Category: Stavros

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Ancient Corinth

Everywhere you go, it’s like corinthian columns, corinthian columns, corinthian columns… Stavros and I drove to Corinth this week to visit the ruins of the ancient city and acropolis. Two six-foot long green snakes slithered past us on the acropolis, reminding me of so many tales from antiquity involving oracles, enchantresses, heroic deeds and tragedy. Our trip wasn’t defined by such grand dimensions, thank Zeus, just me, back in Greece, and Stavros, back at my side.

The previous week we visited the 11th century Dafní monastery in Chaidari. Extensive damage from an earthquake in 1999 is currently being restored, and because of the restoration we were able to ascend the scaffolding up into the dome to see the mosaics up close. Fabulous.

We also visited the Sanctuary of Demeter in Eleusis, on the site where Demeter, the goddess of agriculture and fertility, found her daughter Persephone after she had been kidnapped by Hades. Important initiation ceremonies were held there every year for their cult. Because Persephone had eaten a few pomegranate seeds while in the underworld, she had to return every year, one month for each seed. Her mother’s sadness during the time that Persephone was in the underworld resulted in a neglect of the earth, but when Persephone returned to the surface in the spring, Demeter would get all happy and turn her attention back to agricultural and fertilizing activities. Hence the seasons. The king at the time helped Demeter, and in gratitude, Persephone gave his son the first grains of wheat and showed him how to harvest crops. Wheat grows wild all around the sanctuary today.

Stavros is my own Persephone, rising from the abyss of Greek austerity to spend another blissful month at my side.

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Really Huge Pretty Things

Well how do you like that. I just spoke with Stavros, and I’m the villain! A manipulative raconteur! Evidently, I caused tears to flow from those beautiful Grecian eyes by making assumptions (in my previous post) that were quite far from accurate. He loves me! I think. Or am I making another assumption? Oh wait, here comes my Chorus of Therapists… “Oy, Coco, what did we tell you about this style of communication? It’s not only manipulative, it’s indirect, passive aggressive! He’s talking to you, loud and clear, through his actions, what’s this dreck about needing words? Words, words, words… Learn to understand his language! Enough already!” Stavros also took issue, humorously as always, with my presenting him in my blog as a sort of indecisive rapscallion and me as the wronged romantic dream lover. Ironically, this is exactly what annoyed me about Bob’s last book of short stories, the Bob character an amusing composite of both of our good qualities, and the Chris character representing all of our less desirable characteristics. I’d like to declare narrative immunity, but alas, I must protect my Stavros’ reputation and admit my contribution to his semi-frequent bouts of relationship anxiety.

And speaking of anxiety, I just saw Farewell, My Queen, an incredible film set in Versailles, in the few days after the storming of the Bastille in 1789. The film is about interior and exterior anxiety, featuring an implied lesbonic bond between la Reine and la duchesse de Polignac. The story is told through the eyes of the Queen’s reader, a young woman completely devoted to her mistress while the other servants and aristocrats gossip and eventually change into their grungy Citizen outfits and hit the road.

I’m photographing again. A new project, of flowers. Real ones this time, not ones made out of fuzzy blurry body parts. I’ll not say anything else, as I don’t know the what else just yet, just that the promise of new life is beckoning me, and I’m having such fun shooting again and hanging out with the bees in my plum tree. These will be large prints, 30″ x 40,” and all very close up—from the bees’ perspective. It seems like most everything there is to say about flowers has been said already, so I’m not thinking about breaking new conceptual ground, just in making really huge pretty things.

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Sue, Stavros, and a New Furry Companion

Over the past few months, Stavros came to San Francisco for a visit, my older sister Sue died, and Big Chrissy bought a dog.

Sue was someone who loomed large over my artistic and emotional development. She was there my entire life, always a presence, always available, always loving… just always there. There’s nothing comparable to losing her, and no metaphor that I can imagine that accurately describes the feelings of total panic and despair that I feel when I see and hear her so vividly and completely in my imagination, and yet can’t pick up the phone to talk to her, can’t touch her. Ever again.

Stavros was visiting during her final week, and the day after he left I flew to Tampa with my sister Diane to join the rest of the family, who had already gathered at Sue’s home. She acknowledged us when we arrived, excitedly, but was unable to speak. I stayed with her until dawn, holding her hand and stroking her hair. Later in the day, her friend Debbie put a feather in her hand and told her that it was okay to go, to fly away. She then stopped breathing.

All of my family and her close friends quickly gathered in her home. My sisters and I changed Sue into one of the fabulous outfits that she had made, resplendent in blue. Holding her dead weight in my hands as we changed her, the life and animation draining from her, her skin growing quickly cold, her eyes not able to stay shut… I experienced her deadness completely. And yet I can say, honestly, that I can’t believe that she’s gone. It’s like something completely impossible and irrational is happening. How can someone so alive be dead?

I stayed a few weeks in Tampa to help my sister Carol with Sue’s things. At first, being in her house was comforting, like we were still surrounded by her presence. But then as we started dismantling her home, it got harder and harder. I’d be fine, then I’d be watering the plants that she so carefully chose, thinking that she would never see them mature, and then I’d just break down.

Death is something that I know. I’ve lost lovers and best friends, distant family members, but this was something more than the loss of a loved one, it was the loss of a part of me, a tangible extension of my flesh, cut off completely and incinerated. I remember the day, about 8 years ago, when it first dawned on me that being almost the youngest of 7 kids, I’d have to see most of my siblings go before me. It was an idea that totally terrified me at the time, as I love them all so dearly, and couldn’t imagine life without them. But now one of them is gone, and the job of living without her begins. I love Sue so much, and miss her with such intensity and grief. She was only 59, still at the peak of beauty and engagement with life. It’s just not fair.

In the few weeks before she died, Stavros flew out to San Francisco for a 3 week stay. Upon his arrival, we both got the flu and ended up in bed in a way that had not quite figured its way into my fantasy life. When we were both feeling better, he announced that he was leaving the next day, that it couldn’t work, that he didn’t feel anything, that it was over. This happens pretty much every time we’re together. I convinced him to stay another week, that I felt like it was unfair to leave so quickly, that he was conflating homesickness with emotional detachment, to give it a little bit of a chance. We had a wonderful week together and seemed to be back on track by the time he left for Greece.

After making plans with him a few days ago, I purchased tickets to fly to Athens for the month of May, and right on cue, he then announced, again, that he doesn’t want me to come and that it’s over. I’ve been through this so many times that I can’t as of yet take him seriously, but I’ve been through it enough to think to myself, “Maybe a nice Jewish boy??” I adore this man. When we’re together we have so much fun. But after nearly a year, he can’t tell me how he feels about me. My need for dialogue and assurance conflicts with his… something, I’m not quite sure yet, but there’s a conflict—maybe just his need for NO dialogue and assurance?? I do feel his love for me, though, he just can’t say it. When I prompt him, his response is to run away or to try to cut me off again. I always tell him no, I won’t let him break up, because he’s not running away from me, he’s responding to fear and frustration and we can address those issues together.

The idea of a relationship was perhaps a great idea to him, but he’s seeing it now in conflict with the way he’s become accustomed to being in the world—single and free. I’ve stayed because I feel something behind all of the posturing and rejection, a real connection, and I’m intent on letting that connection blossom. Maybe I’m just watering the plant too much?

We’ll end up spending a wonderful month together, I’m sure. We either figure out how to comfort and assure each other, or we don’t. I know the feelings are there, the problem seems to be in the articulation. This doesn’t seem like it would be that tough, huh?

Some unconditional love has arrived in a 12-pound bundle of love named d’Auggie Van de More. d’Auggie is a Golden Doodle, a cross between a golden retriever and a poodle. He chews on anything that isn’t 3 feet off the ground. Shirts, table legs, chair legs, people legs, shoes, plants, rugs. Big Chrissy drops him off at my house early in the morning. He licks my face and jumps into my lap as I read the paper and stares at me with those dark puppy eyes. My day revolves now around his excretory needs. Chris’ sister Margie taught him to ring a bell to go outside when he has to pee. Although peeing on the floor or carpet sometimes seems like a better idea.

He even has a Facebook page! Check him out here.

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Weekend in Duncans Mills and Silly Love Songs

My friends Richard and Jim live in a glass house that overlooks the Russian River, framing a view of rolling grassy hills, the rear of the house nestled against a redwood forrest. Jim cooked one of Julia Child’s stews last weekend, accompanied by a deliciously crisp potato gratin and countless bottles of various Sonoma County wines. I made a pear upside-down cake. We drank until the wee hours of the night, which oddly turned out to be only 9:30pm, at which time we all passed out. I slept for 12 hours, returning to the city after a wonderfully relaxing weekend with my friends.

I hope they didn’t get bored with the constant subject of Stavros. I seemed to turn every discussion somehow back to him. Driving up there, through the vineyards and orchards and the colorful leaves and long shadows of autumn, I listened to a playlist of music that we listened to together over the summer. I howled mournfully and sincerely, tears flowing aerodynamically down my cheeks: There ain’t nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing impossible / Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing’s impossible / Oh no, nothing, nothing, for your love, your love, your love, your lo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ove. Somehow, for me, connecting the most deeply with someone suddenly entails actually believing all those corny lyrics, to every corny song that was ever written. All those songs about love, they’re really acute observations of all this intense hormonal and chemical activity that has overtaken and overwhelmed most of my faculties and desires. I found a dream that I could speak to / A dream that I can call my own / I found a thrill to press my cheek to / A thrill that I’ve never known. I hear these songs and a little lightbulb goes off over my head. “Oh my god, he’s right! The moon does hit your eye like a big pizza pie!”

Tomorrow I’m off to the Big Apple with Big Chrissy. Stay tuned for details of our exciting adventures…

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A Darker Shade of Pale

I’m back in San Francisco. After an unforgettable month in Greece, Stavros broke up with me, again, about an hour after getting home. I frankly don’t know how to move away from him this time (did I ever? lol) as he’s breaking up with me not because he doesn’t care for me, but because of some partially explained fears, nothing that I can quite understand. When people love each other, don’t they try to figure that stuff out? Doesn’t love have priority? Aren’t these fears actually a reason to stay together? I don’t mean that in a (I loathe this word I’m about to type) codependent way, I mean that it doesn’t seem necessary to eliminate potential bliss in one of life’s departments just because there’s unrelated stuff to deal with in other departments. I’m a compartmentalizer and a sensualist, not a codependent. I can hear the groan from my Chorus of Therapists, but you guys keep it down over there! But seriously, what’s better than love? It’s like I’m waking up in Backwards Land: I love you so much that I’m breaking up with you?

He sent me a note the morning after, saying he just needed some time, so a glimmer of hope to cling to. I’m trying to give it to him, but man, is it hard when we’ve been so intimate and close. The silence is almost unbearable, his absence a profoundly palpable heaviness that I carry with me all day. And he’s a pretty big guy, remember? I’ve tried to hide my disappointment and distress from him, thinking I don’t want to manipulate him into being with me, that he shouldn’t stay with me just because he doesn’t want to see me hurt. This is why I’m crying on your shoulder, Internet.

My homies swept me away on Saturday, up the coast for barbecued oysters on Tomales Bay. We’re on very friendly terms with the staff, as we tend to pass by that way a lot, and they greeted us warmly with big hugs and even bigger smiles, which cheered me up somewhat. The oysters were monstrously large, vulgar really, and barbecued they were like…

Okay, stop the presses. I just FaceTimed with a drunken Stavros, and if I can’t tell a man in love then I’m a monkey’s uncle. Sheesh, I don’t even finish my breakup blogpost and we’re back together again. At least I think we are. I hope we are. He is tipsy, but it seems apparent that he’s struggling against some strong feelings for me. Turn the “no vacancy” sign back on and join me in a chorus of “A Wonderful Guy!” Hurray for love! But wait a sec—will he regret what he expressed when he wakes up? Until I have that ring on my finger, I’m going to be trepidatious. I wish this guy were in therapy. I can hear the therapist telling him to stop resisting and go with what he’s really feeling. (This is my blogpost and my imaginary therapist, so no corrective comments from the Chorus, okay?)

My tan in Greece just looks like a darker shade of pale, or a muddy tone of pink, when compared to the gorgeous golden olive brown skin of the Greeks, but here in San Francisco, where only tourists wear shorts in July, I’m actually tan. I’ve never been this color!

It’s a happy day. A happy happy day.

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A Crop of Lips

I visited the Acropolis yesterday, completely wowed by the intensive reconstruction and restoration work that’s happened since my last visit in 2001. It’s like the ultimate jigsaw puzzle up there, chunks of Parthenon everywhere, slowly being fitted into place. I managed to arrive just as everybody else did, at the time that every guide book says to avoid, late morning before lunch. The place was packed for an hour, and then everyone scurried down the hill to his air-conditioned tour bus.

While Stavros has been at work out of town the past few days, I’ve turned on GROWLr, the iPhone hookup app that is my principal means of communication with my slutty friends around the world—seriously, to talk to my friends. If I were a different kind of bunny, that is, a hussy, I would be entertained daily by quite a number of almost desperately available Athenian men who text me throughout the day offering all sorts of varied opportunities for live bunny action. Two cab drivers, perhaps independently of each other, each asked to pick me up in his cab, one for a particular activity in the car itself, the other for a get-to-know-me rendezvous with his boyfriend. I thought it might be the new-kid-in-town syndrome, but actually, I think it’s just that they’ve all gone through everyone else in town. Oh. The new-kid-in-town syndrome, then. It’s certainly nice to be getting all this attention in my steadily-advancing state of decay, but I’d prefer a crop of marriage proposals tossed at me all day, instead of all these pictures of Greek underparts.

Chrissy always gets mad at me for chatting with these strangers. “You don’t have to respond,” he’s always telling me. I was raised in the south, where my friends all called their dads “sir,” I just find it hard to be rude. “Thanks for the nice picture of your substantial appendage, handsome, have a great day.” This response invariably is followed by “You’re welcome, stud.” And that’s that, end of conversation.

Today I had coffee with a new friend, Costas, a really sweet and gentle soul, who seems a bit frustrated by the ease of sexual possibilities around town and the difficulty of securing more substantial commitments. We talked about our various relationships, past and present, the current financial crisis, and racial unrest in Athens.

The neighborhood I’m staying in has a large percentage of African immigrants. Most people I’ve spoken to about it are negative about their presence, citing falling home prices and shuttered businesses in the neighborhood, crime, drugs, white flight. I can’t see the negative stuff, though, I see really beautiful people who probably suffered horrendous atrocities in their country and are now forced into degrading menial jobs, if they get jobs at all. I haven’t seen a single black person in any visible job—except selling trinkets near the Acropolis or on the beach. Now I’m speaking in almost complete ignorance of the day-to-day reality of the immigrants, and am confining my observations to a fairly limited area, so don’t go quoting me anywhere.

For the past three nights, outside of Stavros’ apartment building, the Golden Dawn neo-fascists have gathered, loudly, and taunted the neighborhood black guys, sometime chasing after them with pipes. Car windows have been smashed, fist fights have broken out. I and all of Stavros’ silver-haired neighbors gather on our balconies in our underwear to watch the activity on the street below. I have no idea what’s going on, as Stavros has been away since the nightly gatherings started and I don’t understand the Greek screams, like watching a foreign action film with no subtitles. Tonight they broke into an African cultural center below my balcony window and destroyed it, while the neighbors and police did nothing.

I leave Athens on Friday morning, heading back to San Francisco. I’ve become so enamored of Stavros, enjoying his wit and delightful presence, his grand beauty, his scrumptious Banoffee, his sort of trumpet-sounding melodious voice. This must be what it feels like the night before going to prison, the last taste of pleasure before isolation and deprivation.

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Welcome. Pause. To Andros Island (In Ricardo Montalban’s Voice)

Stavros and I spent last weekend on Andros Island, in the Greek Cyclades. Most of the island is terraced with beautiful stacked stone walls, zigzagging up and down and across the hillsides. The landscape is mostly mountainous, with cute villages clinging to steep slopes, the slopes gently rolling down to the sea and encircling coves with fine sand beaches. The center of the island is lush and green, with many trees and springs. Spring water spews from old fountains and drinking spouts, and winds through the villages down little gullies.

We had dinner one night at the Balcony of the Aegean, a taverna in Ano Aprovato, high on a hill overlooking the sea, a truly spectacular view. The food was solid Greek taverna food, everything fresh, tasty and nicely prepared and presented, served with local cheeses and housemade wine.

We drove inland one afternoon for a late lunch at another beautifully situated taverna, this one surrounded by tall trees, across from a burbling fountain from which our table water was procured. We were the only guests, the town empty. The proprietress appeared, a kind witchy looking woman with a crooked nose and big moles on her face, and told us that there wasn’t much available—a rooster, skewered livers, Greek salad, cheese pie, eye of newt… We ordered it all. Half of the lunch was delicious, the cheese pie of tangy local cheese, the village salad fresh and tasty, but the rooster, which looked spectacular when brought to our table, smothered in grilled tomatoes and peppers, was raw, the inside chilly, red, and with a pulse. We sent it back, and it was thrown back on the grill, as served, and returned to us quite well done, the delicious sauce and vegetables now forming a solid black crust on the bird. The poor bird that gave its life for such an unsavory fate. And the liver thingies were like leather hockey pucks, probably left over from the previous night’s grill, inedible. Not wanting to offend our hostess, Stavros slipped them, one at a time, to the cat under our table.

Just outside Gavrio, the port of the island, is the tower of St. Peter, a 65-foot tall circular stone tower from the Hellenistic period. There are other towers around the island, dovecotes, leftover from the period when the island was under Venetian control. The architecture in general is a mix of traditional Cycladic stucco houses, 19th century mansions, built during the heyday of Greek shipping, Venetian era buildings with elegant porticos, and the remains of medieval castles. In Andros town, the capital of the island, there’s an elegant old Venetian mansion opening onto a large square at the edge of the town, overlooking the sea and the remains of a medieval castle, destroyed during World War II. In the center of the square is a Social-realist sculpture of an Unknown Worker, a fabulous Soviet-era presence. Bag slung over his shoulder, one arm waving, jauntily sauntering towards the sea, this guy’s happy he’s got a job.
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The Stavros Chronicles: Schinias

Marathonas is the site of the famous Battle of Marathon, when the Persians were defeated by the considerably smaller Athenian army in 490 B.C. The 192 Athenians who were killed are buried in a massive burial mound, surrounded by olive trees, not far from the ancient battlefield. Actually, pretty much everything in Greece is surrounded by olive trees, but here, it’s particularly poignant to see a source of sustenance so close to those memorialized. Marathonas gets its name for the Greek word for “fennel,” and means “a place with fennel.” The long distance race, marathon, gets its name from the town. Legend has it that a single runner ran the entire distance from Marathonas to Athens to announce that the Persians had been defeated. Another legend says that he ran from Athens to Sparta to seek help. The legend about the announced triumph over the Persians is the one that seems to hold the most traction with the public imagination, but whoever did the running and to where, it was quite a hike.

Schinias Beach, near Marathonas, is a long stretch of sandy beach surrounded by whispy umbrella pine trees, about 45km northeast of Athens. The water is tranquil, the sound of the wind in the pines mesmerizing, and a few nudists are kind of tucked away in the shrubbery and sand dunes, adding to the sensory experience.

South of the beach, there is a temple dedicated to Egyptian gods, currently closed due to archaeological excavation, and a museum with artifacts and sculpture from the area, which I hope to visit before heading back to San Francisco—if we make it back to the beach. With just a week left on the trip, I’m kind of content just to stare at Stavros, my favorite visual experience.

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The Stavros Chronicles: Shirley Valentine The Sequel

Well, here I am, back in Greece. I don’t know why the tourist season ends exactly when it’s the most pleasant time to be here, but I’m enjoying the empty beaches and not sweating. Stavros and I have been alternately at each other’s throats or adhered in liplocked bliss. Thankfully, mostly liplocked bliss.

A lot of our confrontation stems from his notion that a long-distance relationship, including this one that seems to be going so well, is impossible. I’ve told him that he doesn’t have to decide that it’s impossible and then so actively pursue not making it possible. If it’s impossible, it just won’t work out, he doesn’t have to do anything. But if something is possible, stop resisting and let it happen. I feel him holding back—words that aren’t spoken, thoughts not articulated—and I know it’s not because of some stupid macho cultural thing, or that he doesn’t care about me, it’s because of his fears and anxiety. He’s dealing with what all Greeks are dealing with, how to survive in the current economic climate, and let me tell you, the Greek people are being asked to sacrifice so much, you can almost see how some of them could be brainwashed by the right-wing extremist Golden Dawn fascists and their anti-austerity proposals, the closest they’ll get to “read my lips.” One United Nations official has already warned that the current austerity measures could represent a violation of human rights. Against this dire economic backdrop, he asks, how could romance be possible? Well, it is, and it’s blossoming, so sit back and let it flower. To paraphrase Auntie Mame, “Love! love! love!!”

We spent last weekend with two of his friends, Giorgos and Filios, guests in their home in Methana. They were delightful hosts, very well-read, each actively pursuing artistic endeavors, truly a pleasure to while away a weekend with. Methana is a sub-peninsula of the Peloponnesus, attached by a tiny sliver of land. It’s almost an island, entirely of volcanic origin, the smell of sulphur still in the air. The area is only sparsely populated, but with lush vegetation and dense forests, boulders everywhere, like the volcano just erupted. Giorgos and I hiked up to the peak of the highest volcano, enjoying beautiful views of the mainland and the islands of the Saronic Gulf.

Swimming in the sea, it felt like we were the only people in the entire Gulf. For a moment I thought of the housekeeper’s warning in the original The Haunting (not the stupid remake) “No one can hear you scream… in the dark… in the night…” but the water is so inviting, and so comforting. It doesn’t seem like you’re going to be sucked under by a giant sleeper wave or frozen to death like when swimming in the Pacific. Even when there’s a volcano above you and teetering boulders on the hillside ready to tumble down.
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The Dating Game: Series Finale or Cliff Hanger?

I was beginning to think that perhaps this post would never come, but this season of the Dating Game—it seems, and I hope—is, okay, very well could be the last. The season finale in Greece found Stavros taking my heart and everything else that’s attached to it. Actually, to be on the safe side, let’s say that the season ends with a cliff-hanger, the two of us taking tentative steps towards bridging the distance between us. Meanwhile, I secretly pray for the continued collapse of his country’s economy and a future together somewhere beyond 60% pay cuts and 23% value-added-tax on food.

I’m writing this on the airplane from Athens to Philadelphia. Since leaving him at the airport I’ve been crying, for a few hours now, my already red face even redder, my glasses fogged, face puffy, like a big puppy, the door clicking shut as my master goes off to work, for the day, maybe forever, will he ever return, who’s going to fill my bowl, pat my head…

Stavros is beyond anything I’ve fantasized about, a contemporary and breathing incarnation of the statues of Hercules, Apollo, Silenus, Hadrian, Poseidon, italian river gods—representations of idealized male beauty and virility that have spurred my erotic yearning and artistic production for years. But physical perfection isn’t all that is contained in this magnificent vessel, he’s charming, witty, smart, honest, good teeth, a vibrant presence so thrilling to be around. There’s nothing else I can learn about him, nothing more needed to confirm or validate the overwhelming desire I have for him.

He’s a little more practical. Even though we’ve already talked about marriage, and he brought it up, not me, when I told him I loved him, he didn’t reciprocate. I started strangling him and said, “Say it! Say it! Say you love me! I know you do!” He responded that love takes time, that he would tell me in 2 years. 2 years?? Not content to wait that long, and fully aware that his reticence had only to do with his lack of experience (he’s never told anyone that before. As you all know, I fall in love pretty swiftly and decisively. Sometimes, well, often, it’s the guy that’s not right, but never my feelings, they’re always authentic and deeply felt. This time, though, my feelings finally landed on the right guy), I took his head in my hands and, stroking his beard, said for him, “Chris, I love you so much, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He didn’t protest. He just slapped me and said “Snap out of it!” in his Greek-Cher Brooklyn accent. I am Ronny Cammareri.

Last week we took a few day trips, a beautiful boat ride out to Agistri island, where we kept missing the bus to the other, potentially more interesting section of the island with the isolated nude beaches, walking back and forth on the hot road between our tiny little sliver of desolate beach and the bus stop. Another day we drove to Sounio, and the lovely ruins of the temple of Poseidon. Byron was there and carved his initials on the temple and wrote a poem. Everybody else started carving his initials, too, so now it’s roped off. Supposedly this was the spot where the distraught Aegeus leapt to his death after his stupid son Thesseus sailed into port under a black sail, rather than the agreed upon white one, which would have sent the message that he had slain the minotaur and was alive. Like how do you forget something like that? The Aegean is named after him, this loving father of our stupid hero.

We went to several open-air cinemas in Athens, one with the lighted Acropolis as dramatic backdrop, another with comfy couches, all serving beer and food, the stars twinkling above.

We spent a few more days swimming in the sea off the rocks near Vouliagmeni. Stavros has a special spot on a stretch of secluded rockiness peopled with naked sunworshippers, segregated into groups of young gay, young straight, old straight, and our group, the sagging graying daddies. These guys must go out there every day, for their skin is the color of rich Corinthian leather, and of course no tan lines, just dark honey skin dramatically setting off their gray pubes. There’s no beach, no sand, just rock and blue crystal clear water and the occasional voyeur.

One night we met up with some friends and stood around and drank beers in a bar called “Big” where everybody is big and nearly everybody smokes. Stavros spends hours and hours doing this. Except for the smoke, I was in heaven.

Six more hours to go on this flight, not even half way. Ugh.

So my dear readers, thanks for tuning into my dating adventures all these years. My narrative trajectory will now be called The Stavros Chronicles and will concern my new interest in furthering positive Greek relations. When will we see each other again? When will he tell me he loves me? Will I ever learn Greek? Will we indeed get married and live happily ever after? And where, exactly, is this happy-ever-aftering to take place?

I expect everyone of my crowd to make fun
Of my proud protestations of faith in romance,
And they’ll say I’m naïve as a babe to believe
Every fable I hear from a person in pants.

Fearlessly I’ll face them and argue their doubts away,
Loudly I’ll sing about flowers in spring,
Flatly I’ll stand on my little flat feet and say
Love is a grand and a beautiful thing!
I’m not ashamed to reveal
The world famous feelin’ I feel…