Greece

Ejo #165 – Dad

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My father died 20 years ago today.  His death fucked me up pretty good.  Actually, his illness didn’t do a bad job of fucking me up either.  Watching him deteriorate from a strong and vital man into a shell of a human being, someone I barely recognised, sent me plummeting into the deepest and darkest depression I’ve ever experienced.  The ten months of his illness were agonising, and the months afterwards were very much worse. 

Until my father died, work was a source of great comfort for me.  A place I could escape the gnawing torment of his decline.  A place of relief from the anguish.  I was working as a junior air traffic controller at Moorabbin, which is a busy airport full of training aircraft.  It’s chaos.  Delving into work, my focus was laser sharp and blinkered, all the better to not allow any thoughts of my father to seep into my consciousness.  I was depressed, yes, but I was functional.  In stark contrast, after Dad died, I became catatonic.  I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t do anything.  And I certainly couldn’t work. 

I was off work for three months, and spent all that time at our family home with my Mum and sisters.  I slept in the living room on a foam mattress which I made up every night, and packed away every morning.  Sleep was elusive; my head filled with swirling memories and jagged thoughts that were so painful I would just sob into my pillow for hours.  I was eventually prescribed sweet, merciful Temazepam to help with the debilitating insomnia, which was a life buoy thrown to me when I was drowning in a tempestuous sea of grief.  My waking hours were spent staring into space.  Aimlessly shuffling from room to room.  I was completely numb and I don’t remember much from that time.  I lost a lot of weight.  I rarely left the house.  I cut myself off from all my friends.  My father’s death knocked me out.  It was a king-hit that took me more than 18 months to emerge from.    

My mother never resurfaced from her loss.  When Dad died, a very large part of her did as well.  She never stopped loving him with all her heart, and she stubbornly refused to live a full life without him.  To my Mum, Kon’s ashes embodied his soul, and until the day she died she kept a lit candle beside his urn on the mantelpiece in the living room.  She said goodbye to him when she left the house, and hello when she returned.  Goodnight when she went to bed, and good morning when she woke up.  It was her way of staying connected to him, even though he was gone.  It was her way of keeping him alive, and that gave her comfort. 

My mother’s death hit me very differently.  Firstly, even though I knew she was sick, I didn’t know that she was at death’s door, so I was totally unprepared.  Secondly, she was my mother, not my father.  And thirdly, after Dad died, I still had my Mum around for another 15 years.  But when she died too, suddenly they were both gone and I experienced not just the loss of a very important person in my life, but the loss of my roots, my anchor, my family unit, and my very foundation.  And the loss was profound.  I didn’t get depressed, like when Dad died.  Instead I succumbed to an extreme and overpowering sadness, the depth of which I could never have imagined possible.  The sadness that I felt was not normal.  My whole life leading up to this event, sadness was a room on the ground floor.  Maybe when things got really bad, it went down to the basement.  But suddenly, when my Mum died, I realised that it was not the lowest, or the worst, that I could feel.  I learned that there were twenty cavernous levels below the earth that could fill up and overflow with my sadness.  It’s like when people say you don’t know how much love you can truly feel until you have a baby.  Well, maybe you don’t know how much sadness you can feel until you lose your mother. 

I’ve spent the last four and a half years since my mother’s death fiercely grieving her.  I miss her deeply and still sometimes cry myself to sleep when it just hits me in the chest that she’s gone and that she’s never coming back.  I think of her every single day.  I see her picture on my bedroom wall every single day.  And every single day something reminds me of her, and I’ll say emphatically, “I love my Mum”.  Because I really fucking do.    

Conversely, in the last four and a half years, I have hardly thought about my Dad at all.  Deplorably, I haven’t had any room in my heart for him.  And I feel so incredibly guilty that the all-consuming grief I feel for Mum has completely supplanted the grief that I was holding for my Dad.  And of course, intellectually and emotionally, I know (I know!) that I still love my father and I know that I miss him and I know that I grieve for him.  And of course it’s not a competition about who I love or miss the most.  But I am grateful that this, twentieth anniversary of his passing, is an opportunity for me to once again focus on my Dad, and to once again make some room for him in my heart where he belongs. 

My parents were very different people, and had very different parenting styles.  My Mum was all heart, loving, open and warm.  My Dad was more outgoing and filled the room with his personality… which could sometimes be a lot.  He had been raised in a household where the man was in charge, the man was the be-all and end-all, the man wore the pants and the man had the last word.  My Dad’s gentle nature prevented him from becoming the kind of authoritarian parent that his own father was, but still he could be pretty strict and uncompromising, especially when my sisters and I were teens.  I think that when his three daughters started growing up, it triggered an internal clash between his easy-going personality and the stern parental conditioning he’d grown up with.  And this started causing a rift in our family.  Being the first born child, being the one for whom rebellion simply wasn’t an option, I accepted all the rules.  I was the good girl.  And I’m grateful to both of my sisters, for being significantly more ballsy than I was and smashing down the barriers that had been put around us.  I’m grateful because, even though it caused a great deal of heartbreak and strife and tension in the house at the time, it was the catalyst for our father to change.  As a parent, and as a man. 

I have to give my Dad props for being able to shed generations of toxic masculinity, and to look inwards and realise that he no longer had to be so overprotective and controlling of his daughters.  He understood that if he didn’t make changes within himself, he was at risk of pushing us away, or even losing us completely.  And he changed.  He just did it.  He softened, he became more accepting, and he became more affectionate and open and loving.  He became more himself.  It was a truly remarkable transformation.  Over the years, my relationship to my Dad evolved from worship, to reverence, to fear, to shame, to disrespect, to ambivalence.  And then I went back, and I got to know him as a person, as a human being.  And I started loving him again.  And finally, at the end, after all that, we were friends.  I’m so grateful that we had the opportunity to complete that circle while he was still alive. 

I have so many beautiful memories of my extravagant and irrepressible father, whose extraordinary zest for life left an impression on everyone who knew him.  Even though it may seem trivial, a memory that I hold very dearly is of how gentle my Dad was when he put my hair up in a ponytail when I was a kid.  As opposed to my Mum’s confident and efficient method of whisking my hair up and quickly twisting the hair-tie around the ponytail, my entire head fit into my Dad’s enormous hands as he tenderly stroked my hair, trying so hard to not pull even a single one as he lovingly gathered it up on top of my head.  And I knew, I just knew, even then, as a five, or six, or seven year old, that it was a special moment between us.  I cherished that moment when I was a kid.  And I cherish it now. 

One family story that became legend over the years demonstrates how meticulous and fastidious Dad was about certain things.  He always took such great pride in the way that he looked, and in particular the clothes that he wore.  His sisters, Dimitra and Sophia, recently recalled the story for me, setting the scene at a large family dinner.  Dad, Mum, aunts and uncles and friends of the family were all there, gathered around the table.  Someone was carving and serving a large roast chicken, and a few droplets of gravy splashed onto my Dad’s shirt.  As was his wont, he became very upset.  Everyone there was accustomed to witnessing Dad’s over-the-top reactions whenever he got even a minor stain on his clothes.  But this time, apparently, he became so melodramatic about it that my Aunt Sophia (who was up to here with Dad’s histrionics) lost her patience, and lost the plot.  Wild-eyed, she pushed her chair back, walked around the table to where my Dad was sitting, grabbed the chicken drumstick off his plate and furiously started rubbing it all over his shirt, yelling, “It’s just a fucking stain, Kon!!!”  As you can imagine, everyone was so shocked at the unexpected insanity of the moment, they all burst into laughter.  Everyone, that is, except my Dad, who sat frozen like a statue, staring straight ahead with a stony look on his face. 

Hello police, I’m dressed to kill and I’d like to report a murder.

Thinking back, I remember lots of stories from my Dad’s youth.  Like the time a tree he was standing right next to was struck by lightning.  Knocked out by the impact, my father lost his sight and couldn’t see for hours afterwards.  When his eyesight returned, he went back to the tree, which had been cleaved in two, and found a stunning gemstone in the cradle of the split trunk.  The stone was a brilliant azure blue, and I remember seeing it and holding it and being in awe of it when I was a kid.  My Dad treasured that gemstone, and I wish with all my heart that I knew where it was. 

My father’s family were so poor that his parents couldn’t afford to feed all six of their children, so when my Dad was 17 years old, a deal was struck to foster him out to some neighbours, a rich family that lived just down the road.  Until then, my father had never even worn a pair of shoes.  So the pride that he took in his clothes later on in life makes total sense to me.  The couple that “adopted” my Dad were in their sixties and didn’t have any children, but they promised to secure him financially and to love him like their own.  The first few months went smoothly, and Dad helped them on their farm and generally did whatever was needed around the house.  He even used to drive the couple to church every week.  In a village where most families couldn’t even afford a bicycle, this was a big deal. 

After a while though, the couple started talking about weddings, suggesting that Kon marry their niece, but he wasn’t interested.  So the old guy started imposing a curfew, saying that my Dad (who was 19 years old by that time) had to be home by 10pm on Saturdays.  Obviously this was total bullshit and Kon justifiably stayed out until the wee hours of the morning that first weekend.  He did the same the weekend after.  And on the third weekend in a row that he came home late, he found the door to the house locked.  And that was it, that was the end of the deal.  That Sunday morning, his younger brothers and sisters woke up to find Kon sleeping on the floor next to their beds, and the whole family rejoiced that he was finally back where he belonged. 

Beloved siblings (Back row: Roula, Kon & Christos and Front row: Stavros, Sophia & Dimitra)

Kon Stathopoulos was a singularly brilliant man.  He pulled himself out of abject poverty in Greece, and created a whole new life for himself in Australia.  He completely rewrote his destiny.  My Dad was a dreamer and a big thinker!  Sure, he drove trucks, and then later taxis, but my Dad was too big to be a taxi driver forever.  He worked some shitty jobs to make ends meet, but in his spare time he was an enthusiastic entrepreneur.  Bow ties, light up yo-yos, silver screens for cars, decorative ceramic tiles.  He tried a whole bunch of innovative business ideas before finally starting his own company, Plastercraft Contractors. 

A one-man show, my Dad took solid plastering to the next level, turning it into an artform.  Within just a couple of years he had built such a great reputation in the industry that he was asked to singlehandedly restore the exterior of a large church in Ballarat.  He was also commissioned to create a new plaster cast emblem for the Red Eagle Hotel, in Albert Park, the very same bar where Kylie Minogue had her 21st birthday party!!!  He then landed the extremely exclusive job of re-designing and building the beautiful and iconic fountain at Government House in Victoria.  Every year on 26th January, Government House opens its doors to the public, and thousands of people get a chance to peek inside the stately home and to roam through the gardens.  There are also monthly tours of the 11 hectare garden which anyone can book, so why not go along on one of these tours and see for yourselves the amazing sculptural achievement created by my very own father. 

The construction phase.

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The standing ovation phase.

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The current phase.

Later on, due to the success of his business Dad expanded into larger scale projects like apartment building construction sites.  He often invited me to join him and earn a little bit of extra cash, and I once hit the jackpot, making $400 in one week being an elevator girl, asking big burly construction workers wearing hardhats, “Which floor?” for eight hours a day.  It was here that I first saw the man that my father had to be when he wasn’t with his family.  For the first time, I heard him casually throwing around words like, “fair dinkum”, “bloke”, “smoko”, and I even heard him say “fuck” a few times.  My brain exploded.  As a 21 year old I’d never heard my Dad swear at home, yet here he was cursing with such ease and regularity.  It was surprising, but also kind of nice, to discover this other side of Dad that I’d never seen before.  It added yet another dimension to him. 

My Dad left his mark on some pretty important buildings, but his passion project was building a holiday home for our family in Ancient Korinthos, in Greece.  The construction took him several years, and was (mostly) finished just before he was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2002.  His dream was for the five of us to holiday there, as a family.  But tragically, he never lived to see that happen.  The house is still there, an empty monument to one man’s vision. 

Mum and Dad hard at work. Literally building their dream home.

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The dream. With Greece’s only Hill’s Hoist.

I have a cute little blue urn on my bedside table, which holds a little bit of my Mum’s ashes and a little bit of my Dad’s ashes all mixed together.  I thought that having my parents close to me when I sleep would provide me with some sense of closeness to them, like my Mum used to get from having Dad’s ashes near to her.  But I was wrong.  I get nothing from it, except an academic understanding that my Mum and Dad’s cremated remains are next to me when I’m in bed.  I have no response to it at all, emotionally.  Sometimes I’ll shake the urn, and listen to their bone fragments rattling inside.  I know what’s in there, I know that it’s them, but even so, there’s no connection to who they were when they were alive.  I wish there was. 

Hello Mum and Dad, it’s me, Chryss.

My Dad really shaped the first 32 years of my life.  His first job in Melbourne was in the inner-city suburb of Carlton.  So naturally my father was a Bluebagger.  Therefore I am a Bluebagger.  Dad inspired my love of tennis, and I played competitively for years, even aspiring to turn professional when I was sixteen.  He taught me all the tricks of how to play a solid game of backgammon.  When I was 15, he taught me how to drive a manual in a rusty old Land Rover on a hilly farm with no roads.  And once I’d mastered that, he took me to an abandoned industrial estate in Springvale to learn how to drive his crappy work van. The one with the dodgy clutch and the sticky column shift.  And once I could drive that, I could drive anything.  I’m pretty sure that the reason I love to throw epic parties (and I really do love to throw epic parties) is because I inherited my Dad’s passion for entertaining, and showing people a good time, and living large.  It’s funny, what gets passed down from father to child.  Being a sports fan can be one of those things.  Wanting things to be just right, might be another.  A house in Greece, another still.  But maybe a zest for life and knowing how to dream big are the most important things a man can pass on to his daughter. Thanks Dad.

Ejo #163 – Drunk In….. Greece (Birthday Edition): AKA – A Love Letter To Marya

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I had big plans for my 50th birthday party.  Huge!  Destination island (I had my eye on Sardinia), lots of food, sunshine, champagne and all my favourite people gathered together to celebrate my half century with me.  A bacchanalian Festival of Chryss!  But alas, it was not to be, for Miss Rona had other plans.  I couldn’t even go back home to see my family and friends, as Australia had completely shut its borders to travellers.  Even citizens.  Even me!!!  Two years in the making, my grand plans for a birthday extravaganza were cruelly shattered; but please don’t bother opening the case of your tiny violin for me just yet.  For, as soon as it became clear that my plans had gone to shit, I consoled myself by booking a trip to Greece with David.  And the cherry on top of the birthday cake was that one of my best friends in the world, Marya, and her partner Pablo, flew all the way from California to join us!! 

The four of us rendezvoused at Athens airport the day before my birthday, and hopped on an afternoon flight to Zakynthos, excited to be starting our Greek adventure together.  As we approached our magnificent villa, set in a vast olive grove, we were greeted by a symphony of cicadas welcoming us..  This thunderous sound, which was foreign and peculiar to Marya’s ears, felt like home to mine.  Over the last few years, Greece has become so much more to me than just a holiday destination.  It is a place I have developed a very deep connection to, and an abiding love for.  I feel my roots starting to take hold in Greek soil, and I see myself settling down there once our Dubai hijinks are over and done with (hopefully sooner, rather than later).

For dinner, we strolled to the local taverna, Armonia Restaurant, which was only a two minute walk from our place.  We ordered delicious food and, as is the Greek way, got absolutely shitfaced on barrel wine and raucous laughter.  After we were gently encouraged to please go home by the tired taverna staff, the four of us tipsily staggered through the olive trees back to the villa for a swim.  Less than five minutes after jumping in the pool we all kind of looked at each other and collectively decided we didn’t really need to be wearing swimsuits, right?  We were all friends.  We were all grown ups.  So the bathers came off and we basically spent the rest of the holiday in our birthday suits!  How apt!  The next couple of hours very much lived up to the name of this ejo series.  Drinking copious amounts of wine, quaffing cocktails and doing shots of mastiha.  Completely nude, we frolicked in the water and we gallivanted around the garden and we laughed and laughed and laughed until my sides hurt.  I was having the time of my life. 

Until… I stupidly (oh, so stupidly) slipped on the wet tiles as I was running (running??!!!) back to the pool from the kitchen.  I remember becoming airborne, as if I’d just slipped on a cartoon banana peel, and when I came down I landed on my back on the sharp edge of the pool.  I blacked out for a few seconds and came to in the water, engulfed in agony and unable to breathe.  Winded by the fall I struggled to take a breath and, panicked, my first thought was that I’d broken my back.  But as air entered my lungs and I dramatically bawled in Marya’s comforting embrace, I gratefully realised that I was still able to move my arms and legs.  Still, I knew something was terribly wrong and the next morning I woke up in the most excruciating pain I’ve ever experienced in my entire life.  I have violently snapped most of the ligaments in my knees, I’ve broken bones and I’ve been hospitalised (and operated on) for my dreadful habit of rupturing ovarian cysts.  I know pain.  But I’ve never felt anything like the pain I felt that morning.  The drama queen in me imagined that my insides were awash with a tsunami of blood, that my pancreas or my lung had been pierced by an errant stiletto of rib bone.  It hurt to talk, it hurt to laugh, it hurt to move, it hurt to breathe.  It hurt to just sit there and do nothing.  You know that little violin we were talking about earlier?  You can take it out now.  Happy 50th birthday to me!!! 

The red arrow marks the spot.

Agonisingly slowly, and wallowing in self-pity, I showered and dressed, and gingerly tiptoed down the stairs to join the others.  We were all horribly hungover and I was shocked to learn that David had also drunkenly injured himself the night before, breaking his little toe after slamming it into the coffee table.  Oy vey!!  This was not a healthy start to our holiday, but I was grittily determined to keep having a goddamn good time.  I made a quick birthday video call to my sisters, which was wonderful, but I could see myself on the screen, wincing with pain the whole time.  I didn’t know it then, but x-rays later confirmed that I’d broken three ribs and displaced another rib in my fall.  I mean, I hit the edge of the pool really fucking hard.  If I’d made any contact with my spine, mere centimetres to the right, I’m fairly certain I’d have broken my back.  And if I’d hit my head, I reckon I’d be dead.  So it’s no surprise that I was feeling so rough.  In fact, I was in severe pain for the next two months, and experienced a great deal of discomfort for the next six.  The others wanted me to go to hospital but I demurred.  There’s no treatment for rib injuries and I just wanted to bloody get on with the festivities.  We spent my birthday at the villa, barbequing tender lamb chops for a feast accompanied by home-made tzatziki, fetta cheese, Greek salad, olives and crusty fresh bread.  And lots more wine, which definitely helped ease the pain of my injury.

The next day, feeling slightly less like I was haemorrhaging from multiple internal organs, I insisted that we carry on with our plans for the day, and so we took a lovely scenic drive to a highly recommended restaurant set on a cliff face on the northern part of the island.  When we got to Taverna Xigia, we were absolutely blown away by the spectacular view.  Peacefully nestled in the shade of several beautiful, stately trees, the restaurant was the perfect place to while away the afternoon, eating fish that had jumped out of the water fresh that morning, and drinking several large carafes of wine (my new pain medication).  All the servers were beautiful and super friendly, but Pablo had eyes only for the owner, Spiros, who was cheerfully running from table to table to make sure that everyone was happy.  And we all were!  Pablo was particularly riveted by the jaunty red bandana, breezily tied around Spiros’ neck.  The same bandana that was also sported by his cute little dog!!  At the end of our meal we resoundingly declared Taverna Xigia the best lunch, at the best taverna, with the best view, run by the best dude wearing a fucking amazing red bandana.

The next day while lunching at the top of a mountain, we spotted a gorgeous looking beach and decided to drive down there for a swim.  From my previous beach experiences of the Greek isles I had already insisted that we buy a couple of large beach umbrellas to protect us from the sun, but when we got there we didn’t need them.  Actually, in the whole five days we spent on Zakynthos we never once used those damn umbrellas.  In the end we lugged them to the airport with us on our way back to Athens and gave them away to a rental car full of exuberant, young Italian studs who had just arrived on the island.  They were thrilled, and beeped and waved at us as they drove away. 

The idyllic Porto Vromi beach.

When we landed at Athens airport, we headed straight to the port of Piraeus where stage two of the holiday kicked in.  Pablo had worked hard in the months leading up to the trip to attain his Captain’s license, and when we got to the port the magnificent 34 foot sailing boat we had rented was waiting for us.  Hell yes, bitches!!  For my fiftieth birthday I spent three glorious days cruising the ravishingly beautiful, deep blue seas of the Mediterranean.  It may not have been the legendary party I’d set my heart on, but it was hardly second prize, am I right? 

While our time on the yacht, cruising around the beautiful Saronic islands, was an absolutely exhilarating experience, it was also pretty punishing.  I was, unfortunately, less than useless thanks to my smashed ribs.  I was unable to help with any of the rigging, and I just found myself getting in the way all the time.  I felt particularly bad because it turns out that sailing a boat is actually really hard work.  Thankfully Marya and David (even with his broken toe) both stepped up to the plate, and made very competent first mates to Pablo’s skillful captain!

At the end of the first day of sailing, we reached the island of Salamina, anchoring offshore.  Ludicrously, we’d severely underestimated our capacity for knocking back wine and had tragically run out of booze, but David and Pablo came to the rescue by rowing the dinghy to shore in the dark to try and procure some emergency wine from the taverna on the beach.  Somehow they managed to sweet talk the owners into selling them some white wine, which almost became wine for the fishes because halfway back to the sailboat the dinghy slowly started sinking.  They somehow made it back, deflated dinghy and all, and we celebrated with a cheerful round of warm cat piss!  Hey, you take what you’re given in a wine emergency.  We drank it and we were grateful for it. 

The next day we set sail for the neighbouring island of Aegina, but there was no wind so we drifted along at a crawling pace, which was fine with us.  There was nowhere we needed to be!  Along the way we navigated into some incredibly beautiful turquoise waters, and just had to stop and anchor so we could all go for a skinny dip!  When we got back on the boat, Marya ran to the bow to hoist the anchor, and while she was gone I thought I heard her shout something so I yelled back to ask if she was OK, and she cried out, “No!”  Pablo, David and I all dashed to the front of the boat, and when I saw all the blood I scrambled back to the cabin to try and find the first aid kit.  While she’d been pulling up the anchor, Marya’s toes had got caught in the steel-sprung latch door which had unexpectedly slammed shut.  Her foot was covered in blood and her second toe was dangling precariously.  I’ve known Marya for many years and I’ve never seen her cry before.  To see her sobbing like a child broke my heart, and I did my best to comfort her while she bandaged up her foot.  My mind couldn’t help but go back to just a few days earlier when she had held me in her arms after I’d hurt myself in the pool. 

I first met Marya in San Francisco in September 1999 when I visited a friend that she was dating at the time.  She picked me up from the airport, and it is no exaggeration at all to say that when our eyes met across the crowded terminal I knew it was her, and she knew it was me, and it was love at first sight.  And ever since then, we’ve been connected by an energetic force that I cannot explain, and don’t even want to.  Despite spending most of our lives thousands of miles apart, our bond has only increased and become more loving with distance and time.  On that first three day visit to San Francisco I got to know one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met.  She’s fun, energetic, warm, kind, quirky, loving, hilarious and up for anything.  Crushing on her hard, I decided that I simply had to get a nose ring just like hers.  So she took me to a piercer in Haight Ashbury and she held my hand as they stuck a needle in my left nostril.  And 24 years later, I still have that nose ring.  I’ll never take it out because it’s an enduring memento of an incredibly special moment of time in my life.  It’s a part of who I am now. 

Marya and I have been there for each other (emotionally, if not physically) through rough patches and broken relationships, and we’ve happily celebrated the beautiful relationships that we’re in now.  We danced together in Ancient Korinth with my parents, not long before my father was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.  Afterwards we lay on the stony beach, drunk, looking for shooting stars and holding onto each other while the sky spun.  We survived Burning Man, not just once or twice, but three times, riding bikes around the playa completely naked and free.  We’ve eaten all the Mexican food, and we’ve washed it down with all the margaritas.  Marya is now a very respected audiologist, but years ago she worked in hospitality and I remember helping her out at a bartending gig one day when one of the servers didn’t turn up.  Let’s just say that a lot of people got free drinks that night!  I totally sucked at the job, but thanks to Marya it was one of the most fun afternoons I’ve ever had.  I’ve often wished that I could marry her.  Or be her. 

Marya and I have had some intensely deep and serious conversations about mental health, about motherhood, about existence and non-existence.  We’ve kissed, and we’ve shared our inner most secrets, and supported each other during the most difficult times.  And it’s really quite outrageous how much of all of this has happened from afar.  Marya lives 12,963km away from me so we don’t see each other very often, but whenever we’re together magic happens!  And for the last 16 years, David has been lucky enough to come along for the joyride.  I’m so happy that the two of them are such good friends, and I feel so grateful that David understands the unusually deep relationship that I have with Marya.  He knows how important she is to me.  I’d go anywhere for Marya, I’d do anything for her.  And, thrillingly, I believe that she feels the same way.  Apart from my own mother, I’ve never met anyone who is as unconditionally loving and giving and kind.  I’m still shocked by how smitten she seems to be, because I honestly can’t believe my luck that such an extraordinary person could feel that way about me.  I cannot express in words how much I love her.  But surely you’re getting the idea. 

Siena, Italy 2002
Dahlia Garden San Francisco 2007

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The fun side of Burning Man 2015
The shitty side of Burning Man 2016

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Birthday love, Zakynthos 2022
Mary & Pablo’s wedding Day, Point Reyes 2023

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We had to get Marya to a hospital stat, so we abandoned any hope of trying to catching some wind, and just furled the sails, switching on the engines to try and motor along a little faster.  Our progress was, nevertheless, painfully slow and it took us an interminable three hours to reach the port of Aegina.  The guys dropped us off while they tried to find somewhere to dock, which would be no easy task in the crowded marina.  When Marya and I got to the hospital the medical staff attended to her right away.  They weren’t able to put any stitches on her toe, but they cleaned up the wound and bandaged her foot, telling her to come back the next day to have the dressing changed.  Marya was shocked that we were able to walk away without having to sign anything or even pay a single eurocent.  Yay socialised healthcare!

Boat: 1, Marya: 0

When we all got back to the boat later that afternoon, some major drama was brewing about where we’d parked it.  Some big shot in a fancy yacht was insisting that we were in his spot and had to move, like right now.  We’d already spent a couple of hours after a long, boozy lunch in town cajoling the harbour master, jumping through hoops and greasing her palm with an expensive bottle of wine, to allocate us that spot.  So obviously we didn’t want to move.  But the guy on the big cruiser started getting a little thuggish and causing quite the brouhaha.  Eventually the harbour master came down and told us we’d have to move our boat after all.  Even after we’d bribed her!!!  How rude.  But she was kind enough to give us another mooring close by, and Pablo and David did a magnificent job of getting the 34 footer into the tight space while Marya rested in the cabin and I watched from the floating dock.  After all the kerfuffle, a crowd had gathered to watch the guys back the boat into position, which is no easy feat in the best of circumstances, let alone under pressure, but they nailed it. 

Pablo & David doing laps around the marina until the harbour master could find a spot for them to park.

We decided that it was probably a good idea, after all the shenanigans, to stay in Aegina for the next couple of nights and try to stay out of trouble.  Three of us had been pretty badly injured, and we were worried that some Final Destination type misfortune might befall Pablo if we took the sailboat back out onto the open waters.  Aegina was delightful and I’m really glad we got the chance to stop and enjoy the pretty town.  

Before we knew it though, our last day on the boat dawned and we pushed off super early so we could get a headstart on our trip back to Piraeus.  When we finally reached the port after a long day of sailing the four of us were totally wrecked.  We were exhausted, we were sunburned, and after three and a half days without a shower we were all absolutely filthy.  We walked into our Athens Airbnb like zombies and just collapsed.  Somehow we regrouped, showered and mustered up the energy to go out on the town, but it was a pretty sedate evening and I think we all appreciated the early night and the comfortable beds. 

The next day at the airport we said goodbye to each other as Marya and Pablo headed back to the US, and David and I moved on to stage three of our Greek holiday, a couple of weeks on the island of Naxos!!  Marya being with me on my 50th birthday had made it a profoundly special celebration for me.  And despite some events making it a difficult holiday, it was also one of the best.  Just before we parted ways we joked that Pablo had somehow evaded the Final Destination injury that had befallen the rest of us on the trip.  And he, donning his new red bandana effortlessly knotted around his neck, quipped back that he had in fact been injured after all.  With liver damage.  Which is how it goes when you’re drunk in…

Ejo #161 – Drunk In….. Greece (Skiathos Edition)

Drunk In....., Food, Good Life, Greece, Learning About Me, Other Cultures, Photographs, Travel, , , , Leave a comment

After our mid-pandemic trips to Santorini, Milos and Sifnos in 2020, David and I were hooked on Greece.  And in particular, Greek islands.  I’d always been mildly embarrassed that I had never explored the dazzling isles of my parents’ motherland, but COVID gave us an opportunity to rectify that problem, and in 2021 we added Skiathos, Zakynthos and Naxos to our list of Hellenic conquests.  Today I’ll be talking about our trip to the beautiful island of Skiathos, which I’m not afraid to say is my favourite Greek island (so far). 

David and I arrived on the island after overnighting in Athens, which is something that I just love to do as it’s one of the most vibrant, gritty, crazy and wonderful cities I’ve ever been to (standby for a suitably colourful Drunk In… Athens).  Still slightly hungover when we landed in Skiathos (see Athens, above) we picked up our rental car, a cute little Suzuki Jimny, and made our way to our villa.  I was a little nervous about what we’d find when we got there as I’d broken one of my own cardinal rules of Airbnb, which is to never rent a place that hasn’t already had its cherry popped by other guests.  I usually need to read at least one review.  Also, according to the listing there was no BBQ, which isn’t necessarily a deal breaker for me but it’s pretty fucking close.  I absolutely loved the property though, and during my search for the perfect place I just kept coming back to it.  Torn, I knuckled down and did some serious forensic holiday research, finally coming to the conclusion that being the first guests would be worth the risk.  After all, when I’d emailed the host, Laura, and asked her if the house did have a BBQ that perhaps they had forgotten to list, she told me that they didn’t have one, but she would happily buy one for us.  Now that’s Greek hospitality, people! 

Waiting for us at the villa was our host’s effervescent mother, Katerina, who showed us around the property.  And wow, what a beautiful property it was.  A two bedroom villa set amongst a lush, almost tropical, garden and surrounded by ancient olive groves and countless cicadas, chirping in the hot midday sun.  After the tour, Katerina sat us down and gave us the inside tea on all the cool, hidden places to visit on the island.  Tavernas, beaches and bars that most tourists wouldn’t have a clue about. 

Our beautiful Airbnb. ♥

After Katerina left, we headed out for a walk looking for a yummy lunch, and almost immediately stumbled upon a taverna just around the corner from our place called The Koutsavaki.  We weren’t sure whether it was open or not as it was very quiet.  Don’t forget, this was still in the depths of COVID, and unfortunately during our time on all the Greek islands, too many restaurants, bars and cafes were either closed or empty.  We felt bad whenever we were the only customers at a taverna, but we also felt good that we were supporting them during that difficult time.  We had a wonderful lunch at Koutsavaki, ordering all our favourite Greek dishes, including sardines, skorthalia and greens washed down with delicious white wine served in a half kilo jug.  What a fantastic way to start our island adventure. 

The beautiful midday sunlight at Koutsavaki Taverna.

The food was delicious, and the service was hospitable, but what made that first lunch on Skiathos truly special for me was the song that played half way through our meal.  I jerked up in my seat, wide-eyed and with a broad smile growing on my face as the lyrics rushed back to me.  I was instantly transported back to my childhood, bouncing on my father’s knee as he sang the song.  I used to squeal with delight when my Dad clucked his tongue to recreate the clip-clop sound of the horses trotting in the song (and which you can hear in the clip below).  I hadn’t heard that song in over forty years, and it was exhilarating to unearth it from the memory graveyard of my mind.  Hearing it brought up so many early memories of my beloved family and I got quite emotional, shedding a few tears over my food. 

The jauntiness of the song belies the dark lyrics which speak of two horses drawing a beautiful carriage. One horse is white, like the singer’s pure and innocent childhood dreams. The other horse is pitch-black, just like his bitter and wretched life.

Later that day we walked into town to get a drink before dinner, heading to a place called Borzoi Club.  I used to work with an Emirati guy called Salah who’s been to almost all the Greek islands coz he’s lucky enough to have a Greek girlfriend.  Salah’s a very cool dude, a Teflon-coated hotshot who can smooth talk his way into, and out, of any situation.  He’s also a massive party boy.  He was the one who recommended that we holiday in Skiathos in the first place, and for that I will be eternally grateful.  But he and I definitely have different criteria for what makes a good holiday.  He’s into partying, beach clubs and trendy venues.  David and I are into tavernas, homemade food and isolated beaches.  Cocktails at Borzoi Club, which Salah had recommended, just confirmed the contrast between us.  While the place was super fashionable and the cocktails were tasty, the service was disinterested and everyone in there was trying super hard to be cool.  It just wasn’t our kind of place. 

The next day, after a boozy lunch we walked along the small harbour, admiring the bazillion dollar yachts before climbing up the steps to Bourtzi, a small peninsula which was once an ancient fort.  Built in 1206 by the Venetians, who conquered Skiathos and ruled it for over three centuries, the fort has a turbulent history.  After the Venetians chewed the island up and spat it out, the Turks decided to take over, mercilessly bringing the Skiathians to their knees for another three hundred years.  In 1829, the beleaguered people of the island decided enough was enough and took up arms, fighting the Turks off from the secure stronghold of Bourtzi fort.  Unfortunately that wasn’t the end of hardship for Skiathos, which had the shit bombed out of it when the Germans invaded during World War 2.  After the war finished, Skiathos was finally left alone and permitted to flourish.  Not much remains of Bourtzi fort, save for a few walls and ruins.  David and I drunkenly frolicked up the hill, stopping to take several photos of the incredibly beautiful sea and to watch a couple of winsome, brown limbed boys on the rocks below, egging them to jump into the crystal clear waters.  They cheerfully obliged and we rewarded ourselves at the top of our climb with glasses of ouzo, refreshing frappés and the extraordinary view. 

Instruments of war in such a beautiful setting are difficult to compute, but the island has been through a lot and it’s good to have the historical artifacts to show for it, even if they are jarring to see.

So, what exactly is a frappé?  I’ll be so bold as to say, more than any other, it is the national drink of Greece.  When shaken with ice, the relatively unassuming ingredients of water and a couple of heaped teaspoons of Nescafé instant coffee produce a delicious iced coffee drink with a thick, glossy crema that will have you licking your fingers; and which is far, far greater than the sum of its parts.  The eagle-eyed among you will remember that I don’t normally drink coffee for coffee’s sake anymore (coffee naps are an exception), but when I’m in Greece I drink the hell out of frappés.  They are delicious, satisfying, extremely moreish and just one frappé will perk you up for hours. 

Look at that crema. LOOK AT IT!!!

The next morning after yoga and a leisurely swim in the glorious pool we decided to try out one of Katerina’s suggestions and drove to Kastro Beach Taverna on the northernmost point of the island.  From the parking lot, the beach is accessible only by foot down a somewhat treacherous rocky mountain path.  But the effort is totally worth it.  On the way down we had to make multiple stops just to soak in the breathtaking beauty of the sea below.  When we made it to the shore we discovered that the taverna wasn’t open yet, so we pitched camp on the hot sand and went for a dip while we waited.  Even before midday, the sun fiercely beat down on us, and we lamented that we were the only ones on the beach without an umbrella.  Mental note to self: get a beach umbrella.  Stat! 

Kastro beach. Wow! Just wow!

Keeping an eye on the taverna, we made a beeline for it as soon as it started showing signs of life, and claimed a table in the middle of the rustic porch.  Two cute boys with big smiles and bleached hair expertly weaved between the chairs and tables to take drink orders and serve the food.  Hot from the sun, we rehydrated with a couple of beers before ordering our usual ouzo and white wine.  And then, of course, we moved onto the delicious traditional fare.  We spent a couple of hours there, under the large driftwood shade, just chilling, reading, talking and enjoying the great vibe.  For real, Michelin can just suck it.  This is the good stuff, right here. 

Piss off Michelin, this is where it’s at. Kastro Beach Taverna.

So, David and I are weirdos (in case you didn’t know), and we like to celebrate not only our annual wedding anniversary on the 23rd September, but also the occasional monthly wedding anniversary.  Coz why not?  So, if we happen to be on holiday on the 23rd of any month, we’ll usually do something special to mark the occasion.  And since we were in Skiathos on the 23rd June we celebrated our 177th month wedding anniversary at a restaurant located in one the oldest buildings on the island, a windmill originally erected in 1880.  The view from the top balcony, which I’d booked for romance and privacy, was magnificent.  The setting was super intimate, the service was impeccable and the food was delicious.  But I needn’t have spent the extra cash on the honeymoon table as, once again, we were the only patrons there.  Sad face.   

Cheers!

The next morning we set out in our little Jimny intending to take her on an off-road adventure to a beautiful, isolated beach called Mantraki.  Unfortunately, shortly after turning off the main road, a big-ass van got bogged on the dirt track in front of us and we couldn’t get around them.  We waited half an hour to see if they could get out (they couldn’t), and then changed our plans and headed to another of Katerina’s beach recommendations called Kriffi Amos, which translates from Greek as Hidden Sands. 

The beach was beautiful and secluded, hidden away from the mountainous road by trees and brush and accessed by walking down a very steep, uneven dirt track.  We fell in love with the super chilled vibe of the beach taverna, not much more than a shack really, constructed of driftwood and dried palm leaves, and decorated with old fish nets and buoys.  The rambunctious owner of the taverna, Maria, took a particular liking to David (of course), doling out compliments, winks and raunchy jokes followed by rasping howls of laughter in between puffs of her cigarette.  After we’d ordered lunch, she suddenly reappeared at our table wielding a large tablespoon of tzatziki, giving us each a generous taste.  She explained that her chef was making up a new batch and he wanted our opinion on how it tasted.  Feeling a little sassy, we told her that it was perfect… for public consumption, but that we personally liked it with a little bit more garlic.  She took that information back to the kitchen and when our lunch came out, the tzatziki was garlicky as fuck!!!  Hell yeah!  We spent the whole day at Krifi Ammos beach, heading up to the taverna every now and again for a refreshing ouzaki, frappé or ice water.  Ladies and gentlemen, this is the goddamn life. 

The stunning beach from our happy place at Maria’s Taverna.

The next day we drove to a beautiful taverna at the top of the hill at Mega Gialos for lunch.  We were warmly welcomed by the lovely host and seated outside on the deck that wrapped around the restaurant, overlooking the stunning blue water and the neighbouring island of Skopelos, which you might remember from the movie Mamma Mia!  We had delicious food and delicious wine and we chatted with the friendly host, telling her we were planning to hike down to Mega Gialos beach after lunch.  She shook her head and said we should go to nearby Nikotsara instead.  Fine by us!  Anytime a local recommends something, we listen.  And we were handsomely rewarded for followed her advice because when we got to Nikotsara we discovered a stunning little secret cove that we never would have found by ourselves.  The only other people there were a couple of wrinkly, leathered German naturists on the other side of the beach, and they took off after a few minutes so we had the whole place to ourselves.  We set up our umbrella, took off our kit and splish splashed the afternoon away.  Happiness. 

Private beach! FTW!

A couple of days later, we went back to Mega Gialos, determined to check out the famous beach despite the waitress’ word to the wise.  From the taverna at the top of the mountain, it’s a difficult 20 minute trek down through thick brush, prickly shrubs and cobwebs, and you definitely need proper walking shoes to do it.  When we got to the gorgeous beach we were thrilled to find that once again we were the only ones there.  Unfortunately, we soon realised that the reason for that (apart from the horrendously difficult hike) was that the water, which was the most beautiful, most crystal clear water I have ever seen in my life, was full of bastard baby jellyfishes. 

Up the road to the right is the taverna, down the road to the left is the overgrown track to the beach. Across the sea is Skopelos.

We deliberated on it for a long time, and finally decided to risk a swim.  We carefully waded in, the sun glistening like diamonds on the salty water which felt like velvet on my skin.  I gazed up at the intense blue sky, and smiled at David.  I got comfortable.  I got complacent.  And I got stung.  I’ve never been stung by a jellyfish before and I did not handle it well.  Screaming like a banshee, and comically wind-milling my arms around, so as to thrash the water (and other jellyfishes) away from my body, I hightailed it onto the pebbly beach thinking I was going to die (don’t forget, I am Australian).  I melodramatically implored David to piss on my arm, and he fell over laughing (no, I had not been aware that was just an urban myth).  It stung like hell, but in the end it wasn’t actually that bad.  Certainly not as bad as I’d expected.  Sulking on the beach under our excellent umbrella, which was doing a phenomenal job of reflecting the powerfully strong sun, I felt pretty resentful looking at that beautiful water, knowing that it was infested with electric devil spawn.  There was no way I was going back in so we didn’t stick around much longer, and the hot and sweaty climb back up the mountain felt all the more gruelling for having been for naught.  When we got to the top we stopped off at the taverna to quench our hard-earned thirst with an ice-cold beer, which is when David told me that he had also been stung by the jellyfishes, multiple times.  And he’d never said a goddamn word.  My husband, the tough guy.

Stunning beach, but sadly unswimmable. Great umbrella though!

On our way home from the beach we decided, against our better judgement, to spend the rest of the afternoon at Koukounaries, apparently one of the world’s most beautiful beaches, and one that my colleague Salah had raved about.  In Greece, beaches are classified as either organised or unorganised.  Organised beaches are maintained and have sun-loungers and umbrellas for rent, public toilets and usually a taverna or beach bar to buy food and drinks.  We prefer unorganised beaches, which are exactly what it says on the label.  There usually aren’t any facilities at all, though you can still find tavernas at some unorganised beaches

Knowing that Koukounaries was definitely not our style of beach, we turned into the carpark anyway and crawled around for 15 minutes looking for a spot amidst the hundreds of vehicles.  Not a good start.  We grabbed our stuff and shuffled unenthusiastically towards the busy beach.  As we approached the sand, the distant sound of muffled doof-doof music became louder and doofier, the number of tourists in a variety of shades of sunburn varying from light pink to deep lobster became greater, and the revving of jet-skis became even more obnoxious.  We saw signs for €30 (front row) lounge chairs, waitresses serving blue cocktails, kids running around screaming and what seemed like thousands of people crammed into a narrow strip of sand.  No thank you.  We turned around and legged it back to the car, deciding that an afternoon in our gorgeous pool was a much better proposition. 

Koukounaries. No. Just no.

We went out a lot for lunches and beach adventures while we were in Skiathos, but our villa was so beautiful, and the pool so inviting that we stayed in most evenings.  It was so lovely to just jump in the pool whenever we needed to cool off in the intense Greek summer heat.  Also, we did get a fantastic BBQ provided especially for us; it would have been a travesty not to use it.  Every day we’d go to the local supermarket and pick up whatever meat looked great, usually lamb but sometimes pork.  We’d also get some olives, dips, tomatoes, lemons, local cheese and fixin’s for David’s special tzatziki (yoghurt, cucumber and lots of garlic).  And wine, obvs.  David is a master chef on the BBQ so we ate like Greek gods.  Afterwards we would read or play backgammon and listen to music.  And we would always, always, finish the night with a midnight swim.  Always, always accompanied by shots of mastiha, a delicious sweet liqueur made from the resin of mastic trees.  This has become a tradition for us now, and we will always, always drink mastiha while skinny dipping in our pool late at night whenever we are in Greece.  You should try it sometime. 

MEAT!
We loved the villa so much, we bought it!  Actually we couldn’t afford it, but it’s nice to dream.

One night we did have dinner in town and afterwards walked along the harbour to a bar right on the water called Gin Fish, which was totally vibing and absolutely packed with tourists and locals alike.  I suspect that Salah would have loved it, but unfortunately, the service was spotty and the drinks were overpriced. Disappointed, David and I started walking home through the town when we discovered the much quieter Andersson’s Bar which was superior in every single way.  Tucked away in a quiet courtyard, it had amazing service and super delicious cocktails, in a very relaxed atmosphere.  We went there so many times after that first visit, that when we dropped by on our last night to say farewell, the owner Ullis Andersson gave us each a big hug goodbye. 

So Salah and I might have different ideas about what constitutes a fun holiday (remember Koukounaries), but there is definitely some overlap in our interests.  David and I wanted to get to Diamantis beach, another of Salah’s recommendations, but it’s only accessible from the sea, so we drove down to a local boat rental place to enquire about hiring a boat for half a day.  When the guy suggested that he take us there himself, we quickly took him up on his offer.  Being water-limousined was great because it meant that we could drink as much as we liked and didn’t have to worry about drunk driving a boat home.  We just called the guy up when we were done and he picked us up 15 minutes later.  This worked out perfectly and was a fraction of the cost of renting the boat ourselves. 

Diamantis beach was amazing.  Set in a tiny little cove, there were about ten lounge chairs for guests of the taverna and a cool upstairs beach bar built into the treetops, where we had beers and frappés and cocktails until the restaurant opened.  The food was trying a little too hard to be fancy (I mean, c’mon babes, don’t mess with perfection), but we had a really fun time, and finished the afternoon lounging around in the sunchairs and going for several swims in the gorgeous (jellyfish-free) water.  Bliss.  

Is this heaven on earth?

One of my favourite tavernas on the whole island was Taverna Ligaries located by the sea in a very remote part of the island.  But we almost didn’t make it there.  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Google maps has been acting kinda loopy lately, sending us down roads that aren’t roads at all and choosing routes that are unnecessarily way off the beaten path.  This is what happened to us and our trusty Suzuki Jimny on the way to Ligaries, one dirt road in particular becoming steeper and steeper, until at one point we were almost vertical trying to crest a ridge and it felt like a minor miracle that we didn’t flip backwards.  We made it over the ridge but, instead of opening up, the track narrowed even more and the tree branches closed in around us, menacingly scratching the side of the car and threatening to completely envelope us.  There was no way we could go back, but it didn’t seem like we were able to keep going forward either.  According to google maps, we were on the right track, but the situation was fraught with danger.  Gripping the car handle with white knuckles, I actually thought we were going to get stuck and probably lose the Jimny in the overgrown jungle vegetation. 

I tried to keep my cool, but my heart felt like it was going to pound right out of my chest, and every now and then I’d burst into hysterical, nervous laughter.  Also occasional screams, which I attempted to stifle because I didn’t want David to feel as scared as I was.  I didn’t want to put him off his driving game which, incidentally, was magnificent.  I was in total awe of his skills behind the wheel, and of how cool he stayed, even when things got really hairy.  With my crappy navigation and David’s incredible driving we eventually popped out of the jungle and onto the paved road that we probably could have been on the whole time.  Thanks for nothing google maps.

With the adrenaline still coursing through our veins we eventually made it to Taverna Ligaries and gratefully sat at a table under the shady, vine-covered pergola.  We ordered a few of our favourite dishes, and before we knew it the place started filling up with big parties of local guests enjoying themselves and getting happily rowdy.  After drinking a kilo of white wine, we were getting happily rowdy ourselves.  The food was delicious, the service was friendly and relaxed, and the taverna was filled with laughter and shouting and backslapping and table banging.  All the wonderful Greek vibes.  Afterwards we walked to the beach where we paid €2 each for beach loungers and an umbrella, and sobered up by alternating between lolling in the shade and swimming in the beautiful, clear, warm water of the Mediterranean Sea.  

Good times at Taverna Ligaries.

I never expected to love Skiathos as much as I did.  I was taken aback by how at home I felt on the island.  At how seductive I found its extreme serenity, rugged beauty and spectacular, isolated beaches.  How charmed I was by the friendliness of the locals, their willingness to help and their quickness to smile.  And at how captivated I’d become by the technicolour palette of the island, the fresh salty air, the hypnotising thrum of cicadas, the rustic and easy way of life where nothing is really so important that you actually need to worry about it.  I could imagine living out my life here, just like this.  Yoga, nude swimming, delicious Greek food, wine served in ½ kilo carafes, siestas, cicadas, writing, living.  I left Skiathos a changed person.  I left a Skiathan.