(Almost) back!

I remember my mother telling me to smell the air when I stepped out of the plane in Athens. She must have traveled there in the very early 60s. She described her experience as stepping into air thick with the smells of herbs and citrus, laced with the sea. It’s different now, of course. The air at Athens airport is dense with the smells of the city. I have learned to be patient and wait.
I have been patient a long time today. I left San Antonio before the sun rose yesterday and only now, the following sunset, am I breathing the Mediterranean. I reached Corfu just as the sun began to golden. I quickly splashed off the thirty-plus hours of travel with a quick shower and strolled the town.
I have been to Corfu once before, more than two decades and a lifetime ago. Then I was suffering the throes of the break-up of my first True Love and I surprised myself today by seeing nothing familiar. I must have been lost deep in myself then. Because, really, this place is fabulous. It starts with the airport: a small place (think Casablanca of the movies, Long Beach, Knoxville, Larnaca), big windows, all open, the spaces in-between halls filled by gardens of palms and hibiscus, the lobby uncluttered by gated entries, instead filled with families greeting friends and relatives. I was one of only a handful of foreigners on the plane. I am sure it changes once the summer peak season kicks in. It was nice this way. Kids zipping in and out of the crowd, proudly helping their parents identify and lift suitcases off the carousel. My taxi driver took the direct route to the hotel. The clerk had my reservation. And I got to explore the town in its golden hour, just as its residents were awakening from their siesta, coming out to stroll or sit and gossip or play. Perfect.
The town is picturesque at its edges: a sea-walk frames the promontory and a Venetian fortress exclaims at its tip. Narrow and wider — but never wide or straight or level— streets meander inward and upward from the edges, squiggling through close-set buildings perhaps best described as fading Italiante. “Fading” is a statement of architectural fact but it does not carry into the atmosphere. Life bubbles ferociously in and around and out of these buildings. Especially at dusk, when the town comes out to play.

It is a town mainly of townspeople now, but I can see that once the summer season gets into swing the character of the place must change drastically. Big swathes of streets in the center are dedicated to tourism: lines of boutiques filled with olive-wood accessories, kumquat liquor (apparently a local specialty), wool slippers, and the usual glut of Greek souvenirs probably made in China. I found my way out of the tourist jungle, bought a gyro at a small cubbyhole on a street of local shops (hardware, stationery, plastics, sheets), carried it out to the park and watched the kids chase soccer balls.
Came back to the hotel and brought a beer up to the rooftop terrace. Not open yet for the summer, it was blessedly quiet. In high season they serve drinks and music up here. Now, just the muffled sounds of the town, six storeys below, the quiet conversation of a German couple who have also found the terrace, and the call of a coxswain, urging a double and an eight across the quiet waters in the lee of the fortress.
It’s time for me to turn in. Tomorrow morning I catch the ferry to Sarande. I just learned that my internet connection there (the Hercules) sailed off for Montenegro, so I am not sure about how often I’ll be able to update this page.