The Traveller by Afrodykie

When the going gets tough, the tough get going … to the beach!

YOU sit on your terrace and wave, and say yasou, and smile.

Your dog lies snoring at your feet.

You’re crying for the sea, the tranquil Aegean.

The village is hot. HOT.

And the temperature keeps rising. Rising.

Sweat hot. Suffocating.

No wonder everyone skedaddles to Skala for the summer.

No wonder the village is the winter village.

You’re finding it difficult to settle down. 

Things aren’t as you imagined, hoped they’d be.

You’ve got to do what’s best for you: put yourself in a place where you have company and a chance to swim every day; walk and talk, maybe.

Learn Greek, consistently.

You catch a wake up, to coin a particularly South African phrase, when you’re dancing with the Shake Your Toosh Sisters at the Flamingo Beach Bar in Skala on Friday night, full moon.

There’s no reason to isolate yourself in a house on the hill, far away from summer’s searing soaring passion.

You’re shaking your money maker, thanks James Brown. You’re thinking: enough of this self-imposed social exile.

Enough!

Dancing frees your mind, your soul.

There is no reason to be living like an imprisoned princess in a hilltop castle, no, not when you could be getting down and dirty at the seaside.

So!

You’re moving. And not only to the music.

You’re going back to the Kouitou Hotel.

Back to Vasi and Alex and chili con carne. And the art on the walls. And the cats, and the visitors.

And swims to the rock (with the wimmin), and walks and just about everything you can think of.

You’re going to immerse yourself in Summer in Skala.

Burn baby burn.

Stoic is one thing, but stupid is quite another, and you’re not stupid.

You’ve played your cards in the village, and you didn’t come up trumps, that’s for sure.

Shuffle shuffle.

You’re dealing a better hand for yourself. You have to.

Sooner or later, you’ll ace it, that’s for sure.

(ends)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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