All that Glitters
Dear friend,
“We’re a poor island, so we cook everything that grows,” says Vassos, as she serves up a delicious stew made of wild and cultivated vegetables from her garden.
By poor, I guess she means the surface of life is not shiny and perfect the way we like our cars and our online posts to be.
In Athens and Ikaria, for example, you see more dusty, beat-up vehicles than you do in London — where even in the more down-at-heel areas you’ll see luxury cars parked outside of houses. Cars on hire purchase, balloon payments to reckon with, and endless credit agreements to renew.
Status symbols.
To me, the islanders are rich in sunshine and water and culture and community. At the festivities last night, people from all over the island danced all night, holding hands or arms interlocked in spirals, so it seemed to me that a column of light shone on the hilltop village.
I stood at the side, shy and hesitant, wanting to join in but not finding the courage. The violinist teased textures and melodies from his instrument, and the energy whirled, the people moving like the waves of the Mediterranean.
We were welcomed, but I was also aware of being an outsider — and those old fears we all wrestle with bubbled up inside me.
To be rejected.
It was that caged bird.
I asked that it might be freed and contented myself with appreciating the richness of the culture and the opportunity to be present.
And the music.
Maybe another time we will come with Greek friends, and they will help us enter the dance.
Now we’re on the ferry to Athens with Formica and chrome and screens and the sea, vast and unknowable, sailing past the mountaintop islands of our watery blue pearl planet.
Phones beep and buzz.
I’m feeling apprehensive about returning to London, but I know it will pass. The city will close over me like a wave and welcome me home.
It takes time to adjust.
Not long.
Just a moment.
On the way to the ferry, there was a snarl-up on the coast road as a man in his brand-new giant SUV struggled to gauge its width. It was frustrating for us, as we were heading to the port to catch our ferry, but we felt for him.
He had loads of room — but the car was unsuited to the narrow roads.
Maybe he would’ve been better off in a tiny, scuffed, sun-bleached banger.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey