As we鈥檝e had to postpone our travels because of the pandemic, I believe a weekly dose of travel dreaming can be good medicine. Here鈥檚 a reminder of the fun that awaits us in Europe at the other end of this crisis.
The isle of Hydra 鈥� just an hour by fast ferry from Athens 鈥� has one town, a quaint little harbour, isolated beaches, and some tavernas. There are no real roads, no cars, and not even any bikes. Other than zippy water taxis, donkeys are the only form of transportation. Slow and steady, these surefooted beasts of burden 鈥� laden with everything from sandbags and bathtubs to bottled water 鈥� climb the island鈥檚 stepped lanes. On Hydra, a traffic jam is three donkeys and a fisherman.
In addition to the tired burros, this is a land of tiny cats and roosters with big egos. While it鈥檚 generally quiet, dawn has taught me the exact meaning of 鈥渃ockcrow.鈥� The end of night is marked by much more than a distant cock-a-doodle-doo: It鈥檚 a dissonant chorus of cat fights, burro honks, and what sounds like roll call at an asylum for crazed roosters. After the animal population gets that out of its system, the island slumbers a little longer, as if hitting 鈥渟nooze.鈥�
This afternoon, I鈥檝e decided to head uphill, with no intention of anything more than a lazy stroll. One inviting lane after another draws me up, up, up. At the top of the town, shabby homes enjoy grand views, burros amble along untethered, and island life trudges on, oblivious to tourism.
Over the crest, I follow a paved riverbed (primed for the flash floods that fill village cisterns each winter) down to the remote harbour hamlet of Kaminia 鈥� where 20 tough little fishing boats jostle, corralled within a breakwater. Children jump fearlessly from rock to rock to the end of the jetty, ignoring an old man rhythmically casting his line.
A rickety woven-straw chair and a tipsy little table at Kodylenia鈥檚 Taverna are positioned just right, overlooking the harbour. The sun, as if promising a worthwhile finale to another fine day, commands: 鈥淪it.鈥� I do, sipping ouzo and observing a sea busy with taxi boats, the 鈥渇lying dolphin鈥� hydrofoils that connect people here with Athens, freighters 鈥� like castles of rust 鈥� lumbering slowly along the horizon, and a cruise ship anchored as if threatening to attack.
This cloudy glass of ouzo, my anise-flavored drink of choice, and the plastic baggie of pistachios I purchased back in town are a perfect complement to the setting sun. An old man flips his worry beads, backlit by the golden glitter on the harbour. Blue and white fishing boats jive with the chop. I swear the cats 鈥� small, numerous, and oh so slinky 鈥� are watching the setting sun with me. My second glass of ouzo comes with a smudge of someone鈥檚 big fat Greek lipstick. I decide not to worry about it before taking a sip that seems to connect me with the scene even more.
As twilight falls, my waiter brings a candle for my table. He lingers to tell me he returned here to his family鈥檚 homeland after spending 20 years in New Jersey, where he 鈥渘ever took a nap.鈥� The soft Greek lounge music tumbling out of the kitchen mixes everything like an audio swizzle stick. Downing the last of my ouzo, I glance over my shoulder to the coastal lane that leads back to my hotel. Thankfully, it鈥檚 lamplit.
Walking back under a ridge lined with derelict windmills, I try to envision Hydra before electricity, when it was powered only by wind and burros. At the edge of town, I pass the Sunset Bar, filled with noisy cruise ship tourists, which makes me thankful I took the uphill lane when I left my hotel. Resting on a ferry cleat the size of a stool, I scan the harbor. Big flat-screen TVs flicker on the bobbing yachts moored for the night.
Back in Hydra town, I observe the pleasant evening routine of strolling and socializing. Dice clatter on dozens of backgammon boards at tavernas, ball-kicking children make a playground out of a back lane, and a tethered goat chews on something inedible. From the other end of town comes the happy music of a christening party. Dancing women fill the building, while their children mimic them in the street.
Succumbing to the lure of a pastry shop, I sit down for what has become my day-ending ritual: honey-soaked baklava. I tell the cook I鈥檓 American.
鈥淥h,鈥� he says, shaking his head with sadness and pity. 鈥淵ou work too hard.鈥�
I answer, 鈥淩ight. But not today.鈥�
This article was adapted from Rick鈥檚 new book, For the Love of Europe.
Rick Steves (ricksteves.com) writes European guidebooks, hosts travel shows on public TV and radio, and organizes European tours. You can email Rick at [email protected] and follow his blog on Facebook.
