Mediterannean Chill Pill

July 25, 2020

Mediterannean Chill Pill

Sardines tinged with salt swimming in a small pool of olive oil, beach blanket wet with sea, sun bleached white walls and the chorus of cicadas beckoned from the earth by the onset of Summer.
With our newest clothing arrivals of stripes, blues and crisp whites it inspired me to share a travel log of our trip to Corfu Greece last year. Greece is more than just a place to visit, my parents live there, so for me, it's home.

My parents get fresh fish from their fish monger in the village of Corfu. When my mom comes to stay in the states she always makes sure to pick up a tee shirt for their fish monger!

Grilled sardine recipe

The terracotta roof tops of Corfu.

My first voyage to Greece at age eight. Here's an excerpt of a memoir I've been working on. At this time mom and I were island hopping, we had moved to Europe with one way tickets and no set plans. This describes an evening in Athens with a Greek man my mother was dating.

In the evening we met up with Pablo at his art gallery. There were paintings of landscapes, part desert and part beach with dripping clocks. Mom told me these were painted by the famous artist Salvador Dali. These were original pieces. After hanging a closed sign on the gallery door, the four of us would stroll the plaka, curving down twisted streets heavy with the aroma of grilled lamb. Restaurants merged with one another, tables and chairs spilling out over the road, competing for every square inch of ground. I ordered my favorite, fried potatoes and Pablo got wine for the table. Moments later cars came to a screeching halt on the road in front of our table.
"Metakíni̱si̱ malákas!" Drivers roared out their windows, slamming palms into their car horns. Our restaurant host responded by turning up the stereo, and now loud bazuki music merged with shouting drivers. Our waiter stretched his arms out wide and clicked his fingers. Two more waiters joined him. The waiters linked arms together, and began to stomp rhythmically, moving in between honking cars. "Opa!" they shouted, kicking a tire in their zeal. One of the drivers stepped out of his car. Then others did as well. They laughed and danced, in a matter of seconds it had became a street party! After the clog opened up drivers returned to their cars, waving and honking as they drove away.

In my memoir are stories about buying a house in Greece. Here's an excerpt describing the village of Agios Marcos, where I bought my villa.

After filling the water jug I walk up the stairs to my favorite lemon tree near the church courtyard and slip one of the bulging yellow balls into my pocket. Every morning a priest comes to the church bell tower to haul two long ropes back and forth, the ropes are connected to clappers which clang the bells, creating a deep, melodious bong that resonates through the valley. The origin of bells in Christian worship traces back to the ram's horns and silver trumpets used in the Old Testament to announce the beginning of a feast. I wander on, poking my head inside empty houses. In one I see a small table, a picture of the Virgin Mary and two chairs, one of them tossed on the floor. Other than a layer of dust visible in the dim light, it looks as though a glass of ouzo might have been served here just minutes before. Perhaps in a spurt of hot temper, one of the family members jumped up and stormed out leaving his chair upturned. Behind the house is a small, crude structure that looks like a kitchen, it has a stone oven and only one diminutive window, which casts a weak light in the cavernous interior. This is where the women of the family would have stood shoulder to shoulder, sweating in the heat as they cut potatoes, slaughtered chickens and cooked fish. Only after the men and any guests had finished eating would the women sit down to their meals.

White washed steps.