Coasting On The Coast
In true Greek Island style, Mykonos Town was nice and slow off the mark this morning. Our Airbnb host, George, confirming we’d be keen for a “morning coffee,” had talked up the brew at “Semeli Bar” in Little Venice. (We had walked past it yesterday and the coffee did semeli nice.) Little Venice is famous for its shoreline rows of fishing houses with colourful balconies hanging over the sea (a lot like Klima on Milos). Originally constructed in the mid-18th century by rich merchants or captains wanting direct access to the ocean, they have now been converted into bars, cafes and trendy galleries. Little Venice is a popular spot for budding artists to set-up their easels and let their creative juices flow. Well there were no juices flowing - or morning coffees for that matter - at Semeli, or anywhere in Little Venice, until the clock struck 10. I’m sure there would be rioting in the streets if Sydney cafes chose to open at the leisurely hour of 10, depriving their customers of their early morning caffeine hit. Rossco compensated by ordering not one, but TWO coffees - a double shot of his new fave, the Freddo as well as a Greek-style hot espresso. Now I’ve yet to try the Greek coffee but can attest, having seen the sludge at the bottom of Ross’ petite cup, that the stuff would put hairs on your chest.
Rossco had spotted a shirt he liked in one of the shops in town so we wandered inside, cheerfully greeted by the enthusiastic sales lady. She was very keen for Ross to try the shirt on and insisted he didn’t need a changeroom. “We have mirror here and here - no need”. The first size was a bit squeezy (obviously a very small make) and so we started cycling up the sizes until he was happy with the nice loose fit. Our sassy assistant told Ross in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t possibly get the right fit with his t-shirt underneath. “Take off your shirt!”, she demanded. Ross, sensing the awkwardness of doing a partial striptease in front of this complete stranger, hesitated for a second. She said: “Do it!” and then turned her attention to me, reassuring me: “Don’t be scared. I’m married. I have husband.” Telling us it was unheard of for a man to want a shirt to be loose, she wanted him to embrace the smaller size, encouraging Rossco that he could lose some weight. “Don’t be afraid. Just 3 kilo down. Make little bit diet.”
Getting ourselves a fold-out map of Mykonos this morning, we planned and circled all the beaches we’d like to visit today. Although Mykonos is well and truly open for business and swarming with tourists, for some reason, the local bus network hasn’t yet swung into gear. Our only choices for transportation were: touring by taxi (a bit of a pricey option), hiring a car, hiring a moped or venturing out on a quad bike. To be honest, seeing helmet-less maniacs, dicing with danger, darting in and out of the traffic on mopeds and quad bikes, the prospect of driving one, on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, terrified me somewhat. We did some Googling and uncovered a host of very cheap hire cars up for grabs on the island; some of the hire car companies boasting prices as low as just 15 euros a day. Ross’ 2 coffees had cost more than that.
We set out on foot to find our bargain rental. Unfortunately, Saturdays are not big days for car rental businesses on Mykonos and we could only find one place that was open. It looked like the Dodgy Brothers Inc. and the smooth-talking salesman started his price at 80 euros a day. Whhhaaaatt!? We didn’t come down in the last shower Mr Dodgy. I showed him my Google search results and proudly proffered my phone, with solid evidence of the bargains we knew we could get elsewhere. The only problem was, he knew that elsewhere was closed and he had us over a barrel. We feigned walking away and tried our best to barter him down but we’re not very good actors and were never in the running for the Oscar. In the end we got him down to 55 euros for the day (and probably got ourselves ripped off). Oh well. You live and learn.
Once you leave the Mykonos Town area, the island’s landscape changes dramatically. The excessively narrow and winding roads are all lined with short stone walls, made by tightly stacking rocks and bits of broken terracotta on top of each other. Vast tracts of fairly barren, very rocky land is divided into allotments, with similar short stone walls forming the boundary lines between each area of land, reminiscent of the old stone walls you see in the English countryside. As far as we could see, the land wasn’t being farmed, and aside from the odd goat or pair of sheep in a paddock, it was just wide open space. There was plenty of building going on and it was strange to see the traditional houses under construction, standing nude, awaiting their signature whitewash exterior.
We were also surprised how mountainous Mykonos is - its sparsely populated, arid hills dotted with sprawling one-storey houses (that would be right at home on “Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous”) making the most of the heights to take advantage of the uninterrupted views down below to the clear blue sea.
If there weren’t constant signs to remind you that the roads - surely only wide enough to accommodate one lane of traffic comfortably - were actually for two-way traffic - you’d never believe it. Coupled with the cavernous potholes, the anticipation that at any minute an oncoming vehicle might turn up around a blind corner to squish past to miss you by a whisker, didn’t exactly make for a relaxing drive in the country.
Driving conditions aside though, the beaches on Mykonos are incredibly beautiful, their stunning aqua blue water vibrant from far off. Nearly every beach has at least one massive, Greek island-syle resort, staking its claim on its own patch of blue by the rows of matching beach umbrellas and banana chairs lined up along the sand. Some of them are so far off-the-beaten-track, we wondered whether they’d be the sorts of places you’d holiday in, never feeling the need to leave.
George had given us one last sight-seeing tip. He’d told us to visit the beautiful Paraga Beach, though his heavily-accented English had sent us on a quest to find Braga Beach, which doesn’t exist. Once we had located it though, we had one of those pinch-your-cheek-so-you-know-you-are-really-here moments, as we seated ourselves under an umbrella at our table, literally on the sand and steps away from the bright blue water. It was amazing!
Paraga Beach had two on-the-sand restaurants side-by-side. One obviously catered more for families and a slightly more mature clientele (most of whom incidentally had Maltese Terriers seated on their laps) and the other clearly appealing to the younger set - a DJ laying down some sick beats for the 20-somethings to dance to on the sand (so Mykonos!) Though we lacked a small white fluffy lap dog, we decided to forego the beachside dance party and head for the more laid-back option, enjoying a delicious lunch of souvlaki for me and a whole calamari for Rossco. While the island had been subjected to a barrage of almost gale-force winds this morning, nothing more than a warm salty breeze now tickled our toes in this little piece of paradise.
Ross, who could no longer resist the pull of the sparkling water had donned his boardies ready to take the plunge. Having bought himself a you-beaut waterproof phone case, he swam out to the small rocky outcrop with his phone in his pocket, ready to take some out-to-sea selfies. Alas, the said you-beaut cover let him down in a big way and let water into his phone. What a bummer! Currently in a bowl of rice, we are eagerly waiting and praying it will dry out and fire up again to live another day.
Ross turned in early after a big day and I had a lovely wander around the town tonight, checking out the fabulous shops and soaking up the buzz of the Saturday night atmosphere. Oh, and I still haven’t found that shoe shop.
