Mykonos

As travelers, my husband and I tend to be A-type overachievers. This in direct opposition to my own everyday behavior which is, at this point, so excessively underachieving as to defy any level of letter-type designation. So determined am I in my effortlessness that I can only be described as a slacker. An elderly slacker. An S-type.

But as travelers, we are unstoppable.

We study up on the art and politics of a region before we go; we know what we want to see and what we need to do to get there. I took a semester of Italian at the local community college before our first trip to Italy; I'd already had 6 years of French before heading for Paris. Turk, whose career was in transportation management back in the misty long ago is a wizard with maps, bus and train schedules, co-ordinating every connection with military precision. On the road we are early to bed and early to rise, cramming as much education and exploration into the space of a single day as we possibly can. We are, dare I say it, positively ambitious.

That all fell away on Mykonos.

In fact, that all pretty much died at the Petasos Beach Resort and Spa.



RIP crazed, overachieving tourists ~ I got me an infinity pool! And a beach! And luxury shampoos and bath gels, and a bathroom I can actually turn around in.

And suddenly, we didn't want to leave.



My conscientious journal keeping took a decided hit as well ~ each night's entry for the entire 4 night stay contains a day, a date and a long, crooked line heading down the page as the writer fell swiftly and soundly asleep.


One entry does survive intact, in all its breathless inanity:

Platis Yialos, Mikonos
Room 185 2:10 am

Will not write long. Or much. Or well. Lovely day. We're on Mikonos! Had to keep telling ourselves. Actually went & lay out on the beach, just like real beach resort people. We went swimming!!

Later took bus to Hora (Chora?) for dinner. Amazing, wonderful place! Fairy tale, lovely dinner at Eva's Garden ~ fresh grilled Sea Bream (bass?) for me, roasted chicken for him, the freshest salad ~ olives olives olives! tomato, soft feta, olives! 'rocket' greens, a jug of the house white ~ all perfect! Then home, a glass of wine on the balcony and tomorrow, breakfast on the open terrace.

What can I say? Life is good.



What can I say? Paul Theroux I am not.


I'm not sure how long I spent in the sea, in that first thrilling swim in the Aegean. I know that Turk was standing up and scanning the water anxiously by the time I headed for shore. But it was exhilarating, playing in that salty crystal clear water ~ swimming out toward the beckoning horizon made me feel free and powerful in ways I hadn't felt in years. Looking down, I could see small fish passing through and around my legs; looking up, the brilliant blue Mediterranean sky. In the realm of Poseidon I was born again.

The Heinekens the waiter kept bringing didn't hurt a bit, either.


We had planned to rent a car to go exploring but no longer felt the need. A hike around Platis Yialos to Paradise Beach offered up its own treasures; indeed, for the hale and hearty the island seems hikeable in its entirety, given enough time. And in the evening there was Mikonos Town, a short bus ride away.





Mikonos Town is a beautiful place, a party town, at once youthful and historic. Although overrun with tourists from every corner of the globe and not above its share of kitsch, it remains a delight; a minute jewel-box of a town that has not lost its joy or essentially Greek nature. It is home to the most romantic tavernas and restaurants on the planet, each striving to outdo themselves in idyllic charm. Walled gardens twinkle with fairy lights, terraced patios bask in the glow of open firepits and votive candles nestled in stony nooks. We asked for local favorites and found a couple on our own; Eva's Garden and Phillippe's are the only two I found named in my spectacularly underkept journal, although I can see them clearly all in memory's eye. But the food was uniformly excellent in every place we chose, and the house wines in each, served in jugs or bottle, were marvelous. Really.






In Little Venice, the sea breaks over (suddenly) unoccupied taverna tables. Which explains all those soggy postcards I sent.




This particular windmill is actually a private home. How adorable is that? And how very inconvenient. As I and my 300 or so traveling companions stood about staring and taking pictures, I realized that odd, universally understood truth; when you live in a Mykonos windmill, you are never truly alone.





The peaceful pelicans of Mykonos pose prettily pastel in the plaza. They are serenely beautiful creatures and, like the locals themselves, tolerant of the frequent foolishness of tourists. It saddened me, though, that when I asked a shopkeeper how the birds were trained, he glanced around to see that we were alone before replying, sotto voce,

"Ah, alas, their wings are clipped." He lifted his shoulders with a weary what-are-you-gonna-do shrug.

"Otherwise, of course, they might fly away."

Of course.


I had but one regret on leaving the otherwise enchanting Isle of Mykonos. We had looked forward to spending one day visiting the nearby island of Delos which, we are reliably informed, is the birthplace of Apollo and remains the sacred refuge of the gods, home to many ancient marvels ~ the Grotto of Hercules, the Avenue of the Lions, the House of Masks...

Alas, be aware: the Island of the Gods is closed on Mondays. After a long weekend even deities, it seems, prefer their Mondays off.