Fat beetles with swollen backs float noisily through the air, their hum mimicking the sounds of army drones.
Distant meows of kittens under dining tables ring through the wind. Some of them are so hungry they still reach for their mother’s belly for milk.
The sounds of yacht rock and screaming American children litter the shore. The tourists shriek as soon as a wave reaches their daybeds. Their cocktails are spilt over cheap airport novels in the rush to save their phones from the water.
Even on land, my body rocks with the waves and the thudding of boats. Salt dusts my eyebrows and eyelashes and my eyes reflect back red at me through cosmopolitans and computer screens.
The cigarettes here are strong. They cling to the hairs inside my nose and they smell of rotten tea.
Old people swim close to docked old fishing boats at the port, uncaring of how much dirtier the water becomes towards the marina. Their hair is a shining and feather-like white compared to the even and dark brown of their bodies. They are slim, aside from a belly that protrudes abruptly under their ribs; a mound shaped by too many potatoes and too little exercise. Everyone drives here and there is not a gym in sight.
Wasps and bees knock rudely at the window of my hotel room. They want to come inside, they think my colourful clothes on their hangers are flowers and naturally they are curious.
Bougainvillea waits like a whore at every street corner. Old, leathery locals sit under her, their white stools and tables wobbling precariously on painted-on cobblestone. They sip espressos and talk in a hushed staccato. They make fierce eye contact with each other through bushy white eyebrows.
Restaurants blur together. They all serve the same few dishes, all phenomenal.
Black bread and taramasalata with kalamata olives at every table.
Grilled octopus on fava bean puree.
Greek salad (naturally), with huge blocks of unbroken fetta, crusted with dried oregano. Unmixed with huge chunks of tomatoes sitting half reduced to passata in a puddle of olive oil.
Bright and glossy mussels in a dense white wine sauce, powdered with herbs.
Fat and steaming potato wedges coated in oregano salt.
Small vanilla ice-creams brought by the owner’s 7-year-old daughter whose skin is darker than the chocolate that coats the sweets she carries.
Lazy roosters cock-a-doodle-doo as the sun lowers past the shore. I wonder if they’ve just woken up. Everyone is late here. Lunch isn’t until 2pm.
Oversized fish are laid out on beds of ice before my parents. They choose which one we will dine on tonight. Its eye is a wet and gleaming abyss and it is grilled until it has a nice and even coat of charcoal.
At every island, I send a postcard to my best friend and boyfriend. They never reach them.
We dance on tables with other burnt tourists to ABBA. Waiters roll their eyes and clap their hands and wave the Greek flag. The food doesn’t arrive until 10pm. Right across from the party is a 24hr church. Jesus on the cross blinks slowly at us while his body is lathered with tzatziki and his blood is spilt on tablecloths by our chaotic and sandy feet.
I hungrily devour 6 books. I can’t find anywhere that sells more in English. I read them again.
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