At 6 a.m., about two months after the actual event to be celebrated, our party finally assembled over a lavish hotel breakfast buffet in Rafina, the port near Athens from which we were to take the early ferry to the Island of Paros.
We came from four towns in California, Wisconsin and Argentina, about a year after we’d last all been together at a wedding, which was when the others convinced me to engage with them in this project. I’m so thankful to God for having smoothed the way to making it a reality.
We are, besides the guest of honor, my daughters Pearl, Pippin and Kate, and my granddaughter Maggie. None of us had been to Greece before, but the idea for this particular spot on the globe began with the plans my late husband and I had made to visit Greece, which we had to abandon when he became too ill to go.
Our first day on the island we walked around the town of Naoussa, including its ruined Venetian castle, and ate lunch outdoors. A storm was brewing, and suddenly a gale of wind was blowing menus and napkins all over, and the wait staff wrestled with several umbrellas to keep them from toppling.
One broke anyway, with a big crack. We were just finishing our meal so we went strolling at that point.
I was having intermittent feelings of having been recently awakened in the middle of a deep sleep, so I didn’t notice myself the several chapels and churches mixed in among the shops that we passed, but Kate pointed them out to me, and I went in and offered my sleepy prayers of thanksgiving. It did seem like a dream; were we really here?
Checking into the house we are renting for several days, I had to accept the truth that indeed we are here, and that “villa” is not too extravagant a name for this lodging. I keep thinking of the book The Enchanted April and the Italian castle-villa the four women took holiday in.
Soon I was wishing we also had wait staff, in particular someone like Domenico — though in our case he would likely be “Niko” — because after I got into bed something outside my room kept banging and knocking in the wind, and I would have liked him to secure it as those strong Greek men did the umbrellas.
Niko is not here, so I sailed off to sleep in spite of that noise, with my windows wide open to the rolling thunder and sound of rain on the patio. I snuggled down in a white room under my white coverlet, still a little disoriented but quite content.
Sometimes there’s been a bit of smoke, sometimes heat at midday. At night I often have to burrow under the blankets; I hear the traffic early in the morning, and occasionally the neighbors’ loud voices late at night. But it’s the best way I know to feel alive to the earth. Simply by being open to the weather and the air, I can be In Nature. It’s the most convenient month for that, here where I dwell. September is where it’s easy to feel at home….
Gladsome Lights 