there a room available, it was larger and brighter than the one in which we had been staying. Our move was accomplished without too much effort, since this time we had to carry our packs downhill. The proprietor, or manager, or whatever, was a young man sporting the requisite Greek black moustache, and sparkling smile, and whom we never saw again after moving in. He asked for no money up front and made no arrangement as to how we were to pay for the accommodation. There seemed to be no other staff around and after Martine left, we did not even see any other patrons. In fact, when it was finally time to leave, we did not know whom to pay or how to return the key. We could easily have viewed our time as a guest of the cheerful and handsome man with the moustache, who looked a lot like the man who ran the souvlaki stand near the town center, but we left the key and money in the room, never knowing if those drachmas found themselves into the proper pocket.
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Each day, Sabine added to her entourage of new acquaintances and consequently, our dinner table at the various tavernas of Skiathos grew nightly. Wherever we went, the food was not only delicious, but so fresh! And even though Sabine was on holiday, it fell upon her to be interpreter, passing effortlessly from German to English to French. One day our international group rented a private boat, now that we were large enough to make it affordable, and sailed to “secret” coves, where we were surrounded by imposing rock formations. We lounged on the boat relishing the yummy breezes of the Aegean and then stopped at the port of Skopelos, an island with 360 churches, each more charming than the last. To really see Skopelos, we had to climb up several crooked streets and stairways, but the reward was always a new and special view of the churches, harbor, and turquoise sea below. Everywhere were bursts of bougainvillea in varying hues of red, violet, pink and orange. And then there was the ever-present Aegean sun, providing a light of such clarity, it always felt like I had just cleaned my pupils with lens tissue. The whites of the houses of the Greek islands defy any believable concept of white known in the streets of New York, where we have only a Clorox commercial to evoke our imagination. How special that day was!
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By late afternoon, following lunch, our group had splintered. But Carol and I were still together. We had exhausted ourselves by so much walking up and down stone streets, alleys and stairways, that by the time we made it back down to the harbor level, we decided to take a local bus to the other end of the island, where our boat was docked. Carol sat by the window about three quarters of the way down towards the back of the bus and I sat beside her. The only other passengers on the bus were an English family consisting of a large, pale, gawky-looking man, his pale wife, whose nondescript appearance has escaped my memory, and their pale brat of a child who was fretting about something trivial, beginning each whine with “Deddy, Deddy.” Deddy was standing in the aisle towering over his son in a seat closer to the front and diagonally across from ours.
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The road we traveled on was not well paved and the bus appeared and felt like it was constructed during the Age of Plato, so our ride was rather bumpy. Carol and I were happily bouncing and babbling away, but as I faced her in conversation, I suddenly saw her facial appearance change. In what seemed to be slow motion, her mouth dropped open, her eyebrows went up and a look of terror entered her beautiful blue eyes. Before I had completely turned my head to discover what had caused this metamorphosis in Carol’s expression, the danger she had observed coming, was delivered in the form of a mammoth Deddy falling upon me as we went around a particularly large curve in the road. Suddenly there he was, sprawled out in all his clumsy hugeness on my lap, obscuring me from the world. There was a brief stretch of time, probably only seconds but, in this strange slow motion time warp, might have been an eternity, when Deddy and I made eye contact, as intimate an instant as he had probably shared with anyone in his life, except maybe his wife, and even that was questionable. He struggled in his lack of grace, but finally righted himself back to a vertical position, allowing me to breathe once again. Clinging to another seat in the bus, Deddy exclaimed over and over again, “I’m terribly sorry.” The poor man was awfully embarrassed and had turned the color of those wonderful Greek tomatoes. He was practically hysterical in his repeated apologies, even though he was not the cause of his plunge onto my lap. I was alright, after all, and we kept telling him it was not his fault. But both Carol and I actually were suffering, in an effort to contain our own hysteria in the form of laughter. We had to get out of the bus and walk the rest of the way to the boat just so we could release our giggles, and when we did, they exploded like one of those ripe bushes of bougainvillea erupting over the Skopelos stairways. Even now, when I think of that moment, of Carol's expression, of that poor pink bulk in my lap and the look on his face, I cannot help but chuckle.
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On one of our stopovers back in Athens, Carol and I connected with Puck, whom Carol met years before on a plane from Mexico City to San Francisco, and had maintained a lasting friendship. Puck was arriving from her native Stockholm to share a week with us in those glorious isles, which one could easily believe were chosen by gods. Puck, a very tall, exceedingly pale, large-boned woman, was a bona fide Swedish platinum blonde, with light blue eyes and a regularly smiling countenance. Despite her size, Puck was utterly feminine and graceful and she provided a nice completion to our triangle. Puck’s ever gay and jocular mood, as well as her flirtatiousness, notably amplified the attention we always drew from the local men.
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The three of us treated ourselves to a flight to Santorini, with its famous breathtaking panoramas and black sand beaches. We stayed in a guest house that offered one shower for its many guests. Hot water existed, but in a very limited supply, so that it was fortuitous to be among the first to use the shower in the late afternoon. It was interesting to observe the behavior of the guests, which of course included myself, in being outwardly extremely courteous and saying things like “Oh, it's okay, you go first” but inwardly thinking “Shit, didn't he go first yesterday?” Santorini was too crowded with tourists and I additionally did not like the volcanic sand, but the perspective behind the lens was extraordinarily rich. There were sensational photo opportunities everywhere, along the little streets of whitewashed houses, gazing at the blue domes atop churches silhouetted against the sea, climbing onto and sitting atop roofs and looking down at the harbor.
Following these days of vigorous hiking up and down the hills of Santorini, lazing on powdered lava, and taking sporadically lukewarm showers, we took a boat to Paros for essentially more of the same - eating, drinking, and being merry, very much Puck’s life philosophy. In Paros, Puck’s outlook completely won us over. Much of our time was spent sitting at the tavernas near the water’s edge, watching the fishermen bringing in the day's catch, as we happily sipped our retsina. I was especially intrigued by the way the fisherman would smash the octopi (or is it octopuses?) against the rocks in order to tenderize the flesh for human consumption and gratification. When it was time for dinner, taverna guests were invited to pay a visit to the kitchen in the back to choose their fish or seafood from that day's bounty. I had never eaten such fresh and tasty fish until I visited the islands of Greece. Carol, Puck and I would all look at each other and moan in total gustative joy.
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Each day, Carol and I would spend some hours on a different beach, sometimes arrived at by boat. Being so fair, Puck often did not join Carol me, the sun worshipers, on our daytime jaunts that entailed a lot of sun exposure. One day Carol and I were finally persuaded, following much coercion by the boat operators, to visit the stalagmite caves on nearby Antiparos. Puck, displaying greater resistance, opted to stay behind and pass the day sitting in shade at her favorite taverna. We had been told that the fee to see the stalagmite caves involved simply paying some drachmas for the boat there and back. Upon arrival on Antiparos, Carol and I were informed that the caves themselves were a few kilometers away up a rocky incline, which we were free to walk.
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“You can ride on the donkeys for a few drachmas,” we were told by a man whose trade was, if you haven’t guessed, donkey transport.
After making a quick assessment of the hike, we were easily convinced to opt for the donkey ride, but we wanted to save some money.
“Okay, but we will share one donkey,” I replied.
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The man who ran the donkey business offered his assistance in hoisting Carol and me onto the poor animal’s back, no easy feat. Not only did it take more than one attempt for each of us, but the rather slimy man kept feeling us up as he lifted us. You know the type, they exist all over the world. Short in stature, greasy hair, a few teeth missing, date of last bath questionable, dirty clothes and feet, etc. Our emotions ran from rage to frustration to laughter at the sheer comedy of this scenario. We finally found a semi secure position and had only half a second to orient ourselves before the man, a cynical smile upon his sleazy face, slapped the donkey’s rump, and we were off, clinging to each other as well as our transport, for dear life. During the entire hike up that hill Carol and I were laughing hysterically and kind of nervously, never having achieved a feeling of confidence. Our donkey proved to be rather disobedient. Even though all the other nice donkeys were moving in a line up to the cave, ours would now and then decide it was snack time and meander off the path to nibble on some unappetizing looking scrub near the edge of a precipice just to add to our fright.
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Dismounting from the donkey’s back at the entrance to the cave was a little easier than getting on, except that we underwent a very strange sensation feeling the earth beneath our feet and it took a few minutes to feel steady. Not too surprisingly, entry into the cave required yet another fee and we realized how easily we had been led into this whole scam. After exiting the not-very-impressive cave, we took a few minutes to take in the vista, mostly of a dry colorless landscape, yet still expansive. Seeing the seaport far below, we realized just how far we had ascended. Luckily, there was no additional fee for the descent, which was even scarier because it kept feeling like we were going to fall and fly off to Mount Olympus, “Apollo, take me!” Before getting back on the boat, we sat for a little while at the closest taverna, for a drink and the chance to regain our wits. We had our already-paid-for return passage to Paros, so we knew the remaining drachmas that we had brought along, practically none at this point, could go towards refreshments. Eating did not seem possible after that donkey ride, not to mention the ire making itself known in the well of our stomachs at being ripped off and having to pay two additional fees above what we had been told.
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By the time we alit back on the shores of Paros, our appetites had returned with great vigor. Puck was cheerily awaiting us at our decrepit, yet homey room located in a local family's house. Carol and I washed the dust off our sunburned and sore bodies and ravished, we all headed for the Italian restaurant atop the hill, the first time since being in Greece that we altered our cuisine. As with all our meals in Greece, this one was divine and particularly special, as it was to be our last one with Puck, whose holiday was short. The next day she would fly to Athens to catch her flight back home. Of course, we had a glorious celebration, Carol and I basking in the sheer warmth of Puck’s energy, as we had little of our own. We ate pasta and pastries, drank lots of wine, and had fun conversing with the owner. But mostly this night was for a sharing of spirits among three goddesses. For Carol and me, Paros was also to be our last island together, for I was returning shortly to New York, and Carol was off to Lesbos and eventually Rome.
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Greece is so pleasure-seeking and sensuous, it could light the embers of passion for even an ice cube. I could not believe that its ambience would be wasted and so I was determined to have one last affair. In the short remaining time on this journey, I was not expecting to find the sort of connections I had made with both Manuel and Tristan, just rather a sweet memory to take with me. I remember when I first spotted my prey on the beach. From a distance with his black hair and tan skin, I could almost pretend there was a slight resemblance to Tristan, but if I were to measure up every man to Tristan, I would probably be chaste for the rest of my days. So not much point in that. It did not take me long to casually make my way close enough to command his attention. Costas turned out to be not a bad conversationalist, and his English was quite good. This is important because even though I obviously did not have to wait until the fifth date to get intimate with a man, there had to be some bottom-line criteria for me to be interested. Well, all I can say is that Costas was treading rather close to the bottom line, but as I said, I was on a mission to have that one last encounter and there was not much time. You see, I was leaving the next day for Athens, where I planned to spend a few days doing some last-minute shopping before heading back to the US. Costas was also somewhat handsome, no Tris… wait, stop that.
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It turned out that Costas lived in Athens and planned on returning there the next day as well. He was staying at a hotel a little more upscale than ours and I welcomed the opportunity to stay with him that evening and have a hot shower. The next morning, Carol came down to the boat where she and I had a dramatic, tearful goodbye. After she left, Costas and I went to buy our tickets, only to discover that the boat was full. The later one was probably also full, we were told, but we could certainly return in a few hours to check. We opted for the more certain choice of securing passage on a boat departing the next morning. Now I had a dilemma. It meant staying another night on Paros. Did I go find Carol? After our emotional goodbye scene, it felt strange to me. So, I decided against it, which also felt strange to me. I would much rather have spent the evening with my dear friend instead of this man, who was becoming boring. But we were to rise early anyway and be off and I did not want a repeat farewell performance with Carol, which would make our heartfelt parting seem somehow trite. I sneaked around Paros with Costas that night, hiding from a possible encounter with my best friend. Well, at least I got another night in the hotel with the good shower. The next day we finally made it to Athens where I returned to the Paris Hotel. There was Helen at the front desk to greet me, a welcome sight as I was missing Carol so much. Costas and I were to see each other later for dinner. That night, he took me to a ritzy part of the city and we rode the vernacular railway up to the top for a view of Athens. We did not stay together as he had to be at his job early in the morning, but we did want to make love one more time before saying goodbye. The arrangement was that he would come to my hotel the next day during siesta for a little afternoon tryst.
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The following morning, I woke early to the familiar clattering of plates in the restaurant across the alley. Descending into the streets, I was surrounded with all the sounds and smells of the city, which felt partly European and partly like a developing country. Athens was already very much alive with every kind of traffic and its populace either sipping that horrid coffee and eating those tasteless rolls which were made only slightly palatable with jam, or walking here and there on their way to work. Horns were honking and the ever-pervasive smell of petrol worked its way into my nostrils. I was bound for the markets and tourist shops in The Plaka to purchase last minute gifts, a rug for myself and an extra bag with which to pack additional goods. I remember buying some tomatoes on the street. Their color was so rich and their flavor so divine, I cared little that the red juice dripped down my face as I closed my eyes and relished this refreshing fruit, a respite from my sweaty morning in Athens.
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When I got back “home,” loaded down with my booty, Helen was all excited.
“Weelees, she is here!”
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I finally figured out, that my darling Carol Willis was back in Athens and had dropped her stuff off in my room, but had stepped out and would be back soon. I was confused because I knew Carol had plans to visit the island of Lesbos when we separated in Paros. I was also thrilled, yet there was a small problem. You see, very shortly, Costas would be arriving for our “appointment,” and I couldn't very well have Carol walk in on that. Obviously, I had to let Helen in on my plan for the afternoon so that she could stop Carol from coming upstairs. I still had to take a quick shower, so there certainly was not enough time to come up with anything other than the truth.
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“Um, Helen, there will be a man visiting me soon. We met on Paros. This is the last time we will see each other, so….you need to keep Carol here, downstairs until he leaves.”
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Luckily Helen was a woman of the world, at least the hotel world, and understood completely. “When you are feenished, call me here at the desk. I will keep Weelees until then.” Thank God for Helen.
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“He should be here soon. Just sent him up and I'll try to be quick,” I gratefully replied.
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I was so happy to see Carol, whom I found sitting in the lounge watching TV with the old widows. She ended up not liking Lesbos very much, so headed back here. Since I still had a few days until my flight, we decided to check out one more island, Poros, quite close to Athens and quickly reached if we sprung for the hydrofoil. We could not leave the next day because I had already paid for a one-day tour to the ruins of Delphi.
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When I woke up the next morning, I realized I had a bladder infection from too much activity with Costas. The bus ride to Delphi was hell because I had a desperate urge to urinate the whole time. I was trying to hold it in and was suffering terribly, sitting on my heels to create pressure on my poor exploding bladder. Finally, I could take it no longer. I had to go up to the woman tour guide and tell her I had some kind of illness and absolutely had to release my water now. We were driving on a road already quite a distance from the city with nothing in sight, but an old shed. The woman told the driver to stop, at which point I got out and started walking towards the shed, the only possible chance for “privacy.” Everyone in the bus was watching me through the windows. When I got to the shed I walked around the back to obscure myself from the penetrating eyes of all the puzzled tourists. A dog that seemed to reside back there was not at all happy with my intrusion and started barking ferociously at me, but I did not care. I lowered my pants and let it flow and, for that glorious moment, the rest of the world did not even exist for me.
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Throughout the day, my bladder infection worsened and though it may have been sacrilege, I had to pee many times amongst the ruins, tempting the wrath of Zeus. I managed to find someone close to my age in a group of mostly senior citizens and she and I developed one of those instant relationships whereby you tell your most intimate secrets. She became privy to my bladder infection and how it was probably provoked, while I learned all about her failing marriage. The friendship did not really go anywhere, though I think we wrote a few times and may have exchanged Christmas cards that year.
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By the time Carol and I got to Poros the next day, I was pretty sick and even had trouble walking as a result of the pain. Luckily, we found a place to stay pretty quickly and discovered that just up the hill from our ramshackle tiny room with peeling paint, there was a doctor, to whom we immediately headed once we were settled in. It did not take long for this man to diagnose my condition and to inform me of its cause. Carol and I watched as he pulled out a large piece of paper and very deliberately wrote upon it a gigantic number 80 that practically took up all the space. He then held this paper up, moved it close to my face and spoke to me in rough English. “Eighty percent of women get this from looooovvve.”
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When he said the 80% part he moved the paper back and forth, and as he put extra emphasis on the word “love,”drawing it out and raising his pitch, he looked directly at me and held the piece of paper under my nose. I felt like I was visiting the priest instead of the doctor. It was more than we could do to burst out laughing but we managed to stay composed and act serious because this man was my salvation. He wrote me a prescription and told me to drink massive quantities of water. Carol escorted me back to bed and dashed off to the village back down the hill to get my medication. Thank goodness for Carol, and that she did not like Lesbos, and had shown up in time to take care of me. The medicine and all the water worked wonders, because by the end of the next day, I was already feeling a lot better.
These last days with Carol and the Aegean were magical in the sense that they felt like an extra gift, like icing on the cake. Poros was so close to Athens, and yet a world away from its noise and polluted air. There were few tourists on the beaches we found, and the calamari and salads tasted especially wonderful. We moved at a dreamy, slow pace, even after my pain subsided. And though I had to return to Athens for my flight to New York, it was the vision of the cerulean water, the revitalizing currents of the sea air, and the harmony I shared with Carol that I took with me as my last memories, and I have always been grateful for those days of calm before the storm.