The Empty Patio
Tom walked around a cobblestoned corner in Centro en Málaga, not far the Museo Picasso Málaga, and halted at the patio of a café, six tables, all empty. The Centro was rambunctious in much whereabouts, but this evening, this café was not—disadvantaged with a dead-end, making the street more of an alleyway than a street. Tom sat down, ordered a Cherveza Victoria that was accompanied with a glass that was more of a shot glass than a beer glass if it wasn’t for its girth, sipped the beer and smoked a Montecristo. Tom’s arrival was most fortunate for the restaurant operator and the operator knew it. Soon four tables were full, alive with chatter. Like many businesses—especially one in a Centro—a customer leads to another. The café operator returned the favour by telling Tom, in Spanish, where the best paella in all of Málaga lay.
The hero image is of the Alcazaba in Málaga, a fortification built in the 11th century by the Hammudid dynasty, a former Islamic empire that ruled several parts of southern Spain.
The Empty Patio is available for purchase as artwork at Ithacabound.com.
Paseo del Parque
Father and mother in front, young daughter and son in rear; the family, Galician-descent, walk enthusiastically along the Paseo del Parque in Málaga. The girl, shorter and smaller than her older brother turns to him, takes her right-hand, palm-open, and slaps his right-forearm, five-fingers and all, so riveting any passerby could hear. The boy yelps with all he could muster, looks to the parents who don’t turn around—enjoying their conversation too much—takes his left hand and performs an in-kind gesture. The sister yelps, looks to the parents who don’t look back, enjoying their conversation some more. The four would enjoy themselves very much that day in the Centro. The boy and girl grew up playing much football: the girl a professional, the boy almost so. The girl always took much initiative.
The hero image is of the east-entrance of the Paseo del Parque in Málaga, Spain. The Paseo del Parque is uniquely positioned in the middle of several attractions: southeast of the Centro, north of the sea, northwest of the La Malagueta (a bullfighting stadium) and southwest of the Alcazaba. The photo was taken on the steps leading up to the Alcazaba.
Paseo del Parque is available for purchase as artwork at Ithacabound.com.
La-La Land
I love walking around a city the day after arrival. The first day I’m lost in La-La Land. The second day I’m still in La-La Land but don’t feel as lost. By the fourteenth day, I yearn again for La-La Land.
The hero image is of boats shored on the beach of a village known largely only to the Spanish named Cabo de Gata.
La-La Land is available for purchase as artwork at Ithacabound.com.
The Elephant And The Turtle
And there was the Port of Aetos.
The ferry docked by way of a cleat hitch around a horn cleat helped by a worker at the port.
Tom disembarked the ferry and set his feet on the Island of Ithaca; he had returned.
Port Aetos was deserted if it weren’t for the travellers, the vehicles waiting for the travellers, the ferry itself, a pop-stand operated by an old woman, and a few construction workers laying cement in a twenty-by-thirty rectangular perimeter that lay on the wharf.
Tom accessed a map software on his phone to check the distance he was to walk. He was staying in Vathy tonight and chose not to risk imposition by asking his host for a ride from the port.
Seven kilometres, the software read.
Tom snapped shut the waist and upper belts of his rucksack, inverted the tinier knapsack around his chest—four straps covering his shoulders in total—and began the trek up the hill towards Vathy, leaving the port.
Halfway up the tall, winding road, he turned back to the port and took a few photos of the ferry departing. The vessel was on its voyage back to Patras to complete another summer’s day of work when a red Datsun sedan pulled up with its windows down. It was being driven by a middle-aged woman—tanned with brown, slightly curly long hair—leaning partly out the driver’s side window.
“Want a ride?”
“I’m going to Vathy,” Tom said. “That alright?”
“I’m going to the north. Can drop you off halfway.” Her English was clear.
Tom unbuckled the straps of his sacks, opened one of the Datsun’s back doors, tossed the sacks onto the backseat and hopped in the vehicle.
“Where you from?” Tom asked.
“Australia.”
“Why are you here?”
“My family is from the northern island.”
“There’s another island in the north?”
“No, same island. But the northern part.”
“Ahh. Greek background?”
“Aye. In the fifties there was an earthquake on the island; a devastating one. Many people lost their homes. The countries of South Africa and Australia were welcoming to those effected. Thousands migrated and many of the families return here in the summer months. Ithaca will always be home.”
The car was up over the hill, winding, bend along bend.
The two made small talk and it wasn’t long until the vehicle entered a cove, a mountain in the distance, and a fork in the road. “Here’s your stop. You go right, I go left.”
“Ahh, thank you for your generosity.” Tom hopped out of the car, opened the backdoor and grabbed his two sacks laying on the seat. As the door slowly began to shut, the Australian-Greek turned to Tom abruptly and hastily stretched her right arm out, palm-up—she was holding two small tawny objects.
“You dropped these,” she said.
“Oh, the elephant and the turtle!” Tom exclaimed with relief. “A man with a kind soul from Senegal came up to me in Athens. His cousin makes them; the material is from the ocean. The Senegalese man said that they bring very good luck to those who hold them.” She gave them back to Tom with indifference, smiled, Tom shut the door, and she drove away.
Good luck was on her way and she didn’t even know it.
The red Datsun drove west and then north around the cove, up the southwestern side of Mount Nirito in a zigzagged pattern through the centre of the isthmus and disappeared into the north.
Tom walked the rest of the way to Vathy.
The hero image is of the sun setting on the Ionian Sea on July 16, 2019. To the left, the Island of Cephalonia; to the right and below, the Island of Ithaca.
The Elephant and The Turtle is available for purchase as artwork at Ithacabound.com.
Gods of Ithaca
It rained today in Lefki, said Tom to the Ithacan-born, South African in a British school-raised, Fort Lauderdale resident, who spent the last thirty summers in Vathi. The grey-bearded Ithacan perked one side of his lip wryly and wittingly responded, We have a different God in the south.
The hero image is of the Isle of Σκαρτσουμπονήσι. Legend has it that Poseidon when learning that Odysseus first returned to this cove in eastern Ithaca casted a menacing spell that transformed his ship into this stone-bed islet.
Café In An Alley
He sat in the stone-laid alleyway directly west of Vathi’s square on the café-patio, the occasional local stopping or walking by. He tasted the second piece of cake, petite in size, that accompanied his last coffee that was now complete. He preferred biscuits but it was cake that was served. Tom stood up and walked fifteen meters west to the counter at the entrance of the café that was lit only by natural light. The server turned to him as did two customers—one seated, the other standing—inside, both becoming silent. The server smiled at Tom. “Another.” The server’s smile turned mischievous. “Allo! Another!” The server maintained his mischievous smile. “Eísai kalá? Are you okay?” Tom volleyed his own smile, in-kind, “Aye!” He turned and walked slowly back to the table that had full plates of cake if it weren’t for the two bites and would soon finish his third cup of Greek coffee.
Gýrna xaná sti douleiá
The front of the café sat the heavier set man, sunken shoulders, unshaven face, almost a near-completed balding scalp, and opaquely tinted sunglass that were worn four centimeters from the tip of his nose. The hostess was friendly and would talk to Tom. She was a Greek who went to a university in Albania. Gýrna xaná sti douleiá! The owner would yell at her when she talked too much with Tom. The owner tolerated a little bit of talk, not too much, but a little bit that first night because Tom ordered a crêpe. The man lacked the breadth of crêpe ingredients of a grandiose crêpe café, didn’t know what Oreos were, but loved to make crêpes for the tourists. His face lit up when two more orders came in following Tom’s. Grinning cheek-to-cheek in front of the two blackly painted crêpe makers, he exclaimed to Tom, Two more! The next day the girl smiled at Tom as he walked by, Tom paused, and they conversed again. It was University of New York that had a campus in Albania. And she found the United States, Very nice. And the same with London, U.K. Gýrna xaná sti douleiá! The store owner yelled again, having smiled at Tom only moments before when he walked outside. Tom wasn’t in the mood for another crêpe. Good bye, she said to Tom forcing a smile, Good bye.
Over the Hillside
From Holland, I am, She said to the traveller. Why this island? he countered. Because of love. Ahh, yes, it’s a special island, He conversed. Yes, and a man, She said. Ahh, you fell in love. Aye, She responded. You’re from Holland, living in Ithaca, and met a Greek man? Aye, I did. Love and warmth written all across her face. Me and a girlfriend travelled here four years ago. She was snorkelling and I was bored on the beach. The Dutch-woman raised her right hand and pointed over the hillside, east of Vathy. I was trying to read a book, and that’s when he walked up to me. I’ve traveled the world, then ended up falling in love, here. It was sort of funny, and difficult, telling my family I was going to extend my vacation. It happens when you least expect it, She continued, blushing at the recital of it all.
The hero image is of the sun setting on Vathy’s bay on the Island of Ithaca; sailboats anchored for nightfall.
Over the Hillside is available for purchase as artwork at Ithacabound.com.
Boys and Their Toys
The young boys, maybe seven and eight, were high-strung after eating souvlaki. It was time to travel down the streets of Patras some more. The two families crossed the street. The older boys, maybe twelve and thirteen, were to go with the one mother, the younger boys with the other. The one young boy stood frozen, his back to the street, peering into the window of a retail store. The other young boy walked over to him, stood to the left of him, peered through the window too and put his right arm around the other boy’s right shoulder. The two—short, almost identical in height—would peer together at the toys in the shop’s window. The mothers kept talking but were getting ready to go separately. Over lunch, they spoke Italian; now they spoke English. Come boys, the one Mom said to the young boys. Come. The boy loosened his grip on the shoulder of the other and walked steadily to a narrow shelf outside that contained childrens’ books and put his hand upon some and held it still. The other boy, who originally took the initiative entered the toy store by four steps. Come on you two, the mother said. The boy loosened his grip on the books and came closer to his Mom and stood still; the initiating boy turned 45 degrees and stood staring up at the woman in silence. Come on you two. She would say again, intensifying but not yelling nor being menacing. The boy would continue to stand in the foyer of the shop. Come, come on. The boy would finally leave the shop and waddle behind the two of them, ever slowly, not looking down, nor looking up. The Mom and older two boys parted south cheerfully, the Mom with the young boys began crossing the street. Hands, boys, hands. The one boy would clasp her right hand, she would leave her left outward jarred behind her for a few moments as she walked, the two walking for the corner on the northeast edge of the street’s block. They would walk north then east in a dog-leg pattern around the sidewalk, the initiating boy would walk behind them, never taking her hand. She never asked again that day. Both young boys would walk crestfallen.
The hero image above is of the entertainment district of Patras, Greece. Patras is a port city, medium in size in western Greece, situated at the eastern tip of the Gulf of Patras which runs into the Ionian Sea.
Becoming Something
At what point does someone become something?
One can do something, but not be that something.
“You a golfer?” I would say to the businessman.
“I golf.” He would respond with a slight chuckle; both of us would then smile in understanding.
Becoming something is a rite of passage. There seems to be a line. With something so personal, it’s counter-intuitive that it has very little to do with the self, but instead, with those responding to the self.
The doctor isn’t a doctor unless the correct authoritative body enshrined by another authoritative body enshrined by another authoritative body told him so.
“Are you a skier?” I’ve been asked many times. I ski, but I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone, ever, that I’m a skier. I may have to practice more, if so.
It’s the response or judgement of others, whether in monologue or dialogue, that illuminates the line.
This morning I was asked if I was a writer. I consider myself one, and have told others that I am. But this morning when asked by the woman at the coffee shop, I responded with a smile, “I write.”
And so it tells me that there is more yet to do.
And I would be happy to practice more.
The hero image picture depicts Lake Ontario, from Harbourfront Centre, with Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport in the background.