The Garbage Truck

    The rumors ran rampant, did Agios and the surrounding villages really get a garbage truck? Would our garbage really be picked up biweekly? If this was true that meant no longer having to burn our trash on calm windless days, or having to dig a hole and bury it, or sneaking our garbage  to Agios and depositing it in the trash barrels of local businesses. Sure enough one quiet summer morning the ominous rumblings of a large vehicle could be heard in the far distance. As the noise drew closer I looked out my screen door to see a bright, new, orange and chrome Mercedes-Benz garbage truck, the Aegean sun bouncing off its polished veneer, slowly snaking its way down our narrow village streets... That’s when I noticed a solitary figure sitting or rather straddling freestyle on top of this huge colossus of a truck. In his hands he held a large, menacing looking chainsaw, the kind you expect to see in one of those chainsaw horror movies. As the truck lumbered forward he would yell instructions to the driver to stop, thus allowing him to cut away any unsuspecting tree branches that would dare wreak havoc on the finish of the new Mercedes-Benz garbage truck. Yes, twice a week the roar of the garbage truck, sans scratches, could be heard as it made its way down our road picking up our trash, gnawing and grinding it to bits. To my amusement I would tell, like a proud father, to my friends back in the States that our little village not only has a garbage truck, but a brand new, sweet ass Mercedes-Benz garbage truck.

    It didn’t take long for the fascination of the new garbage truck to catch on, but its regular schedule route seemed to be in jeopardy because of logistic and parking concerns. Parking on the village’s two streets is always a baffling and dauntless experience. Any car can easily block the minuscule roads if it is not properly parked and oriented in just the right angle and distance from the road.  When this happens the garbage truck becomes blocked and can’t proceed to make its pick ups. The result of this impasse would be a very long and loud horn blast from the truck informing those whose vehicles were blocking the street to make haste and quickly move their offending cars.

    A cautionary example of such a scene was played out one afternoon as I was returning home following our Mercedes-Benz garbage truck up one of the narrow and winding roads. Stopping suddenly, the truck was halted by an incorrectly parked car. The car was like a clog in the drain, the truck could not squeeze past the vehicle without falling off the road into the bramble below. The perpetrating auto did not have the two necessary tires parked on the sidewalk, so as to allow adequate space for the passage of other vehicles. Within seconds a host of cars, trucks, and three wheelers quickly jammed up behind us, horns blasting constantly in hopes of alleviating the traffic grid lock, but to no avail. The delinquent operator was no where to be seen. In a fit of desperate frustration the garbage truck driver and his helper emerged from the cab of the truck and looked around for some able bodied men. Their glance caught my eye and my two fellow passengers. With a swift and determined downward wave of the drivers’ hand, he signaled for our arguable assistance. Waiting for us at the illegally parked car, the garbage truck driver motioned for us to take a position behind the car, while he and his beefy helper would take care of the front of the vehicle. Upon the driver’s command the five of us in unison lifted the vehicle as one lifts a pillow, and seamlessly moved it about a meter, depositing it next to an adjoining wall. With the road now clear, our entourage led by the magnificent and glowing Mercedes-Benz garbage truck continued on its’ appointed route.

Really?!

  As usual, things are not what they seem to be on Ikaria. There are even times when your eyes or other senses just can’t logically be trusted to interpret the reality of a situation. We even joke about it saying “Don’t believe anything you hear and only half of what you see.” A situation that best illustrates this point happened when an American family was visiting us one summer a few years ago...

  The family consisted of mom, dad and two kids, a girl around ten and her brother who had just turned five. Soon after they arrived at our house the young lad came down with a sore throat and a fever. Getting sick in Greece is a constant worry for travelers and locals alike. The socialized model of Greek medicine has its many benefits, but hospitals are sparse and vary in degree of medical care, and physician competency sometimes is questionable. After much family discussion it was decided that I should accompany the father and ill boy to our small hospital, as I was the host and the ever present translator. As it happened our hospital did have a pediatrician on staff, and as we registered the young patient, I requested an appointment with him. Since our American guests were not Greek citizens, or registered under the socialized medical umbrella, we were informed by the receptionist that they would have to pay cash to see the physician. She also indicated it would be over a thousand drachmas to see the doctor. With a strong dollar that summer the doctor bill came out to an astonishing $6.50. Being paying customers our wait was relatively short, and we were quickly ushered into the pediatrician’s office.

  The first indication that something was not quiet right occurred immediately as we walked through the office door, and the odor of tobacco invaded our olfactory sense. As we took our seats in front of the doctor’s desk, a desk filled and overflowing with patient charts, papers and other medical paraphernalia, we spotted a large dinner plate size ashtray brimming with half smoked cigarettes. A couple cigs were still smoldering, their light blue smoke slowly making the journey upward to the smoke tinged ceiling. Within minutes entered this young but serious looking doctor with a recently lit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. Introductions were quickly made and symptoms of the illness discussed and diagnosed. During this brief dialogue none of us could take our eyes off the lit cigarette still well balanced and firmly attached to the young doctor’s lips, as if an appendage was somehow permanently planted on the right side of his mouth.

  Eventually the doctor had to physically examine the young

patients’ mouth, throat and take his temperature, and as duty called he did remove the half smoked cigarette from his mouth and deposit it on the ever growing Vesuvius mound of stale and smoldering tobacco. The nefarious strep throat was immediately diagnosed by the pediatrician, and a prescription for penicillin quickly written for the patient. As we headed for the pharmacy the conversation promptly revolved around the callous smoking behavior of this Greek doctor. Granted Greeks are the number one smokers in the EU, but one would assume that Greek medical practitioners, particularly ones that deal with children, acknowledge the health hazards and pitfalls of cigarette smoking. They should be promoting healthy life style choices and practices, but this being Ikaria, really, one shouldn’t believe anything they hear and only half of what they see.

Beer Run

    It’s no secret to anyone who knows me, that like many men, I enjoy a cold frosty beer on a hot day, and certainly there are plenty of hot days during the scorching summer months in Ikaria. The problem arises, as it does everywhere, when the beer runs out. This of course means that someone has to make the all important beer run. In Ikaria, as in most parts of Greece, acquiring alcohol is as easy as buying a can of Coke. This is because of Greece’s favorable and tolerant drinking laws. For a long time at our seaside village, the only places to buy beer were the kafenios, our diminutive grocery store or the one man bakery that sold three items, bread, beer and tiropites. The closest of the three sites to our house was the bakery, about a half kilometer away. However, it meant taking the rocky foot path, past the sweet smelling bushes full of bees, avoiding the ever present goats that often blocked the path and traversing around the noisy and odorous chicken coops.

   This daunting but essential undertaking was always hotly contested by everyone, because it meant a fairly arduous uphill walk to the bakery and back again carrying multiple bottles of cold beer. The task was usually assigned to one of the younger members of my family, either my son, Alex, or my daughter Andrea. Since Andrea was the younger of the two, her brother somehow mysteriously conned her, along with lucrative bribes from me, into taking the trek up to the bakery. This brave six year old would take her little pink backpack and start her odyssey hoping to avoid the many perils along the way. Under ideal conditions we could expect her back in about half an hour with her bag full of liquid refreshments. This common practice of allowing minors to purchase beer for their parents fit perfectly into the lifestyle of the island. My wife and I certainly had no qualms about sending our children on these quests for beer that is until we returned to the States.

   Back in the States one of the most popular classroom activities for first graders was the weekly show and tell, not only for the students but also for teachers. Six year old Andrea, having traveled to Ikaria three times in her short life, always had plenty to show and tell about life on the island, especially one week when the topic was farm animals. When it was Andrea’s turn to tell about animals in her life she stood up with bravado to explain to her fellow classmates and her teacher, how she had to take these dangerous journeys to the village bakery in order to bring back beer for her thirsty parents. She described in vivid detail how she had to circumnavigate the bee bushes so as not to disturb the bees, and how she had to out maneuver the intimidating and stubborn goats, and how she had to hold her breath as she quickly passed the smelly chicken coop. The toughest part of her odyssey she explained to her class, was carrying those heavy chilled bottles of beer in her little pink Barbie back pack. The weight of the hefty bottles often threw her off balance landing her in the thicket and brush resulting in scratches or bruises, as she made her descent from the bakery along the uneven rocky foot path.

   When Andrea came home from school that afternoon she told us about her school day and the electrifying story she told during show and tell. My wife and I immediately knew and understood the predicament we were in. Did her teacher believe her?  Or maybe she thought Andrea made up the story? Would her teacher call Child Protective Services on us for child abuse, negligence or endangerment? Luckily no authorities came knocking on our door, no phone calls asking if we’d be available for a home visit. However, at parent-teacher conferences later that year I couldn’t help but notice a certain amount of probing and suspicious looks from Andrea’s teacher. The looks that mean: “I’m not quite sure what is going on with your strange and unusual family, but if Andrea comes to school with beer breath I have Protective Services on speed dial.”

Flying to Ikaria

Flying to Ikaria is a relatively short trip, about half an hour or so from Athens. The modest twin engine turbo-prop flies in low, lands, drops off its’ passengers, picks up another group of passengers and returns to the mainland. Such is the normal mundane routine of flying in and out of Ikaria, or so it seemed when my wife and I escorted our son to the airport for his flight back to Athens. The Olympic Airlines plane arrived on time, that is Greek time, about twenty minutes late. The passengers disembarked full of laughter with the anticipation of spending time on this idyllic Aegean island. The departing passengers slowly made their way through passport control, then security clearance and trudged out to the tarmac to board the vintage plane. Once the travelers boarded the plane, the airport staff seemed to disappear most likely to go out to lunch, take an afternoon nap or hit the beaches.

 This time my wife and I decided to stay and watch the plane carrying our son take off. Since the airport only has one runway, the plane must turn around, taxi down to one end hidden behind a hill, rev up its’ engines, race down the runway and take off. Several long minutes went by as we patiently stood under the hot Aegean sun waiting for the plane to emerge from behind the hill, when suddenly all sorts of sirens went off. Out of the airport two firemen came dashing out, boarded their fire truck with lights flashing and sirens whining, they made a beeline towards the plane. Immediately confusion, fear and a troubling sensation shook my body. Running back into the airport to ask what is going on, I found it deserted! The only person still around was the cashier at a small café cleaning tables. Anxiously I approached her about the ominous excursion of the fire truck. “Oh, that” she replied, “the fire truck is chasing the goats off the runway so the plane can take off, it happens quite often.” Relieved that our son’s plane was not on fire, but rather under siege by Ikarian goats, I relayed the bizarre news to my worried wife.

 Ikaria, it seems, has a sizable number of wild goats that roam and graze in the mountains above the

airport, and often meander down to the airstrip looking for a morsel or two. Their omnivorous habits endanger the plane during its’ arrivals and departures. So, if you are fortunate enough to fly in or out of Ikaria, look out your window and you might see those hungry Ikarian goats scavenging around the airfield looking for that last morsel of food. If you are luckier yet, you may see the fire truck cruising down the runway scaring off the hazardous goats.

The Lottery

Ikaria has always been considered by other Greeks as an island outpost, somewhat backwards and full of loveable but eccentric locals. Ikarians certainly do not see themselves described in such unflattering and uncouth terms. They see themselves rather as proud, independent and creative individuals. The creative theme struck a cord with me one day in Agios. While returning to my car I was hastily approached by one of our amiable local farmers. This particular farmer decided a few years ago to relocate to a miniscule trailer that he set up in a middle of a deep ravine, a ravine that during the rainy winter months would cascade tons of rainwater down to the Aegean. Nevertheless, he settled into this risky nook amidst the boulders, cacti and the torrential rains. He was even able to somehow gather and herd several farm animals around his little trailer.

 As this whimsical and robust stranger approached me I spotted him holding in one hand a gigantic

roll of paper. At first I thought it was a roll of industrial size toilet paper, and this was one of those bodily function emergencies, but as I looked closer I realized it was a large roll of register tape. He quickly cornered me and dove into his animated scheme describing how I could win his highly prized mule in a lottery he was conducting. The cost of a lottery ticket was a mere Euro. It turned out he had written double numbers on the roll of register tape, and as a contestant purchased a number he would tear off the duplicate number and deposit it in his goat skin sack along with the other purchased numbers. Eventually when he figured he had sold a sufficient number of tickets to make a handsome profit on his prized mule, he would draw the winning number from his sack.

Realizing that this was the only way I would ever be a mule owner, and not thinking of the

consequences and responsibilities of owning the animal, I immediately bought five tickets. Driving home that afternoon in a justifiable daze with the five tickets tucked in my pocket, I was seeing myself naming my mule some kind of studly name, and picturing myself triumphantly galloping into Agios on the back of my speedy hybrid. A couple of weeks later I found myself one evening at our local kafenion, when suddenly I thought of the lottery. Curiously I asked around if anyone heard who won the mule sweepstakes. “The old farmer drew a number just a few days ago,” said one of the regulars, “a cousin of his won.” In one quick blow, my dreams of being a mule driver crashed but I smiled thinking about how many others had also invested their Euros in this lucrative mule lottery.

Ikarian Observations

Multitasking: Ikarian Style                                                                                                                   

      All of us in this busy world are called upon to perform many tasks, sometimes simultaneously. Ikarians are no exceptions. It is not uncommon to see Ikarians shopping, carrying on a conversation and driving at the same time. One young Ikarian took this to extremes when I noticed him riding his Harley motorcycle, cigarette in mouth, plastic cup of coffee in one hand and talking on his cell phone with the other. Nonchalantly motoring his way down the streets of Agios, everything in perfect balance, multitasking Ikarian style.



Signs

      Signs for the most part inform, give advice, warn of danger and are generally seen by most of us as useful and on occasion intrusive. On Ikaria, one is never quite sure what signs mean or for whom they are intended. Walking into the National Bank of Greece at Agios Kirikos, customers are greeted by a variety of no smoking signs and warnings. These are plastered on the doors, the walls and on the tellers’ windows. What seems apparent to most customers however, is not so apparent to the bank employees. Every other employee seems to be busy smoking, huffing and puffing, creating a permanent floating blue haze over the teller windows.  I asked a bank employee about the no smoking signs and with a pretentious sneer and a whiff from his tobacco breath he informed me that the no smoking policy is meant for the bank customers only, and not the bank employees.

Mechanics of Ikaria

      Owning a car in Ikaria is an expensive proposition. It’s difficult to find qualified mechanics and there are

long waits for parts to be shipped, so naturally if something goes wrong with their cars, most Ikarians attempt repairing their autos themselves. I was anointed with such a vision one dark evening in front of my house as two young men worked on a car. Apparently neither man had a flashlight, a lit candle was held by one man over the engine compartment, while the other, smoking a cigarette, worked on the motor. I chose at that moment not to hang around, fearing the combination of gas fumes, oil sludge, lit candle and cigarette were creating a massive potential for a catastrophe, not exactly a healthy life style choice.

New Airport

Typically, islands rely on harbors for transportation, it is not often an airport is built, and in the case of Ikaria it wasn’t until the late 90’s. The airport, at the time was one long continuous airstrip with no building or tower. To make it long enough for planes to land, tons of rock and dirt were moved and deposited on the eastern tip of Ikaria were unlike the rest of the island, the land is semi-flat. Actually, the rocks and dirt were dumped off the coast into the Aegean so the runway could be of adequate length. The fact that the airstrip was located in an area of sparse population did not stop the Ikarians from making pilgrimages to the site to offer their  comments on the progress of the airport, or to provide their own highly knowledgeable opinions on which direction the runway should be built. 

 As the last of the concrete was being poured for the runway, I received a rather unusual travel request.  It seemed that my caretaker’s daughter-in-law, Irene, had always wanted to learn how to drive a manual automobile. The only vehicle available was an old, lumbering, rusted out 1974 VW cargo van. A van that had traversed the main roads, back roads and goat trails of Ikaria for over twenty-five faithful years. It was in this vehicle she hoped to learn the intricacies of clutching, down shifting and the ever allusive reverse. The only area accessible and available for such instruction of course, was the newly built airport runway. The date of our first driving lesson was set, a late summer afternoon. As I was preparing for my first drive out to the airstrip, I was politely informed that several of the village dignitaries wished to accompany us on this adventurous driving lesson. This was a golden opportunity for them to view this modern day aeronautical marvel.

 The VW van could normally seat three adults comfortably in the front. The back of the van was empty so that farm implements, animal feed or animals could be easily transported. In no time the number of passengers quickly climbed to a dozen. With typical Ikarian ingenuity, benches, lawn chairs and stools were summoned and attached with sturdy ropes to the inside panels of the van to provide seating for the entourage. The ride to the airport was rather like a large family going on a picnic, stories were told, jokes were shared and laughter filled the van on our forty five minute ride. Upon our arrival the talking and laughing suddenly seized as I parked the van at one end of the runway. A look of utter amazement, somewhat like a spiritual awakening, overtook the passengers as they gazed out over the immense and seemingly endless concrete field.

 I instructed the dazed travelers to disembark so I could begin the first driving lesson. The lesson primarily consisted of teaching my protégé how to clutch, shift, find the correct gear, and apply the gas and to brake. As Irene took the sputtering van from one end of the runway to the other, she would wave joyously to the assembled entourage as we lurched and squealed past them. Like a homecoming queen in a parade, she greeted the crowd whose eyes were glued to her. The driving lesson lasted for six jarring trips, from one end of the runway to the other. The now confident student driver had had enough of cruising back and forth for her audience and was ready to head home.

The trip back to the village consisted of two main topics, the glory and honor that was going to be the airport of Ikaria, and the impressive driving skills of the novice driver. True to the family outing form, we concluded the festive trip with a stop to the nearest kafenion to toast the new driver and her courageous accomplishments.  

What was that?!

       The topography of Ikaria is similar to most other Aegean islands, mountainous with several imposing peaks reaching over 1,000 meters in height. Needless to say traveling by auto around the island is a white knuckle experience. One follows the mountain terrain traversing corkscrew roads often doing switchbacks, and progressing at the speed of a tractor that requires constant shifting and braking. I always find myself with a feeling of great satisfaction when I can shift into third gear even if it is only for a fraction of a minute, maybe covering a grand distance of fifty meters or so. Such terrain provides for a variety of activities, which includes occasional military maneuvers by the Greek army.

       Once again I found myself in a hurry on my red Vespa going from Xilocirtis to Agios to pick up my wife’s birthday torte as quickly as possible before it melted in the 100 degree heat. Rounding one of the numerous bends in the road, I stumbled upon a detachment of young Greek soldiers huddled near their jeep under the shade of a large oak tree outside the yerokomio, relaxing and enjoying the national past time of Greeks, the compulsive obsession with political discourse. Continuing on my errand I raised my hand in the customary wave as I whizzed by the preoccupied recruits. A few kilometers later I was puzzled why I hadn’t run into any traffic coming the other way, when suddenly as I was hugging the outside curve of the road, several chunks of rock cascaded down in front of me. I looked up to see more rocks falling from the cliff above. Then came the puzzling noises. Noises that sounded like muffled firecrackers followed by pinging sounds. As I rounded an S curve I noticed another group of Greek soldiers blocking off the road with their military vehicle. Frantically gesturing and waving their hands at me, the officer in charge sprinted towards me.

 “What are you doing here?! Where did you come from? Didn’t you see the road block four kilometers back?” he screamed.

  Perplexed I replied, “There was no road block, just a bunch of soldiers relaxing and smoking under a tree.”

“Look down there,’ he gestured pointing to another group of soldiers in the ravine below the road, ‘we’re conducting target practice on this stretch of road; the road is closed for the next two hours.”

“Well,’ I countered, ‘your comrades at the other end aren’t aware of it and allowed me to proceed.”

       In a typical animated Greek manner he explained that the noises I had heard ringing above my head were bullets ricocheting off the rocks. The soldiers, down in the ravine unable to see me, were shooting at targets a few meters above the very road I had just passed through.

       Thinking to myself later that night Greek marksmen are either very, very good or very, very bad. The birthday was not the only reason for celebration that day.

The One Euro Store

Change is never easy especially in Ikaria. One of the most dramatic changes on the island happened when Greece converted from the drachma to the Euro in 2002. The Greek drachma up until 2002 was the oldest continually used currency in the world.  

Nowhere was the currency confusion more evident than in our little kafenion. The kindly owner, Aryiro, always seemed to have a difficult time in managing the small restaurant on her own, sometimes forgetting items that were ordered. The one area she seemed most perplexed in was figuring out a customer’s change. With the introduction of the Euro her confusion turned into a full blown nightmare. In trying to convert drachmas to Euros, she spent more time doing the math than filling the pressing orders of her other customers. Food to be served was left on tables while she pounded away at her calculator over and over again. More often than not, exasperated customers would request a pad of paper and figure out the total bill themselves.

 Not to let this condition of perpetual uncertainty linger much longer she came up with the perfect pricing scheme. Every item in her kafenion would become one Euro, from a cup of coffee, to an ice cream, to an ouzo to the meze, everything would be one Euro. A simple effective stress reducer that made her life and the lives of her customers easier, she became the first Ikarian One Euro Store.

The Claw Machine

            Coming into Agios it seems there is always a surprise waiting to amuse. This particular occurrence appeared on the main square where a carnival claw machine had spontaneously sprung up. This is a money munching machine in which a coin is deposited bringing a short period of time to maneuver the metal claw to grab a stuffed toy before time is up and the claw drops. If your aim is true and with a little bit of luck, you could grab one of those furry little creatures. Well, for Ikarians cute stuffed animals and the like are not a rewarding challenge for their half Euro coin. As I walked past the ominous looking claw machine I noticed a few stuffed animals were there, strategically placed, but to make the claw machine more enticing to the customers, it also included were the following items; several pairs of designer sunglasses and watches, (no doubt knockoffs), a Hello Kitty purse, whiskey flasks, several packs of possibly stale Marlboro Reds, and a box of condoms. These appealing and eclectic prizes were available to any one man woman or child who had the coins and the spirit to take on the claw machine.

Shopping in Ikaria

               The business district of Agios, the largest town on Ikaria, consists mostly of small shops run by individual proprietors always eager and willing to serve their hurried customers. Unfortunately modern banking practices have yet to make major inroads with these small shop owners. When one buys an item it is best to have the exact amount as shop owners only keep a limited number of coins in their cash drawers. If change is to be given to a customer, quite often he or she might be given a small token or item in place of change. It is not unusual at the local pharmacy, for example, to be given one or two band-aids or several aspirins as change. I always love going to the pharmacy with great excitement and anticipation wondering what kind of change I’ll get that day, maybe a couple of Ricola cough drops or a tablet or two of Vicadin.
             One of my more puzzling purchases was made at a local hole-in-the- wall hardware stores. I was informed one day by my wife that a new outdoor clothesline was needed to replace the old flimsy and tattered one. She figured about fifteen meters was required. With this information fresh in my mind I hopped on my trusty Vespa and took off for Agios. As I popped into the first hardware store, I promptly spied a large spool of clothesline sitting right there on the counter. Thinking this was going to be a quick and easy transaction I confidently asked the saleslady for fifteen meters of line. She said nothing just looked at me mystified and bewildered. I thought to myself she did not understand me, so I repeated my utilitarian request for fifteen meters of line. Again, only to be met by more flustered looks. Finally, I picked up the spool of line and once again said, “I need fifteen meters of this.” Looking at me like I should know better she calmly explained, “We only sell clothesline by the kilo.” It took about a minute for me to fathom her reply. “You don’t sell by the meter, only by the kilo?” I responded. “Yes, of course only by the kilo” came her curtsied reply. “Ok,” I said “let me just measure out about fifteen meters of line then you can take it and weigh it on your scale, and charge me what its worth.” So, finally with a convergence of two scales of measurement I was able to purchase my fifteen meters of clothesline so our wet bathing suits and towels could hang and dry in the hot Greek sun.

Agios Kirikos

                    

  Agios Kirikos, the capitol of Ikaria, or Agios as locals call it is  for the most part  a sleepy little harbor town, but on at least one occasion it exhibited a rather unique cultural flavor. One morning as I arrived at Agios to do my every-other day shopping, I heard some very faint non-native sounds. In the main square I happened upon a group of Ikarians gathered in a circle. Coming from the center of this crowd I could hear the music and beating of what sounded like Native American drums. Inside this cluster of about fifty or so Ikarians was indeed a dance troupe of four Native American Indians dressed in an eclectic wardrobe of Plains/Woodland Indians. They exuberantly danced around a table waving their fringed tomahawks in the air and yelling war cries to the beat of their drums. The stunned Ikarians looked bewildered and confused, as did I, as to what this dance program was about.
                Upon finishing their dance number the Indians proceeded to pass around a hat for donations. As the hat was circulating among the amused onlookers the performers brought out CD’s of their music to be sold to the locals. Out of curiosity I approached one of the dancers to find out what tribe they were from since I did not recognize the outfits they wore. With a whimsical smile the oldest male dancer said, "We’re not American Indians, we’re from Ecuador. We just put these shows on because Greeks only know about Indians from American western TV shows." So, cultural exchange programs do happen even in remote destinations such as Agios. The question becomes what culture?                                                                                                    

Damnit the sun will melt your wings!

            

    Ikaria, when I mention the name most people will just shrug, then I explain that Ikaria is part of a famous ancient Greek myth. It concerns a father and son who secretly escaped imprisonment from Crete after fashioning wings made from feathers and wax. The fathers’ instructions to his son were not to fly too high or the sun’s rays would melt his wings. The brash son disregarded his father’s advice and the outcome was he crashed into the Aegean Sea, near the island that consequently was named after him, Ikaria.  
                The story is a myth but the island is not. Located in the eastern Aegean, it is a rather long, skinny island with a somewhat dubious history, encompassed in a beautiful and provoking topography. It truly reflects what Lawrence Durrell describes as, “spirit of place”. A peoples’ spirit that evolves from being geographically isolated, politically defaulted, and culturally insulated. A spirit that promotes self-sufficiency, an almost arrogant island view and a watchful and suspicious eye towards outsiders.
                It was on this wayward island that I was born in the middle of the 20^th century in a mountain village said to have existed since the Stone Age. Having left this quaint existence at the age of five, I returned many years later to reacclimatize myself to my heritage on this lonely and windy island. During countless summers spent exploring and eventually settling down as a permanent part-time resident, I amassed vivid memories and experiences of the people and places of Ikaria. This shared life compels me to tell the stories of these Ikarians, to illuminate their experiences and provide a viewing window into the human spirits that inhabit this majestically rocky island called Ikaria.