Seaside Roots

Island living is easy on Corfu, and nearly everything is cheap.  The local restaurant serves gyros that costs less than three euros, a deal that Subway can’t match.  I would rather retire here instead of Florida, where conservative thinking is as rampant as the head-on collisions between impaired drivers with uninspected cars. The weather is just as suitable in Greece, and the residents are younger than the buildings. 

An ancient Byzantine castle clings to a cliff on the western side of the island.  Aaron bought a map and plotted his course.  A small troupe, including myself, followed him in blind faith.  We shuttled into town and walked the café-lined streets alive with pedestrians puffing on cigarettes.  I stopped at a bakery where I recognized a dessert that my mother made for a heritage celebration for my high school history class. 

We students researched our family lineages and brought in dishes from our ancestors’ homelands.  My great-grandfather was born in Smyrna, Greece, and he was the last immigrant in my family to sail to the United States.  When I get my summer tan and a lazy, patchy beard covers my cheeks, I scrutinize my face for imprints of Old World genetics.  Although my family hails from Germany, Ireland, Scotland, and Greece, I prefer to emphasize the Greek in me. 

“Is that baklava?” I asked the Greek man behind the counter.

“It’s like baklava, but different,” he said tersely and then attempted to persuade me to buy a larger, more expensive chocolate cake. 

“It’s all traditional,” he marketed.

“No,” I said, “I just want two pieces of that,” I pointed toward the triangular sweets with flaky phyllo dough.  The dessert was cheap and overly sweet.  The dough was slightly crunchy, and the almond paste and honey conglomeration was gooey.  I finished the first one but dreaded stomaching the last piece.  The sugar was so intense it alerted me about the damage I was causing my teeth with very little reward from my palette.  But I paid for the sweets, so I ate them both.

We boarded a bus heading west.  There was a man on board who walked down the aisle and collected payments.  I handed the man a two euro coin.  He tapped a few buttons on his hand-held screen and printed a superfluous receipt, which I later threw in the trash.  Aaron conferred with him as to where we should get off. 

After answering Aaron’s questions, the worker sat next to a Greek woman, a friend of his I assumed, and proceeded to flirt with her on the clock.  His protruding nose resembled mine because we shared similar genes.  I hoped this meant I, too, was capable of casually wooing foreign beauties.  No opportunities availed themselves, so I stared out the window until the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere at the foot of a hill.

The road zigzagged up the incline so that our route was never steep but inconveniently indirect.  The path was mostly deserted except for a few locals selling homegrown wines and honey under the shade of screen-less tents.  Scooters and tiny cars sporadically sputtered up the street. 

As we climbed higher, the view became grander, and the desolate quiet thickened.  I could hear the leaves rustle as the tree branches shook in the wind.  There was little to see except the woodlands, but I’ve seen so many attractions lately that it was refreshing to wander around amidst the simplicity of the country.

We rounded another bend and entered a small neighborhood built on a straightaway nestled between the hills.  The road would only permit one car at a time.  Two cars heading toward each other would be considered a traffic jam.  

Family-run restaurants were empty inside.  Outside their doors left ajar, there were menus littered with misspelled English words.  One sign advertised FOOB. 

I found a shop that sold homemade olive wood carvings.  Locally sculpted art makes for ideal gifts to take home because it probably won’t get crushed in your bag, and you can’t easily find these authentic products at home or online.  As I approached the shop, I noticed an old man chiseling a piece of wood inside a detached workshop.  No one was helming the cash register as I browsed his collection in the building nearby.

Household items like wooden spoons and spatulas filled the shelves, but I was searching for something that epitomized Greece.  A sailboat seemed fitting.  My mother could briefly look at the carving and remember that I bought this wood carving on an island.  When I visit a new country, I buy small knickknacks like an ebony elephant from Ghana or a mosaic bull from Spain.  They’re my exterior tattoos that transplant me to past adventures and encourage me to save my money so I can leave again. 

I lifted the sailboat and read the price tag on the bottom.  I wasn’t expecting to run into civilization on this hike, so I didn’t have much cash on me.  The old man walked into the shop as though emerging from a nap.  He hovered near me and silently implored me to speak first.

“Do you take credit cards?” I asked him.

Judging by his blank look and considering the distance from his shop to the touristy beaches, I suspected he didn’t speak much English, so I pantomimed swiping a credit card. 

“No machine,” he said.

I pointed to his sailboat and said, “I like this, but I don’t have enough cash on me.  If I had more money, I would buy it.”  I tried to speak slowly, and I think he got the gist.  I apologized for wasting his time and left his shop. 

We hiked for another thirty minutes before we saw the castle perched atop the summit of a hill.  After stopping at a viewpoint for a quick photo, we ascended the rocky staircase until we reached the Byzantine fortress.  

The walls of the entrance were intact albeit spotted with orange lichen.  I climbed up the courtyard rubble and stood a safe distance from the edge of a cliff.  From the top I could see pockets of Carolina blue water surrounded by the sea of a darker hue.  The ocean stretched onward for miles.   

No wonder the castle is still standing.  Soldiers could see ships far in the distance.  Anyone attacking by land would have a tough time climbing up the hill without being shot by an arrow.  Within the castle’s grounds, grass grew around the rocks.  There were coffin-shaped holes dug into the slabs of stone.  I managed to squeeze into one of them and gained a new appreciation for my tiny air mattress I slept on each night. 

“This is the coolest thing I have ever seen in my life,” Shyla said.  She’s a Canadian college student who recently joined the group in Rome.  The others with me——Aaron, Bridget, Ash, and the two ladies from Taiwan——were emphatic with their excitement.  I heard words like stunning, amazing, and breathtaking.  I did not use these descriptors because I am very selective with my adjectives of praise. 

Reaching the peak was certainly an achievement, and the view of the electric-blue sea was worthy of a few photographs.  Undoubtedly the view from the castle is more picturesque than the one I have from my bedroom window.  However, I was not overwhelmed with a sense of euphoria like my companions.  Why did I have to complicate everything?  Why couldn’t I simply admit the view was breathtaking, like I was expected to? 

When asked about my voyage, shouldn’t I excitedly describe the climax with a touch of wonder?  Any divergence from the spectacular would be a disappointment.  If you climb up a steep hill, you come to expect a brilliant view.  When I looked at the evergreen trees and the inviting water I saw the beauty, but I also saw the inevitable end of the dirt and the beginning of a different element.

We spend so much time on land that we become fascinated by the novelty of water.  Our ancient home beckons us.  When we gaze out beyond the cliff, perhaps we are visited by memories instilled deep within our DNA when we slithered out of the sea and said goodbye to our friends with gills.  But that just sounds crazy.  It’s much easier to say that some indescribable quality took my breath away.