Σ'αγαπώ Serifos: Island Life in the Aegean Sea

After only a few short weeks in Athens, we creative writers switched gears and headed for slightly different terrain. Swimsuits, sun hats, and flip flops took precedent over walking shoes and theft-proof backpacks as we prepared for island life on Serifos, the simple and secluded Greek island of the Cyclades nestled in the Aegean Sea.

Just before leaving Athens for the island, we learned a lesson often preached about being overly cautious while abroad with important items like passports, money, other forms of identification, and bank cards. Molly and Katie (below) were just two of many in our crew who were robbed while riding public transit to the ferry terminals. Both had bags that did not fully close at the top, while others in our group had wallets removed from zipped pockets, money removed from the wallet, and the wallet replaced in the backpack, pocket zipped tight. 

Often, theft is performed by children. The scenario plays out as follows: a parent and two small children ride public transit, standing arm-to-arm in jam-packed train cars or buses. One child will create a scene--tantrums, tears, etc.--that diverts attention from child #2, who then slips through the train car, thieving money and other important items. They hit the jackpot with our crew, naive to the thought of theft. We all learned a great deal that day, including the headache and difficulty of replacing passports, ID's, and bank cards while abroad. Make paper copies of anything important and carry them in separate, secure places, friends!

After our little theft fiasco, we were more than ready to board the boat and disappear into the Greek coast's blue and white horizon.  

Similar to the San Juan Islands near my new home in Seattle, Washington, the Cyclades are accessible by ferry, and the ride is spectacular. Standing on the observation deck, you can observe the unique qualities of each island. I would imagine Odysseus, great-grandson of the Olympian god Hermes, sailing through the Aegean Sea centuries ago. As told by Homer, Greek epic-poem The Iliad describes mythological creatures like the sirens who tempted Odysseus toward danger with their irresistible song.  

Meredith snaps a shot of me, newly arrived at the Port of Livadi, at our new home and what would become my favorite place on this planet, where a part of my soul will always linger.

The island is a quiet getaway to many Europeans, housing small communities not yet modernized to accommodate the average traveler; I felt as though I was traveling to the country for an undisturbed writing retreat. 

In Greek mythology, Serifos became home to Perseus, forefather of the Twelve Olympians, and is the very place he returned with Medusa's decapitated head. The island then became an one of exile in the Roman imperial period, and in the 19th century experienced profit from exploitation of iron ore deposits. The iron ore has been all but drained from the island--old mines and abandoned caves are a memory of what once was.

That's me, knee-deep in a dream come true.

Our bungalows (above left) were open and airy, with beautiful white and blue highlights, grape vines growing on the trellis above the patio, and fragrant flowers blooming as far as the eye could see. The walk to town from our bungalows was uphill to a point, rolling into a gentle downgrade as we neared the docks, restaurants, and bakeries (above right). The bakeries had the most beautiful desserts, glossy and layered with rich ingredients that made walking past without sneaking a treat nearly impossible. To add to temptation, the spanakopita at these bakeries will presumably remain the best I'll ever have. This meal on-the-go is made with layers of flaky filo dough, feta, spinach, and a little bit of magic. 

University of Missouri hosted our semester writing abroad. Poets, playwrights, fiction and creative nonfiction minds came together to conjure unforgettable experiences and literature.

Here's to us, 2010 crew. *clink*

A short walk from my bungalow through a grove of flowers and hammocks lead to my favorite place to read, write, sleep, wonder, and wander. 

I met two beautiful, free spirits from Goa, India, in this grove of trees. They had slung a few hammocks, lived, and swam (often naked) in our cove. I will never forget Ori, my dear friend, or his fashion-designing, season-hopping, modern pirate energy. I am so excited to visit Goa and experience what he described as a traveling artist's bazaar. 

Blue and white.

Our first hike outside of the cove was short and sweet--
quite innocent in comparison to the treks to come.

Homes in Greece modeled white exterior, chaparral landscapes, and priceless views of the Aegean Sea. With the consistency in seasons, many homes in Greece lack walls and invite natural elements indoors.

A view of the cove we called our home from a short hike uphill.

The taverna, where we ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner, also held our language classes. Each morning we would ramble lazily down the beach, up a few stairs to this yard, and gather around a long table, practicing our Greek and sipping rich coffee drinks with our sunglasses on and an eye on the rolling tide.

Never will I ever forget the feeling and taste of eating the taverna's calamari. 

Blistered, not batter fried, and served with only a slice of lemon. Heaven. 

Kaitlin and I enjoy mythos beer, calamari, and an ice cream cone at the taverna for lunch. 

When in Greece...

One afternoon I set off with a small group down an unknown dirt road. First, the road led us up the nearest hill, passed small farms decorated with goats. None of us knew where we were going, nor could we have expected the magical adventure we had begun.

Despite being able to read the sign, the names of the towns meant little to us at the time. Neither did the directions--all we knew is that we were walking into the unknown.

Armed with only a water bottle, walking stick, and camera, we continued to follow this narrow dirt road, wrapping around the island. Eventually, one of us spotted an enchanted cove in the distance; none of us could have estimated the actual distance that stood between us and the cove, but we didn't care, either. So, we began our trek off-road (below), over a farmer's stone wall, past goats curiously looking at us, a chaff of grass dangling from their mouths, down a deceptively long and bristly slope, around winding ravines and prickly chaparral to a secret cove.

The photo above, taken an estimated three hours into our descent to the cove, hints at the demanding terrain and length of our hike. The little pond above was inhabited by hundreds, mayve even thousands, of tadpoles. The mountains in the distance were our markers, and where we would eventually have to hike to reach the road home. Like wanderers in the high desert, we slowly began losing both spirit and energy, until finally we reached the sea (below). Cool water never felt so good.

A group of naked, French snorkelers, the owners of this beautiful sailboat, left the cove once we arrived. Maybe they departed in the spirit of kindness, or maybe in their unwillingness to share the cove with (American) travelers. Or they were naked. Either way, what a beautiful sight. 

Like a "rain dance," my "cove dance" signified immense, inexplicable joy in the simple fact that we were no longer romping through an arid chaparral desert. Like finally laying your head down on the pillow after days of travel, jumping into this cove felt like home.

The hike back to town was a different story. Leaving the cove was like leaving an oasis in hope for something better in the far off desert, except I knew that the "something better" was a bed and good night's sleep. Hiking back up the long, bristly slope was, as expected, much worse than the descent. Water bottles long emptied, cuts and bruises decorating our legs, and fantasies of hot showers and crispy calamari swirling around in our heads, we marched behind this happy old man and his mule (above). 

The white buildings in the distance mark the beginning of our community of bungalows. The stone shelters nearest me are actually home to livestock, mostly goats with their front and back legs tied together with itchy rope to prevent them from escaping. 

Here, a better photograph of the cove. We returned there time and time again, bringing different wide-eyed travelers ready for a daring excursion. Those of us who had stumbled (literally) upon the place would lead small groups in between class or before dinner. Eventually, we found a different route around a windy mountain as opposed to the brutal ravine descent, and the trek became much more enjoyable. Later, we found out that locals and travelers refer to this cove as the "nude" cove due to its seclusion and the eccentric audience it attracts. 

Never has a place been so still and solemn, yet powerful and full of energy as this. In fact, the secret cove became a symbol I often used in my prose. The walls of the cove were actually old beds of sea coral that had risen with the mountain.

After careful inspection and much deliberation, we decided that, if approached at the right angle and speed, we could launch off the cliff unscathed. Unfortunately, we didn't exactly plan an exit route once we had plunged into the open Aegean Sea on the outskirts of the island. The small outcropping of coral in the distance became our ladder, but climbing up was impossible--we had to wait for a wave to push us to the top and maneuver carefully around clusters of poisonous sea urchins. 

Initially, we weren't sure if the water was inhabited by sharks or other dangerous sea creatures, but yet we jumped, again and again. Later we found out that the Aegean Sea is shark-free, which led us to even more adventuresome cliff-jumping excursions. 

This tidal pool, located across the cove from our original jumping spot, was a fantastic place to observe Mediterranean sea life and the magically blue water of the Aegean.

The white cliffs across from the cove are the ones we had been launching off earlier in the day. We decided to swim across the cove, climb up the rock wall, and meander around until we found a cliff so high even I had to do the chicken-dance before jumping into thin air. The group consensus was that the second cliff was 50+ feet, and the landing space was much more restricted--a foot or two in the wrong direction could have seriously hurt someone. The fall was so dramatic that, after my second or third jump, I plunged so deep that my inner-ears popped and it took a long time to recover from the damage. 

One day, our fearless leader, the ever-talented author Scott Cairns (above), took the creative nonfiction students all across the island for a history lesson and food tasting seminar. For us, class time meant driving to different towns, ancient churches atop mountains, and small, secluded beach restaurants, ordering half a dozen tapas and telling tall tales while lounging in the crisp, Mediterranean breeze.

Aside from strolling through the grounds of the Parthenon and the Temple of Athena in Athens, this place was one of the most historically rich I've ever traveled to, vibrating at such a high energy that I felt as though I had walked through a vortex. Atop one of the highest points on the island, the White Tower was an Italian watchpoint during the Byzantine era. Around 330 AD, after the fall of Rome, the Byzantine Empire existed for over 1000 years and was the predominantly Greek-speaking continuation of the eastern Roman Empire based out of Constantinople. This tower dates from the Hellenistic era and was open to any weary traveler hoping for a beautiful view, visit to the chapel, or ancient history lesson. 

A cemetery across from the White Tower offered insight into Greek Orthodox culture. Small shrines sat atop each above-ground grave and, encased in glass, loved ones placed small relics to remind them of the deceased--a small gold chain with a crucifix, a faded photograph husband and wife, a candle, the wax melted and wick burned, or a note to hold a loved one's words long into the afterlife. Quite a view for an eternity of peace and rest, I must say. 

Finally, we reached Mega Livadi, once the most productive port on the island until Livadi, where we lived, earned the title due to its deeper water. This cove became a place I often traveled to, renting ATV's and bringing different people on excursions to taste the delicious food Scott ordered for us from a beach-side restaurant (below).

During a time of great economic boom, the above bridge loaded iron ore and other exports like honey onto large ships. During Turkish domination the island suffered economically, as the iron exports were ceased and pirates often attacked from outside the ports.

Sitting at the restaurant on the beach, with our feet in the sand and the hypnotic ebb and flow of the water at our backs, we enjoyed each other's company and dined on savory Mediterranean specialties. Scott ordered what I can honestly say was the most delicious food I ate during my stay. Mutton from the owner's yard that was slow-roasted and melt-in-your-mouth soft, cooked with a red sauce that, in typical Greek fashion, had a hint of cinnamon, with a very large, beautiful red fish, cooked whole, and the usual calamari and lemon wedges, tzatziki and bread, potato wedges, and gavros tiganitos, or fried anchovies, with a little ouzo to smooth it all out.  

During our excursion we drove along the island's coast, witnessing caves with a very exciting history. In Greek mythology, Serifos was once referred to as "the iron island," and was the home of the Cyclops. These giants were children of Poseidon who exploited the iron ore to forge his trident as well as Zeus's lightning bolts. The Cyclops lived and worked for the Gods within the caves; the cave above, in particular, is cherished by locals as the home of the mythological creatures.

In America, the above scene would have a PVC cross with deflated balloons, old photos tattered and worn by the weather, and wilted flowers placed by a loved one mourning the loss of someone special. In Greece, roadside shrines of victims of car accidents are an ongoing tribute to that person's life. As we approached this shrine, the smell of a candle burning hinted that someone had been there recently. Similar to the shrines atop the graves near the White Tower, this sacred space had many personal items, paying tribute to a young man. 

Meanwhile, back at the bungalows, our group celebrated a day of birth. A happy 21st anniversary of the day Meredith (the brunette beauty on the right) was born--special thanks  to both of her parents for raising an incredible person. To celebrate her vibrant existence, we had a potluck, drank some mythos tallboys (what? We're American), and hit the beach for what would turn into a fun night with new friends. 

The owners of this bar ventured down the beach and happened upon us during our birthday celebration. We began chatting and they pitched us on their bar (I think the selling points were music, shots, and strobe lights), and ended up serving us a night to remember, straight up, no chaser. The next day, however, they dropped us a hefty surprise bill. Those "free drinks" must be heavily taxed in the Greek isles. Oh well, cheers to a night remember, or vaguely recall after puzzling bits and pieces together the next day.

This pool was a short walk from our bungalow. The covered area is where we held our special guest presentations and workshop readings. I will never forget the song that the pool manager played over and over on the loudspeakers. The speakers were audible from the beach, so even in my attempt to read and write as far away as possible, I heard the haunting echo of European electronic club music. A quiet getaway... sometimes. 

Ah, our loyal companion and his girlfriend (or daughter, we couldn't tell), Big Balls. What his name lacks in grace or valor, it makes up for in relevance. Aside from that, though, he truly was a sweet boy and a companion through the weeks that we lived on the island. At first he was timid, expecting us to scare him off as other tourists would. Often he'd walk home with us to our bungalows and wait outside the door, knowing he wasn't supposed to come in. Dogs in other countries typically don't get spoiled rotten with a prime spot next to you in bed, so he really took to our ways when he realized we would not only feed and pet him, but love him unconditionally while we were there. 

Evening beach gatherings were a common sight for our family of friends. After a long day of Greek class, writing workshop, reading, and feverishly pouring inspiration onto paper, we would walk to town, buy incredibly cheap wine (which Scott later informed us was cooking wine, explaining the odd look from the Greek woman at the market and the splitting hangovers), and sit on our comforters, watching the moon rise and fall between the walls of our cove, wishing to be nowhere else. 

At night, our group would walk to town and make our way down the main road, a strip of restaurants, jewelers, boating companies, and small hotels. The 2010 World Cup was taking place while we lived on the island, and Greece actually made it quite far in the tournament, so restaurant owners would beckon our large group from the street, knowing that we would slowly dine and drink while watching the games. Moving their televisions from their own homes down to the restaurant dining rooms, they would welcome us with open arms and wide smiles. Other travelers would dine, feet in the sand, alongside the lazy wake of Livadi in the evenings, taking in the pastel sky, sipping on casks of wine, and enjoying the unforgettable feeling of timelessness.