wanderlust

Ejo #174 – Drunk In… Barcelona: AKA – A Love Letter To Ben

June 30, 2024Drunk In....., Food, Good Life, Learning About Me, Other Cultures, TravelBarcelona, Food, friendship, spain, Travel, travel writing, wanderlustmisschryss Leave a comment

In 2008 David and I went on an amazing six week driving tour of Europe, staying in Paris, Saint Paul-de-Vence, Puligny-Montrachet, Ludes, Siena, Piemonte, Ancient Korinth, Athens, Huesca, San Sebastian, Hondarribia, Zamora, Badajoz, Marbella, Alicante and Barcelona. This was pre-smartphone days so all our google map directions were printed on reams of A4 paper, which I valiantly tried to keep in some semblance of order. But by the time we reached Barcelona’s ring-road at around midnight I realised that I’d lost the relevant pages somewhere along the way. If you’ve ever driven in Barcelona, you know that the city is a curious mix of perfectly laid out grid-like roads, magically interwoven with streets that wind and curve, in infuriatingly unpredictable ways. And if you’ve ever met me, you might know that being a navigator without a map is one of the most stressful situations you could ever put me in. So yeah, basically I was freaking out. But you know what happened? Navigating around prominent landmarks, doing my best to work from memory, and invoking Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, we somehow, somehow managed to find our accommodation in the dense warren of Barri Gòtic, one of Barcelona’s oldest and most labyrinthine suburbs. It was, ladies and gents, a stone-cold miracle.

We stayed in the city of Barcelona for three days and totally fell in love with it, so we went back for five days in 2011, four more days in 2013, and then another three days in 2014. But for some reason, in the ensuing years, Barcelona sadly fell off the travel radar. Shame on us. So when my old friend Ben told me in December of last year that he and his parents, Ellen and Greg, would be travelling to Barcelona in March 2024, and would we like to join them for a couple of days, the answer was a resounding hell yes!

David and I finished working our night shifts at 6am and, as is our wont, jumped straight on a plane to Barcelona, getting to our cute little apartment at around 3pm. We immediately jumped into bed for a 20 minute coffee nap to perk up before meeting with Ben and Greg for a bite to eat (Ellen was recovering from a painful and, unfortunately timed, foot surgery a couple of days before their trip, and was laid up at their hotel, resting). Naturally I had compiled a map of all the cool restaurants, cafes and bars I wanted to check out while we were in town (as well as a few old favourites that David and I really wanted to return to), but there was nothing in the immediate vicinity and I didn’t want to drag everyone around the city looking for places that fussy little Miss Chryss approved of – I didn’t want to be that person. So instead I dragged everyone around the neighbourhood and did something which I hate doing, which is randomly choose a restaurant that looks like it serves nice, traditional food and just roll the culinary dice. Don’t ever let anyone tell you I don’t live on the edge.

As expected our meal was OK, but nothing special. It might (or might not) shock you to learn that I have a real phobia of eating mediocre meals when I travel. It’s something that I really hate, because when you’re in a new country or a new city, you only have a finite number of meals with which to sample all the delicious and glorious cuisine of that location. And wasting even one of those meals on shitty food is a tragedy of epic proportions. I am not the type of person who eats to live. So I will never be the type of person that just grabs a bite for sustenance. For me, the food is the main event. It is the reason I travel. And after enough bad experiences, I am no longer the type of person who optimistically wanders around town hoping to just serendipitously stumble upon the perfect restaurant. The idea gives me hives. Sure it’s possible, but it’s also possible that you’re going to eat a really shitty meal. Which is what happened to David and me in Madrid, 2013 on our seventh wedding anniversary. We’d booked a fancy dinner, but decided to leave lunch to fate. And fate did not treat us kindly. Lamentably, we ended up at a place that served soggy croquettes, rubbery Jamón and sickly sweet sangria. I got really angry with myself, and then I got really sad that we’d eaten such sub-standard food on such a special day, in a city known for its extraordinary gastronomy. And, with my fist raised towards the sky, I vowed on that day to never let it happen again. Which is why, over the years, I’ve developed a system of google mapping a location, doing a bunch of research and locating some great places to visit. I don’t necessarily make bookings at all the restaurants I like, but if I happen to find myself in an area and feel peckish, I can just open my map, and I have a number of options that I know are going to hit the spot (with recommendations for what to try on the menu and what to avoid). This system works well, and I currently have active maps for 34 cities around the world. Yes, I am a freak!

*^{Plenty of places to eat a good meal in Barcelona}*

So, feeling a little triggered by the fact that I was responsible for our lacklustre snacks the previous day, the next morning I suggested we go to the local market and have an early lunch at El Quim de la Boqueria, an institution in Barcelona despite only being around since 1987. Located smack bang in the middle of a bustling market filled with locals shopping for groceries and meat and fish, I knew right away that it was my kind of place. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, any city worth its salt has a great foodie market-hall. It may only have been 10am but, taking our cue from several older Spaniards who were enjoying breakfast beers with their food, we decided to order a bottle of cava to share, coz why not! When in Barcelona, bitches!

*^{The incredible menu, and the irresistible tortilla de patatas (or as they call it in Spain, omelette)}*

*^{Charcoal grilled octopus and sizzling garlic prawns in a cava reduction. Yum!}*

*^{Their house specialty, two fried eggs with assorted wild mushrooms, and butifarra sausage with beans and aioli.}*

After lunch Ellen and Greg headed back to their hotel while David, Ben and I went in search of some culture. Being familiar with Moco Museum in Amsterdam, we decided to check out their new outpost in Barcelona. Specialising in modern and contemporary art, it was fun to spend an hour checking out artworks by prominent masters such as Warhol, Haring, Basquiat and Kusama as well as exciting contemporary street artists like Banksy and KAWS. And they even had a section highlighting NFTs!

*^{Light installations are my favourite, they’re so fun and whimsical!}*

Afterwards we took a walk along the harbour looking for somewhere to quench our thirst, stopping at a couple of places that don’t really warrant mentioning, but I’mma mention them anyway, just for laughs. The first offered a rooftop bar, and we were all keen to check out a nice view of the city so we made our way there and were offered a large table in the shade. Perfect! Two minutes later, an abrasive young server sporting an impertinent ponytail and holding onto a clipboard for dear life strutted over to our table and told us we’d have to move, as it was reserved only for large groups. I asked if there was a large group waiting to be seated and she said no, but one might come along at any moment. I blinked at her and offered to move should that situation eventuate, but she insisted that the table was only for large groups. I pointed out that we hadn’t even chosen to sit there, we’d been offered the table by one of her colleagues. She took a deep breath to argue with me again, which is when Ben picked up what I was throwing down and ran with it, pointedly said to her, “Are you throwing us out?” I stifled a laugh and looked at him in awe. Sassy as fuck!! Flustered, she stormed off, whipping her ponytail into a frenzy behind her, and moments later our drinks were served. We considered hanging around for another round just to piss her off but decided to move on and try one of the places downstairs (which we shouldn’t have, because the cocktails were literally undrinkable).

We got a text from Greg saying he’d like to join us while Ellen rested, so I suggested we meet at Paradiso, which was about a ten minute walk away. My colleague Mark recommended this place to me, and the fact that it was voted #1 of The World’s 50 Best Bars in 2022 didn’t hurt either! We figured getting there at opening time would help us secure a table, and avoid the long lines that famously snake around the block, and we were in luck. Ushered into a tiny pastrami shop through red velvet ropes, the four of us looked for the entrance to the speakeasy, spinning around and bumping into each other, baffled about where it could possibly be. And then they showed us! And we laughed, and we nodded appreciatively. I may have clapped. Trust me, it’s very cool. You’ve gotta go and check it out for yourself. Once inside we were blown away by the décor, the friendliness of the staff and the delicious, inventive cocktails.

*^{The lovely server explaining David’s choo-choo drink.}*

During our afternoon stroll through the streets of El Born, we came across a great looking seafood restaurant called Cadaqués and spontaneously decided to make a booking for dinner that night (DON’T EVER LET ANYONE TELL YOU I DON’T LIVE ON THE EDGE). I found out later that Cadaqués is a very picturesque fishing village in north-eastern Spain, home to none other than visionary artist Salvador Dalí. And our evening did kind of kick off in a surreal way when our two groups somehow ended up at two restaurants with the same name, and two very different google ratings. Just as David and I were being seated (at the good Cadaqués) we got a few alarmed messages from Ben (whose Uber was taking them to the bad Cadaqués) saying that the reviews were terrible and we should bail and find somewhere else for dinner. Eek! The confusion was quickly cleared up though, and when our friends got to the good Cadaqués we had a wonderful dinner, with delicious Catalan food and wine and dessert. It was a very fun night and I think you should go next time you’re in Barcelona (just make sure you go to the right one).

I’ve mentioned my friend Ben in my essays before, but I’ll give you all a quick recap in case you missed it. We met online in 1996 (pshhh-kkkkkkrrrr-tshchchchchchchch-cheeeeeeeeeeeeee-oooooo-eeeeee), bonding over our shared admiration of Gwyneth Paltrow. After a few months of getting to know each other over dial-up modem, we decided that it would be a fabulous idea to meet in real life. So, at the tender age of 25, I threw all caution to the wind and sparked what would later become an insatiable thirst for travel and adventure. I took two months leave-without-pay from my dead-end government job and (rather insanely) got onto an aeroplane and flew to California to meet my digital pen friend, who could, quite plausibly, have been a psycho serial killer. Fucking wild, right?

In the couple of months I spent squatting in an empty Avery House dorm room at Caltech, Ben and I developed a kind of routine, where he would go to class and I would fill my days exploring and writing, and then at the end of the school day we’d hang out together. My heart fills with fondness when I think of that time, and I have so many fun memories of it.

Since I was an interloper at the university, and had no rights to eat in the school cafeteria, Ben helped himself to extra food for me every night using his meal card, loading his tray with double serves of everything. We’d claim our beanbag spots in front of one of the TVs in the dining hall, hoping to catch the latest episode of The Simpsons (Season 8, bitches) but sometimes having to suffer through Home Improvements instead (the worst!). Sometimes we’d follow dinner with a couple of tablespoons of the coffee flavoured Häagen-Dazs we kept in the dorm freezer, as a treat. One time we found ourselves in possession of a big fat cigar that we shared sitting on the steps near the dorm. I can’t remember where we got the cigar, but I remember it hurting my throat, and becoming lightheaded as I looked up at the twinkling Californian stars.

We went to movies (so many movies) and always sat in the front row, cricking our necks to gaze up at the big screen in unison. Ben introduced me to the music of Tool and Korn, and inspired me to write poetry at the desk underneath his bunk bed while he was in class. We played Quake in the communal computer room (where Molly, a girl that had a crush on Ben would alternately shoot daggers at me or pretend I didn’t exist), and I remember the day some kid burst in with a bootleg copy of the pilot episode of South Park. We stopped shooting each other long enough to gather around one of the computers to watch it, and afterwards the room erupted into an excited frenzy. I remember the sense of it being a profound moment, and I soaked it all in.

We rode around Pasadena on Ben’s bicycle, me dinking a ride on the back wheel pegs, the wind blowing in my hair, feeling carefree and wild, wishing I could stay forever. Wishing I never had to go home. I still get that feeling when I travel. We’d ride to Tower Records down the road to rent videos, and then sneak into a Caltech auditorium to play them on the massive, lecture room projector screen. Nothing beats the feeling of two people sitting in an otherwise empty auditorium, eating popcorn and watching Trainspotting. Nothing.

Ben heroically tried to teach me how to play guitar, and showed me pictures of the girl that he was in love with. I wasn’t to know at the time, but a couple of years later I would meet her, and she would become one of my best friends. One time, riding Ben’s bike at night, I lost my balance and fell into a hedge. I still proudly sport the scar on my finger. We drank gallons of pink grapefruit juice and ate way too much McDonalds. We ate at Burger Continental, a place we decided was run by Greek mobsters, where the salad I ordered was literally the size of a basketball and Ben joked about how I’d better fucken finish it, or Stavros would organise a hit on me. One night we drove a couple of hours south to San Diego to see his parents, and then drove all the way back again when we figured out it was too late to visit. We stopped at Taco Bell for midnight snacks on the way home, and laughed and laughed when the cashier couldn’t understand my Australian accent when I tried ordering a Coke. I just kept saying Coke, Coke, Coke, as the cashier leaned closer and closer towards me looking more and more puzzled, and in the end Ben had to order my drink for me.

Ben took me on an illicit tour of Caltech’s (not so) secret tunnel system to look at some of the haunting 70s era graffiti scrawled on the walls, and I remember feeling pretty scared as we got lost and the tunnels got darker and smaller and more cobwebby, until we were eventually chased out by a grumpy security guard with a flashlight. I still remember the feeling of exhilaration when I took that first, deep breath of fresh air on the outside. Another time we took a road trip to the Anza Borrego desert, spending the night in a motel close to the Mexican border, and eating at a local Mexican restaurant. The place was so jam-packed, that after nearly an hour of trying to pay the bill we just gave up and did a runner. We spent the rest of the sleepless night worrying about Mexican hit men storming our room and demanding retribution. One Saturday night we walked around the Avery House dorm rooms, just saying hi to all these random, drunk kids. We sat chatting with one guy for a little while, but decided to beat it when he casually mentioned that he’d taken a pretty big hit of acid and oh man, was it starting to come on!!! We attended Ben’s step-great-grandmother Frieda’s 100^th birthday party at her nursing home, and stayed at Ben’s parents’ house afterwards. Which gave me a chance to get to know them better. And vice versa.

I love Ben, and I love Ellen and Greg. When I first met them they were understandably dubious of me. A strange, foreign woman (psycho serial killer?) in her mid-twenties, hanging out with their 19 year old son at his university. What the fuck? But over the years our relationship has blossomed into something special, independent of Ben. So it was truly beautiful to spend a couple of days with all three of them in Barcelona recently. Sadly, it was over way too soon, and after our wonderful dinner at Cadaqués we said our goodbyes, as the three of them were travelling on to Nice, France the following morning.

*^{Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.}*

David and I had another two days of cavorting planned in Barcelona and the next morning we started in earnest by having Bloody Mary’s at Milk Bar & Bistro. So many vitamins and minerals, what a nutritious way to start the day! Afterwards we walked to our favourite tapas bar, the iconic El Xampanyet. The place was, as always, raucously packed full of locals and tourists alike and with no seating available David and I parked ourselves at the stand-up bar (which I actually think is the perfect place from which to enjoy all the tasty morsels on offer). Being in prime position to observe all the amazing array of tapas dishes being prepared, all we had to do was point at something we liked the look of and say, “Esto, por favor!” This worked a treat and we were served plate after plate of incredibly delicious tapas, including chorizo, marinated sardines, tortilla de patatas, Galician pulpo, braised pork with Padron peppers, and stewed snails all washed down with glass after glass of the house cava. I was in heaven.

*^{Tortilla de patatas, Galician pulpo and juicy pork with Padron peppers!}*

*^{We didn’t order this, but we did eat the hell out of it, El Xampanyet’s very special version of Crema Catalan.}*

The next morning, being the culture vultures that we are, David and I just had to squeeze in a visit to another art museum, this time visiting Fundació Joan Miró, a museum established by, and dedicated to, the renowned Catalan artist, to peruse a few of his modern masterpieces. And being the booze hounds that we are, doing so made us extremely thirsty, so afterwards we went off in search of a vermutería, or old-school vermouth bar. We settled on Bodega La Peninsular, an historic wine cellar founded in 1903, known for serving the traditional libation at la hora de vermut, typically between midday and 2pm as an aperitivo before lunch. Vermouth, a fortified wine infused with spirits and spices, has recently experienced a resurgence in popularity and I can totally understand why. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I found the drink to be very light and refreshing, and perfectly accompanied by a plate of fresh razor clams. We would have stuck around for a few more rounds but we had lunch plans and had to get a move on.

*^{David contemplating Fireworks (1974)}*

*^{Absolutely superb, and we will definitely return for a full meal}*

Passadis del Pep is another of our old favourite restaurants that we absolutely had to book when we found out we were returning to Barcelona. We used to love their welcoming ritual of seating us at the table and immediately popping a bottle of cava and pouring two glasses of their house bubbly! The deal was that if you didn’t like it, those first two glasses were free, and if you did like it, the bottle was yours. Of course we liked it. We liked it so much, that the first time we went we had three bottles!! Unfortunately this custom is no longer offered, which kind of took the shine off the experience for us a little bit. What was still amazing, however, was the procession of super fresh seafood that they bring out when you choose their chef’s menu. Plate after plate of glorious, plump, juicy, delicious seafood. And of course you can still buy as much cava as you like!

Two of our favourite new bars that we discovered on this trip couldn’t be more different. The first, Bar Sincopa is a very cool, gritty, old-school dive bar. Nothing fancy about the place, but the vibe is awesome. Great rock and roll played loud, and free-poured margaritas. What’s not to love. The other cool place is called The Box. The owner and bartender is a super nice French guy called Matthias and he makes dozens of infusions of rum and vodka and tequila, so the place looks like some kind of apothecary. His margaritas are also strong, but they are very meticulously assembled, like something in a laboratory. I’ve never tasted a crisper, more clean tasting margarita in my life. Day after day after day, it was consistently good. Which is why we kept going back, day after day after day.

*^{Bar Sincopa, where the spirits are strong, and the music is louder!}*

*^{Cutie pie Matthias makes extraordinary cocktails (and apparently a very good hotdog!!)}*

You all know I love travelling. It feeds an insatiable wanderlust to explore the diverse ways in which other lives are lived, to eat food my tastebuds have never sampled, to see the iconic landmarks and buildings and landscapes of the world with my own eyes. I want to touch everything. I want to breathe in the air at the top of that hill, and I want to splish-splash in the waters of that sea. I want to be Drunk In… Reykjavík and São Paulo and Mexico City and Wellington and Prague and Vancouver and Cape Town and The Trossachs and Zagreb and Essaouira. We all have this one wild and precious life, and I really like to think that I first plugged into mine when I took that leap of faith as a brave, young woman and travelled halfway around the world to California for what was probably an ill-advised adventure. But not only did I have a life-changing experience there, I made three lifelong friends. I learned that the world was bigger than my little corner of it, and I wanted more. Fifteen months later, driven by itchy feet, I left Australia again, this time to spend a year as an au pair in Connecticut. A whole other odyssey. And the snowball kept rolling, kept on growing bigger, projecting me on the journey that I find myself on now towards an extraordinary life. A life outside the box. A life dedicated to seeing it all, and to experiencing it all. That first trip to Pasadena to hang out with Ben at Caltech, that’s my origin story.

*^{Me and Ben in Rosarito, Mexico 2006, nine years after we’d first met}*

*^{Visiting Ben and his family in Portland, Oregon 2023 (we’ve come a long way, baby)}*

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

July 31, 2023Drunk In....., Food, Good Life, Greece, Learning About Me, Other Culturesfriendship, Greece, Greek Islands, Mediterranean, Sailing, Saronic Islands, Travel, travel writing, wanderlust, Zakynthosmisschryss Leave a comment

I had big plans for my 50^th 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 50^th birthday to me!!!

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.

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.

♥

♥

♥

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!

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)

May 31, 2023Drunk In....., Food, Good Life, Greece, Learning About Me, Other Cultures, Photographs, TravelGreece, Greek Islands, Skiathos, Travel, wanderlustmisschryss 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.

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 23^rd September, but also the occasional monthly wedding anniversary. Coz why not? So, if we happen to be on holiday on the 23^rd of any month, we’ll usually do something special to mark the occasion. And since we were in Skiathos on the 23^rd June we celebrated our 177^th 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.

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.

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.

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.

*^{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.

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.

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