Greece! It had been so long that we had started to joke that it was some fabled land which only existed in TV shows and archaeological digs. Not a real place, or maybe one that had once existed but had slipped beneath the waves and become a legend like Atlantis.
But here it was, swirling around us: bobbing boats, clear water and a mass of exotic humanity as the sun passed overhead and headed off to shine its light on the eternal city of Sparta. And the Greeks really did know how to have a good time! Sunny courtyard taverns and coffee shops where the locals promenaded and settled for an evening of expansive food and conversation. Beautiful clothes and the smell of spicy food as knots of people sat around white linen tables, eyes flashing, voices raised; their hands clenching and swooping as ancient philosophies fought their way up from the depths of their passion. Truly we were not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
It was so beautiful. Jen and I had rented a room at the edge of the rocky sea and we spent our days wandering along the marina where the water was glassy and made satisfying gloop noises as it heaved and fell on ancient wharves. We had looked forward to experiencing Greek restaurants and had expected the food to be exotic, and it was, but we quickly found that the Greeks don't just sit and eat. Not for them the sitting politely at a table and ignoring the people next to you; no, for them it is a passionate event that sometimes felt like being at football game where we were all on the same side and the game was going well, and the post game celebrations sometimes went late into the early morning.
Maybe it was the holiday, maybe it was the passion flowing around us, but evenings found us in our ancient iron bed, the balcony doors thrown open and the white curtains blowing in the evening breeze as we made love and talked deep into the night, secret thoughts and forgotten moments flowing from us as old wounds dissolved and healed, our souls becoming porous with the ebb and flow of the waves and ancient city around us.
Breakfast always found us in a small café that we had both learned to love. The grey haired owner was a font of knowledge about the area and had a wickedly sharp mind and sense of humour, always ready to critique and lampoon the goings on in world as his two daughters swirled around and made food appear. The young women never seemed to agree with him and were constantly rolling their eyes and saying something that I was sure was the Greek equivalent of "Oh, dad!", but often stopped to join in the melee, their floral voices counterpointing his deep baritone.
The old man had been in fine form that morning, and the discussion had ranged from the price of seafood nowadays to why his oldest daughter wouldn't just marry the boy she had been seeing for the last year, the conversation whirling noisily around the room as the other patrons added their two drachma's worth. Laughing and watching the flow of the conversation, I had gone to collect a newspaper from the counter, and as I absentmindedly reached for the paper I found myself holding a hand that was roughly snatched away, both of us starting and whirling around to face each other.
The woman facing me was rigid, her eyes dark and wary. I apologised with a laugh and told her that I really hadn't been paying attention and had not even seen her; I don't normally make a habit of holding random women's hands. She smiled wryly and explained that she and her husband had just arrived and had come from a place in Italy where pickpockets were a problem and you always had to be on your guard. I commiserated with her about the craziness of some places, and I could see a man who could only be her husband hovering around looking for a table so I invited them to join us - it was the least I could do after giving her such a nasty fright.
Her husband's name was Serge, which turned out to be pronounced ser gay and not serj, and her name was Mary. She was Bulgarian, but her mother was Italian and her father French which had given her dark skin and black hair that flowed in ringlets down her back. Small breasted and broad hipped, her dress clung lovingly to her curves and she moved with a swing and a swish that made eyes in the café slide up and down in a Mexican wave as she walked by. Serge was mainly Swedish and had green eyes, tawny hair and a lean but muscular build that he said was pretty much typical of his countrymen, and spoke of a country that valued national service and good health. Jen was just so exotic to them: a redhead with huge blue eyes and long legs that Mary said she would kill for, and she lifted up her dress to show the high heels she had to wear to "stop her backside from dragging on the ground".
We hit it off straight away and we spent the next few days hanging out and touring around together. They were easy company and we could see that they loved each other, their forthright and relaxed manner making it easy to relax and share our love of each other with them. We ate together almost exclusively, and nights would find us sitting on our balcony just sharing a bottle of wine and watching the world go by.
Thursday was fishing day and we had a late lunch watching the boats unloading their catch. Mary had been talking about a Bulgarian film that was going to be on TV that afternoon by one of her favourite directors and was excited to be see it. Serge wasn't so impressed and felt that the director made movies that were too gloomy, and he really just wanted to cruise around to take in more of the place. I thought I'd like to see the movie myself, just to see how much of the language I could understand but Jen was equally unimpressed and said that if Mary and I wanted to watch some oddball movie, then she would just take Serge out and show him how normal people have a good time; anyway, there was a cool new cider house she had found in town, and it had a particularly lovely courtyard that had been calling to her for the last week.
We all thought that was a particularly fine solution and maybe we needed to start up a new reality show called Wife Swap Greek Style, even though we all thought the name sounded a bit pornographic. We were still tittering about it when Mary and I settled onto the huge bed in their room, cup of coffee and cake ready on a tray as the movie came on and Jen and Serge walked out into the warm afternoon air.
It was a particularly fine movie, and Mary was moved to tears by some of the events that transpired. It turned out that the director made movies that were as long as they were sad, and as the afternoon turned to evening, a cool breeze came across the water and we pulled the doona over us, her warm body pressed against me and her face buried in my shoulder when the tears had to fall.
The credits were rolling and Mary was snuggled against me, crying quietly when Serge and Jen came through the door. Serge laughed and asked if the marriage wasn't going so well and did we want to talk about it, but Mary just snuffled and told him that she had just realised that she couldn't be with me anymore because what sort of man would let her watch something so miserable?
