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Naxos nights | page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
The waves would gather momentum as the day passed and at some point every afternoon they would be at their fullest. That's when the old men would appear. From seemingly out of nowhere, a gathering of weathered, mahogany Greek men with sunken chests and black bathing shorts would converge to stand on the shore and survey the sea. The Aegean in dark-blue spasms would reach its zenith there in the afternoon light and, from my olive grove, I'd watch it also. The old men would enter the sea together, simultaneously turn to face the shore and hunch over with their knees slightly bent, skinny arms outstretched, waiting. They'd look over their shoulders at the ocean beyond, ready to jump up and join it at precisely the right moment. They always knew when that was. I would join them and always laughed when riding the waves, but I never saw those men crack a smile. I decided that when I was 80, I would take waves that seriously also. After that many years of life on earth, what could be more important than playing in the waves? Sometimes I'd walk into town to explore, buy fruit and bottled water and watch old men argue politics over their Turkish coffee served in tiny cups. The coffee was sweet and strong and one-third full of gooey sediment. At sunset the men would turn their chairs to face the sun as it melted the day into the sea. They'd sigh and drink their ouzo or citron or kitro -- a lemon liqueur that is a Naxos specialty -- and stop talking until the sky was drained of color. Parish priests with stovepipe hats, long robes and beards would stroll the narrow alleys with their hands behind their backs, looking exactly like movie extras. Old women in black would watch me as I passed and occasionally stop me to ask about snow. I'd wander through the maze of whitewashed houses, the stark lines of white and blue, and stumble back home over the rocky land of dry absolutes in a heady daze. Nothing is murky on a Greek island like Naxos, nor hazy, nor humid, nor dewy. Lush doesn't live there. This part of Greece is a rock garden of shrubs and laurel, juniper and cypress, thyme and oregano. Wildflowers spin colors that surge out of a pure clarity, and in this clarity the forms of things are finer. Greece shimmers from afar, is hardy in the distance and chill beneath your bones. In the dry heat of this arid place, donkeys sound off at all hours, as if agitated. They'd wake me even in the dead of night. One evening at sunset a man on a moped zipped by as I was walking along the beach. He came to a stop in the sand ahead and turned to ask my name. I'd seen him before at the taverna, throwing his head back to laugh when Nikos the waiter told jokes. The man on the moped offered me a ride down the beach and I took it. Naxos has one entire uninterrupted beach and in 20 minutes or so we came to his village, a cluster of houses and an outdoor restaurant overlooking the sea. The man let me off, smiled without speaking and disappeared. I went to the restaurant for dinner and chatted with some tourists. We didn't say anything significant. Mostly we watched the sky, which by then was blood-red, cracked apart with amber shots of whiskey. Shortly after, I found a bus that took me back to the town of Naxos. By the time I finally arrived at the olive grove, it was dark except for the light of the moon heaving itself full over the mountain. I came to my bamboo shelter and found it creaking in the wind, desolate, as it was the day I arrived, abandoned by its inhabitant. My backpack and the little home I'd made with my sleeping bag and pillows were gone, taken. | ||
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