Ikaria July 1970

                                                                        Ikaria July 1970

There exist an island eight to eighteen hours from Athens, but in my mind no distance exist between us. We approach her cautiously, huddled tightly together on a wet deck of a slow churning ship. She rises majestically in the distant cerulean pelagos, delicately shrouded by the dawn’s early mist. Her ghostly presence stills my thoughts and races my heart. The morning fog, the temptress wind, the asperity of the mountains make a grand entrance fit for the noblest and virtuous of kings.

 

Shaped by the hands of nature a collage of air, land and water, she plays, she teases, she torments the inhabitants of her body and calls out to them. “Come play with my body and I will play with your souls”. She will not forsake them but in the end, survival is justified only for the living.

                                                          On the left there’s the sea

                                                          On the right there’s the land

                                                           And in between can be found man

Her winds whistle through the pines and race down her lonely rocky roads. Yes, I will not forsake you she whispers but in the end. Man will struggle and he shall survive with his plot of earth all within the face of time.

The village, nestled warm and snug, half way up the mountain side, revealed as a pattern of white specks, specks you could brush off your shoulder with a swipe of your hand. Your feet sing along on the winding road and in the night it becomes your captor. “Follow me,” it says, “Your destiny lies in me.” You follow one step after another, one thought after another, wondering about the scenes  your captor has witnessed and knowing for the moment you are part of them.

 

The light shines, it shines low and dim in the old house with the fading whitewash. The ancient stones planted in the patio greet your weary body and lead you towards its’ haven. First, the kitchen, filled with countless aromas seemingly still drifting from the cooking pots  carefully arranged in the fireplace . Solid wooden benches along the walls seat visitors coming to narrate the news of the day. The three tiny bedrooms, all with icons, closely watching and protecting their human spirits, providing respite for the slumbering souls. The store room, dark and dusty, permeated forever by the scent of olive oil. On its’ wall dangle the implements of survival, massive amphoras for oil, wine and water, a handmade wooden loom, and the universal tools used by farmers eons ago.

 

Here on this mystic isle you find love, you find hate, as you search for the dreams of man. So, in the end you too can say, “I played among those gods of the heart.” The sun is always high, the moon is always bright, and the stars parade before you every night. This island my friend is your world and you shall be all right.

Swallows

Swallows don’t just return to Capistrano, they also return to our little seaside eatery in Xilosirti, Ikaria. Earlier in the summer, a pair of swallows found themselves flying through the wide open windows and doors of our local restaurant.

 As they flew nonchalantly in and out of the dining room, to their feathery amazement they discovered the ideal perch on which to build their snug little nest. This perch just happened to be located on top of a light fixture that was hanging precariously in the middle of the restaurant. Oblivious to the noise and crowds of the restaurant, the unconventional birds arduously built their tiny mud nest, and quickly produced three bird eggs. Within weeks three diminutive chick heads were seen bobbing up and down in the nest with their beaks perpetually wide open.  The parent swallows continued to make frequent forays in and out of the restaurant gathering sustenance for their young stock.

The owners of the restaurant, as well as the customers became quite accustomed to the new tenants and their low flying aerial antics.  Tourists and locals from all over the island came to eat at the restaurant just so they could witness and take pictures of the frolicking birds. Many of us became bird watching addicts, popping in every day to get the latest report as to the health and well being of the chicks. Quite often we noticed one of the bird parents stoically perched on top of the huge flat screen TV that was fastened to the wall at the far end of the restaurant. The bird casually observing the hustle and bustle of the busy eatery as patrons filtered in and out till the early morning hours. To protect customers from the bird droppings, tables were re-arranged and a large piece of cardboard placed on the floor under the light fixture that supported the celebrated bird nest. Customers and wait staff avoided that part of the restaurant, but during one exciting Euro Cup match, a patron celebrating the winning goal in his enthusiasm, stood up, jumped around, stepped on the bird poop laden cardboard and slid half way across the restaurant. Customers witnessing this amazing gymnastic feat applauded his dexterity and keen sense of balance thunderously; all the while the birds seemed unimpressed by the wild gyrations of the soccer fan.

By the end of the summer two of the three birdies survived and fledged, hopefully to return the next summer and roost in the same nest, still attached to the dangling light fixture, and once again to entertain and delight customers with their aerial acrobatics.

I couldn’t help but wonder how quickly the swallows, their chicks, and their nest would be forcibly evicted if this aviary incident took place in the States. No sooner would you utter the words, “Big Bird”, than the health department would materialize with hazard suites, oxygen tanks, and gallons of disinfectant to rid the Aves intruders. Ikarians for the most part take a more amicable St. Francis approach towards birds, sympathetic and compassionate, that’s why I hope to see swallows flying around my neighborhood for a long, long time.

Where's The Money From?

International money conspiracies, real or imaginary, seem to pop up on a regular basis like wild fires in the mountains of Ikaria. A recently uncovered banking ploy involves the rise of the new affluent Russians and their attempts to money launder their Rubles, Euros and U.S. dollars primarily in Cyprus and in Greece. Getting money out of Russia seems to be an ongoing and lucrative activity since the time of the Russian Czars. Wealthy Russians noting the somewhat lax banking laws and regulations in Greece and in Cyprus have established both real and bogus accounts in both countries. It has been rumored, and there is some credence to this rumor from the U.S. Treasury department, that there are more U.S. counterfeit one hundred dollar bills circulating in Russia than anywhere else in the world. This rumor certainly hasn’t escaped notice with our provincial banking institutions on Ikaria.

 

 

Arriving in Ikaria from the States during the summer of 2012, with a handful of one hundred dollar bills fresh from Chase bank, I was anxious to exchange them for Euros before the inevitable summer swoon of the dollar against the Euro occurred. Clutching dearly on to my American passport I entered the diminutive, but highly air-conditioned Alpha bank at Agios Kirikos, capital of Ikaria. I looked around somewhat warily and noticed there was little customer traffic in the bank, so I confidently figured this was going to be an easy in easy out banking transaction. Then I quickly recalled past banking experiences and remembered, not too fondly, there is no such thing as easy in easy out in Ikaria.

Immediately, as I handed the teller my freshly minted hundred dollar bills, she looked up at me with a suspicious glare undoubtedly trying to figure out what ruse I was trying to perpetrate. To ease the situation I promptly produced my American passport which she grabbed with both hands and proceeded to closely examine the outside cover. Once satisfied, she opened it to the identification page glancing at my prison mug shot type photo, then at me during what seemed to be several uneasy moments. Finally, she picked up the hundred dollar bills, rubbed each one gently between her thumb and forefinger, then she held each one up to the light examining them all for any tell tale sign that they might be counterfeit. Suddenly, with one harried scoop she picked up the bills along with my passport, stood up, turned and walked to a copy machine situated at the back of the bank. In no time she zeroxed the main pages of my passport along with both sides of the one hundred dollar bills. Returning nonchalantly to her desk she proceeded to copy down by hand all the serial numbers of the bills onto the official exchange form. Giving me a copy of the form, she then stapled all the zeroxed pages to the exchange document and filed them away, along with the hundred dollar bills in a large coffee stained manila folder. Seeing the muddled expression on my face she calmly reassured me, “We have to do this because of all the fake hundred dollar bills coming out of Russia.” Nodding my head with approval I understood the ramifications to a small bank on Ikaria if it was to get stuck with a manila folder full of counterfeit one hundred dollar bills.

So, thanks to this new crop of Russian counterfeiters , next time I try to exchange my American dollars who knows what the bank might require for such a transaction, fingerprints, eye scans, signed affidavits, oaths of perpetual truthfulness, my computer passwords? The answer seems to be ditch the U.S. hundred dollar bills and enter the 21 st. century by just carrying an ATM card, but this being Ikaria I am left wondering what are the chances that any one of the four ATM machines on Ikaria might be working on the day I need one?