Hello, and welcome to Monday.

But first, back to Friday: Down to Yialos to collect a couple of packages. At first, I thought it was quite quiet for eleven or so in the morning, but when I paid more attention, I could see there were more day visitors than I first thought. This might be called the vanishing visitor phenomenon. Several day boats arrive through the morning, park up, and disgorge, and you see lines of visitors on the far side of the harbour trundling towards the main part of town, and a gaggle on the other side disembarking by the bus stop. There, the guide might take their charges to stand inconveniently in the convenient shade of the bus stop, where the bus is just about to reverse in to, and there stand while they listen to the guide’s set patter while holding up the 10.50 from Pedi (via Horio), but they don’t care and they ‘Won’t be long’ as one guide informed the bus driver one day as he chatted on. Then, this lot, too, streams towards the main part of town. Another large group might gather for a while beneath the new cover at the new and improved waiting area by the stop, while another boat arrives on the other side of the port. Then, the party recently released from the Panagia at the Petini port trudge along the road towards town like so many pink and privileged refuges, and as you watch from your place at Pacho’s, you realise that, in the words of Sondheim (almost), ‘Another hundred people just got off of the boat.’ The place is as busy as all get out, and thriving.

But then, two minutes later, you wonder where they’ve all gone.

It’s as if they have been sucked into the ether or backstreets never to be seen again, or have simply vanished, leaving the quay relatively quiet. Of course, they are continuing their tours in shadier parts, like round the back, and in the square, beyond the clock tower maybe, and many will dive straight into a café or taverna, or head off to a beach, depending on time. It still amuses me though, to see at least, what? a thousand people on either side of the harbour, and then, suddenly, hardly anyone.

I had the opposite experience on Friday when waiting outside the post office. One minute, just me sitting there putting on my new sandals just arrived at ACS, while Neil is in the PO collecting a parcel…

Next second, here comes one of those vanishing parties. It appears, passes and within seconds…

Whatever. On to lunch at Trata, and, for me, a simple affair of tuna salad and some gigantes. Neil went for his current fave, Psaronefri (pork tenderloin, this version with hot peppers to your required heat). The gigantes (white beans) were in a tomato sauce as they should be, but this recipe had in it a touch more olive flavour than others I’ve tasted, which elevated the dish, as they say on Australian MasterChef. Very nice, and just enough. Although we were there early, the taverna was soon just about full (by not long after midday), having soaked up some of the vanishing visitors.

As an aside to this pointless post, I have once or twice been asked for my recipe for gigantes, and it’s really very easy, so here’s how I do it.

Buy dried white beans (in plastic bags in Sotiris supermarket and elsewhere). Soak overnight. Change water. Boil until about half done (can take a while, but keep an eye). Meanwhile, make a tomato sauce. Then, bung beans and sauce in slow cooker for a few hours until done. Add some dill at the last moment. Sorted.

I, as you can tell, am not in line to be a MasterChef contestant. However, it is a simple thing to prepare, and I use the slow cooker rather than bake them in the oven because, let’s face it, we can’t afford to use an electric oven around here these days.

Stay tuned for more stunning recipes, like how to elevate a tin of tomatoes, and the pitfalls of making Marmite gravy…

This is where I was heading yesterday when I distracted myself with an attempt to be humorous or satirical, or whatever it is I try to be here. On Wednesday, my attention was drawn to a headline in the Guardian, stating that an Italian village imposes fines on inappropriately dressed tourists. We have heard about some cities charging, for example, cruise ship passengers to sully the walks and waterways of Venice in their thousands, and as long as the income goes to local infrastructure, all well and good. Symi and other islands were/are considering doing the same, I believe. Now, when it comes to the cladding of those visitors, the sensible and catholic Italians have seen the light. Well, they’ve also seen too much bare flesh, wobbly cellulite, misshapen bulges, and chests of all modern genders, passing by Nona’s house on a quiet Sunday afternoon. The villages of Varenna have had enough.

They are not alone.

In the matter of visitor coverage, I’ve noticed a few changes over the years. For one; that the average tourist-cladding has become scanter to the point of scarcity. For a second; that the number of day-trippers making it to the village (usually, sorry to say, the worst offenders) has remained roughly the same; therefore, the number of incidents per wandering population appears to have increased. I have also noticed the timeworn ritual of the Greek male when a scanty-clad passes by, in that conversation, until then about farms, football and family, ceases for the duration of the spectacle as time passes in awed silence. It then resumes on the subjects of females and fornication, and the world is set to rights.

Meanwhile, the high collar and pearls generation can hardly conceal their disapprobation, and clutching their Woolworth’s tightly, fill the air with tutting and ‘Well I never.’ The dedicated beer drinker takes little notice, others laugh behind the bare backs of the scanty-clad, and some take to blank pages such as this to laugh at life without, hopefully, actually insulting anyone.

The kind of spectacle I am talking about is this: Imagine, if you dare, a lady of any years between the ages of teen an ‘think I’m still a teen’ appearing at the entrance to the village sporting nothing but a pair of cocktail party sandals and a bikini, what Vogue calls, ‘an elevated swim essential’, including two-tone triangle tops, supportive underwire bikinis and sleek one-pieces.

Supporting what? A variety of rear hangings, as far as I have observed. In some cases, one catches a glimpse of the lower glutes hanging beneath a top covering, which is just short enough to get the Greek men betting on whether she’s wearing anything beneath. In other cases, we have the full-on arse reveal, the ‘couldn’t care less’ approach, or the ‘I’ve got it, so I’ll flaunt it’ attitude, even among the misguided who haven’t been capable of a good flaunt for many a moon. Also witnessed — and I am not alone in this — is the Thong.

The Thong is not the villain in a Japanese Kabuki (as it might sound, and indeed be), but is a style of swimwear. The Thong, according to people who are not me, comes in a variety of styles, though how anyone can make a style out of a piece of baling twine and half a pocket square is beyond me, as is how they can then charge upwards of €100 for the lack of material. Ladies can decide between the high-wasted Thong, the ‘Shorty’, the small, medium or full coverage Thong. (No-one dares say ‘large’ when it comes to Thong fashion, but everyone knows it means fat). Full coverage is a misnomer, because it doesn’t mean full body, it more or less means full frontal non-cover, but you get the picture: Ursula Andress or Bridget Bardot glistening as she leaves the sea and walks into soft focus, the ladies of the audience cooing in admiration, the men placing their box of Maltesers in their laps.

And so, passes by a free anatomy lesson, often with complete ass cheek and cleavage demonstration on show. The talk next door returns to football and philosophy, and the lads take no notice of what comes next.

Teh passes by a middle-aged man who made a pact with Lucifer and exchanged his dignity for a pair of Speedos. No offence to the brand, it is highly successful, and where would our fantasies be without Australian lifeguards and their budgie smugglers? However, when worn by a portly gentleman whose budgie hasn’t seen the light of day since 1989 because of the shadow from the serious overhang above, the Speedo becomes almost a Thong, and we know we don’t like to see those in the village. You can’t actually tell he is wearing anything until he passes by, or rather, until he arses by. As when catching a glimpse of a Thong, the effect on the digestion is similar.

Admittedly, there are some male picturesques who pass, and the sight of a bare male chest is not always unpleasant (as long as it’s Hugh Jackman, Zac Effron or, at a push, Henry Cavill), in other words, blokes can sometimes get away with it. But they shouldn’t.

What should happen is this: An inappropriate dresser appears in the village in a string and a pocket square (or a pair of wren-smugglers if male), and immediately, the officer charged with laying a fine appears from a darkened doorway to demand redress (get it?) and a fine of up to €200, as the village of Varenna is wont to do. Problem sorted; no eyes are singed, no offence is given to the orthodox culture, and, sadly, the lads next door have to think of something else to talk about. The visitor, suitably shamed, dresses, and the municipality takes the money before passing it on to a family member. Or, the cladding-warden might simply be someone with a heads-up who has got there before the authorities, and taken it upon himself to make some naughty cash. It doesn’t matter who imposes the fine as long as everyone is suitably dressed to visit an ancient village considered an historical monument and its churches. With the fine paid, only one question remains:

Where do these people keep their money?

Back on Monday.
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Get your cuppa tea on the go, and settle in. This is part one of a two-day special.

“Italian village to impose fines of up to €200 on tourists with bare chests or in swimwear.”

That was a headline in a major newspaper yesterday. It goes on to say: A fishing village by Lake Como has imposed fines of up to €200 for people who wander around with bare chests or in swimwear, in the latest attempt by an Italian holiday destination to crack down on uncouth tourists.

To start us off, we’re talking at the beach. What happens after is set out in tomorrow’s nonsense. For now, I simply wanted to set the scene.

Obviously, if you are going for a swim on a Symi beach, you will find all the necessary amenities available to you. (Now including disabled access in Pedi and Yiala, with a steaming plastic box nearby in which to change, and, I heard tell, possibly a WC.) As well as this modern addition, there are the wheeled bathing huts into which a lady may step and change into her all-in-one Princess Bathing Suit, before the little old man turns the winch and rattles the box on wheels to the water’s edge, so the lady can demurely slip from hut to water without being seen. Not that she will be, as all the men would have turned their backs so as not to risk becoming amorously inflamed a stray ankle. Those men, of course, are already dressed in their full-body, blue-striped Maillot suits, with caleçons beneath for the daring. They have their straw boaters at a jaunty angle, and with handlebar moustaches waxed, and propriety covered, they are ready for a snifter of bracing seawater.

Such bathers take to such waters in whatever attire they might choose, and are free to do so. As for other bathers in Symi waters, they make for a fascinating multiplicity of sights, not only of the bathers themselves, but also of their manner of bathing. Observe:

On one side of the beach, we see the youthful set of young men down from the mountain barracks on a day off from learning how to kill people. There they are, crammed four to a sunbed with two frappes between them, and with much chat and laughter, they study the debutante potential bathing in close proximity. They need not look far, for closer still is the group of wannabe models and influencers from (by way of a non-prejudiced example) Italy. perfectly proportioned in limb, aware of their own beauty and showing every inch of it, apart from the place of most interest to the young servicemen. As ladies of all ages do these days, they keep the upper storey completely exposed to the sun, and to sons of all ages who might stop by for a parley, a point, or a perv. After some penetrating conversation heard by all temporary residents of the strip of shingle, the younger set quieten into slippery masses of coconut-smelling oil, and lie in their own thoughts, enjoying the attentions of the second battalion currently scrapping together enough farthings for one more frappe, as it will buy them more time to carry out their recce and plan their pincer movement.

Moving along to the next oasis of plastic, canvas, steel and bamboo, we witness the longevity of the northern races. To wit, the perfectly preserved Scandinavians of the middle age practicing the yoga positions learnt that sunrise atop a mountain, heads to the stones, bottoms to the sky, legs to the shoulder, dignity to the wall, a bottle of Special Edition Evian Pure warming beside them, and healthy (organic) fruit ready for the feasting. Beach dress sense? Mildly practical, but contoured to fit only the fit, and show off hours of hard physical work in the gym and various health classes. The middle-aged-and-beyond middle Europeans and British come next with their charming display of big top canvas barely covering the cheap food diet of many years. The landscapes of their homeland have, over the centuries, become ingrained in their physicality. Thus, we witness the rolling hills and deep folds of the valleys, the craggy peaks of past indulgence, and the green and pleasant land of Blake’s imagination, which has become a bilious and pendulous landslip. This is all laid bare with only a little modesty covered, and only then because of a sound early-life training in Victorian ethics.

We may turn our attention to the activity in the water, and there find the various types of aquatic dwellers a summer island attracts. There is the circle of matrons of many nationalities, taking their exercise with feet firmly planted on the seabed, upper storeys in various states of decline exposed or otherwise, but bobbing just above the waterline, and their bodies benefitting from the highly aerobic actions of finger waving the surface as they chat. They stand in marked contrast to the serious bather who is off to complete his third circuit of the entire bay in his (or her, or [preferred pronoun]) daily ritual of ‘Can do so will do.’

There are many others, of course: The tenacious toddler set free to shatter the peace of strangers and learn for himself (herself, [preferred pronoun-self if old enough]) that investigations can lead to reprisals, and that one’s scream is the greatest weapon against being ignored. There’s the family who have brought plastic lilos, foam tubes and other undegradable excesses all the way from the garden shed via Buzz Airlines, and have set up a temporary market stall of balls, bats, buckets, spades, hampers, tote bags, towels, wet wipes, ‘snax’, bottles, ointments, creams, books, Kindles, newspapers, and loud video games — but very little clothing.

Towards the end of the bay — and this could be any bay anywhere here, there or in our imaginations — we find the one who got it right. The solo (or couple or [preferred pronouns] etc.) who find peace in their own solitude, and who, with respect for their bathing companions, sets himself (herself… ffs, you get the idea) away from the circus in order to find that inner peace so easily offered by an island like Symi, but so easily shattered by the tourist hungry for the same. There, beside the trickle of the sea, an eon-ago-crafted piece of igneous rock provides a free resting place on which to lay a towel. Toes teasing the lapping water’s edge, biodegradable sun lotion simply applied, a large straw hat protecting the head from the sun, and a suitable, nay, respectable attirement of beachwear about the person. Perfect peace, tranquillity, self-absorption, totally content and becoming one with nature, until it is time to leave perfection in search of the rest of the afternoon.

And that’s where the problems started in that village in Italy. That’s where we’re heading with this, and we will head there in tomorrow’s post. From the beach to the catwalk. Don’t be late.

Be cautious, because we are now in wildfire season. I wanted to direct you to some Greek newspaper reports out of interest, and I’d seen them on the Symi Dream Facebook page, but when I went back, they had been replaced by adverts for all manner of things that could not be further removed from the topic of the page.

Every now and then, I cull the adverts and unwanted/irrelevant posts, and that was this morning while I searched for the news item I wanted to share. These ‘you might also like’ things, as far as I can see, are completely pointless and a drag. I spend a good twenty minutes now and then just scrolling through and hitting the X button to get rid of them. After a while of this, we get less naff clutter on the page and more Greek-related things we actually follow. That doesn’t last for long, though, before the desperate influencers and advertisers are back. Here is part of my early morning summary:

Lots of non-related posts from lots of people ‘I might like to follow,’ Pizzas from New Jersey, hideously defined creatures competing in a ‘body shaping’ contest which reminds me of Colin Clive proclaiming, ‘It’s alive!’ in James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931), random posts from small sports organisations such as a bowls club in Warwick. Irish colleges’ reunion photos, and an Australian beach community day out, a beagle rescue centre (cute, but no), various adverts for non-Greece related items from fashion to football, an animal trust, something pointless from California… Only one question about all of this: Why?

About 20 posts later, finally a piece from a Greek newspaper in English that I do follow, and then back to the pointless adverts: ‘Create your own music with AI’ (it won’t be your music; get out your quill and manuscript paper), more effing football…

Finally, a piece from Greek City Times reminding us of that night in 2004 when Greece won the Euro Cup. We were in Rainbow with the crowd that night. Previously, Yiannis had been so excited Greece had made the semi-final, he put his icon on the floor, got on his hands and knees to worship it, bowed low and fervently, and just about broke his nose on the tiles in his enthusiasm. We were only talking about the incident the other day. Anyway…

Back to adverts from posh holiday lets on other islands. Got to love these: ‘Experience the real Greece’ type things showing you shimmering infinity pools overlooking the Santorini caldera, impossibly perfect women floating dreamily past in white samite (or Temu man-made, it’s hard to tell), bowls of perfect fruit littering the place in soft focus, the occasional croissant on a table, a hazy horizon over the blue waters of the Caribbean (eh?) and all those other things one finds in ‘authentic’ Greece. (I found a dead cockroach in the kitchen sink on Sunday morning; does that count as authentic?)

And then we’re back to the rubbish: An ‘influencer’ exploring Spain (so what?), a tip for how to clean the runners of your sliding doors, another bimbo ‘influencer’ thinking I’ll be influenced by her trout pout, ‘Naval Nostalgia’, something in Japanese, various video games for your EggBox, or whatever it’s called, more football…

Again, a Greek online newspaper. Yay! A different one this time, but the same story: wildfires breaking out in the north and on some islands (there have been some on Rhodes already) a warning that even if you drop a cigarette and set fire to thousands of Euros worth of something, even if it’s an accident, you will be fined and imprisoned. So, watch yourself if smoking on the balcony, or as you’re walking around town (who does that?), or if you are considering dropping your Coke bottle or anything else without anyone seeing, because anything can cause a spark, which can start a fire which, around here, will be virtually impossible to put out quickly. We have a fire hydrant just up the steps from us, which is reassuring to know. Not so reassuring to know is that the fire truck can’t fit into our lane, so it’s never going to hook up to it, not even in an emergency, but there you go.

Anyway… As usual, I didn’t mean to go off down that route, and the serious message of the day should be about staying safe and not starting a fire, not even by accident.

For Greek news in English, look up: https://www.ekathimerini.com/

Or:

Greece Records 33 Wildfires in One Day, Four Arrested

The other day, I was wandering through some of the social media pages dedicated to Symi, to see if anyone had brought up any interesting thoughts or had a question I might address, and I found one post asking what it would be like to holiday on Symi in December. With some holiday companies now extending their operations into the later months of the year, I thought, ‘Why not December?’ It can be a wonderful time of year here, though it’s doubtful a holiday in the winter would be anywhere near the same as a holiday in, say, June or even October. Not impossible, and rather an adventure, but there are things you’d have to look out for.

Getting here, for example. With charter flights and airlines not available at that time of year, you’d have to get yourself to Rhodes with another airline. We use Aegean (my favourite), because it’s about all we have in the winter. There may be other airlines using Rhodes in December, but I’ve only ever had to get to Athens and then onwards, and you can get to and from Athens around three times a day throughout the winter. There, you change for other countries, but those connections may not be daily. So, a scheduled flight into Rhodes is your first task. Then, you have to get across to Symi.

This, naturally, you do by boat, but in the winter, we have a limited supply of ferries. Gone are the 14 + crossings a day by various summer boats, some of which you can’t use one-way anyway, and we’re down to three Blue Star crossings (usually, Monday, Wednesday, Friday), and maybe one or two with Dodekanisos Seaways (weekends, I seem to remember, but the timetables can change). As the most regular/reliable service is Blue Star, you leave Rhodes in the later afternoon. If your flight arrives before, say, three, on a boat day, you might make the evening ferry, if not, you will have at least one night in Rhodes. There will be plenty of local hotels open; those used for conferences, locals, and general travellers, as opposed to seaside places.

We have to assume the weather hasn’t turned and left you stranded in Rhodes for five days, as happened to us once when coming back from Romania, though this was in April, when the weather is more inclement. Had we known we would have been able to see the island and the boat that was due to take us there, and yet, not been able to get anywhere near either, we’d have stayed in Transylvania, because it was (then) cheaper. But, we got here.

Try and book a Symi taxi in advance, as they will be in short supply at six pm on a winter’s night, and it’s a fair hike from the port to the cab rank (which will be empty) and the bus stop (where there should be one or maybe two bus runs of an evening), or else, it’s a walk, or a pickup from your host, assuming you have found one.

You shouldn’t have any trouble finding somewhere to stay, though you’ll have to hunt around the listings. Every other granny flat and derelict workshop is now an Airbnb, it seems (some friends recently stayed in what used to be the shoe shop on the main road, others in what was once a storeroom), though the larger hotels will be closed.

As for entertainment, you will find some places in the village open all year round, though operating on half a shoelace. The big taverna in Horio stays open, and places like the Secret Garden and the Sunrise remain operating (bar holidays for the owners), Scena, too, is usually open and still serving food, and one year, Niki’s Kitchen was open in the winter, but it wasn’t last winter, so I’m not sure. Down in Yialos, it’s a similar story with only a very few (one or two) tavernas open, some of the bars, and maybe a giros shop or two. Elpida’s is a very popular place all year round, and there are several others. You may, though, be having a drink behind plastic with your feet in water as the rain lashes, and you wonder, ‘What to do now?’

You can go for walks, you could try the sea for a swim, you could check out if there are any festivals taking place, you could sit in a bar all day and drink your pension, or just wander the village and harbour and explore the fishing boats and general ‘Isn’t it cold?’ and ‘Wet again,’ kind of winter vibe the island has.

It will be an adventure, but remember, it will not be easy to get here (all part of the adventure), you may get weather-stranded in Rhodes, or here on the way back, and there’s not much ‘touristy’ going on. But, there are always local things happening (especially around the Christmas and New Year weeks) with a Christmas market, some concerts in the square, church services, fireworks on NYE night and so on.

Oh, and dress warm. It can get down to 5° in the winter, and your accommodation won’t have carpets, central heating and other northern comforts you might be used to. All the same, enjoy! (And bring a good book.) Oh, and did I mention the rain? Bring a sou’wester.