Author Archives: zefiart

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About zefiart

Blogger, DIY-er, poodle lover, graphic designer, dog groomer, recycler, artist, wonder woman in my spare time.

my aunt the recycler

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I’ve already mentioned my aunt Marisa, the collector. She’s collected all kinds of things over the years.
In fact, it might be more accurate to say she never throws anything away if it has sentimental, historical or potential value.
She’s been going crazy since I got here, getting me to make things for her, asking my opinion of this or that, and generally making a pest out of herself. I’ve taken to avoiding working within her field of vision.
Ok. She’s not that bad. And I do love the stuff she’s collected. The only thing is, her imagination and mine don’t always meet in a harmonious blend. At least we both like similar raw materials.
This is her bedroom at Souvlia (the family home on Paros).
The bed is an Ikea bed, not an original, but it suits her style. Everything else in the room is old and has some story to it.
This lamp had a dark green lampshade on it with gold trimming.
Yuck.
So aunt Marisa asked me if I’d cover it in doilies for her.
Remember the doily post? Well, suffice it to say, this lampshade has been covered in cut up pieces of old curtains and lace.
Three old lace curtains to be exact. Two of them are old but not antique, with no particular sentimental value. The other one, just visible on the left hand panel, is a curtain my grandmother gave her many years ago which has been ruined by years of sunlight. I had to patch a small hole on it using a rose cut from one of the other bits of curtain.
By using part of this old curtain in a lampshade, my aunt can retain the curtain and still have the memories of it.
She made these cushions for her bed out of things she hoarded kept after they were deemed to useless and were going to thrown away.
One of them was from my neice Alex’s baby bed. The cushion had worn thin but my aunt kept the lace edge so she could re-use it. The other one was some other baby’s pillow, I just forget who…
The ‘throw’ on the end of the bed is in fact an old curtain she’s trimmed down and edged. The bedspread is an old thin woollen blanket she’s added a lace edge to.
The cushion covers are made of old linen and and old petticoat she used to wear in the 60s. When the petticoat wore out she kept the lace… and its made a reappearance on her bed in 2013 in the form of pillow covers.
Pretty amazing.
There’s an old chest in the room, probably something my aunt found on the side of the road… she’s found the most amazing stuff people have thrown away…

On top of the dresser is an old linen towel visiting friends had left behind many years ago. My aunt added lace to it and made it into a pretty dust collector.


If my aunt was a blood relative I could say it runs in the family!
z

island architecture

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I don’t claim to be an expert in architecture. I just know what I like.
And I like Cyclades island architecture.
I especially like the old house architecture, in the oldest part of town. In the original part of Parikia there are different types of houses. The simple ‘poor folk’ houses like my grandparents’ house, the houses of the rich, and the venetian mansions.
Like this one. I love this building. Its a pity its falling apart… Many years ago it housed the art school on Paros.
My grandmother’s house is a simple 2 storey house, one room downstairs, one large room upstairs and two smaller ones. The staircase is outside and the toilet is outside, under the stairs. Its a very common design for that period.
The usual design of these houses is a main door downstairs, usually a double door and a small toilet/bathroom door (often made for very small people or people who can fold in half to take a shower).
My grandparents’ house front door.
This is an old style home in more or less cared for original condition.
This is a beautifully renovated old style home.
Often, older houses form archways leading from one cobblestone street to another as the house spans across from one side to the other. Sometimes the house itself is built above the arch, like these here.
Sometimes the archways are verandahs joining two parts of a home like this one in my mom’s neighbourhood.
These houses, like the venetian mansions, are called ‘archondika’ which I can’t find an actual translation for… but its a ‘nobleman’s’ house… ie the upper classes. They’re larger houses, with enclosed orchards and gardens behind walls and gates. A lot of these gardens have been made into restaurants now.
There are three of these houses next door and opposite the house my mother grew up in. One of them I often played in a kid. The old lady who owned it didn’t have children and left it to her brother’s daughters. They divided it in half, one half has been renovated, the other has fallen to ruin. This is the gate to the old orchard…
  
Meanwhile, the town has grown immensely since I was a kid on my summer holidays. Its now a sprawl built around the old town with houses scattered around the surrounding hills. Some of the new buildings are really nice. Some not so nice…
In the old days (ie the 70s, before the local government started imposing a style on new buildings) people would build square cement blocks for new houses. The ones who wanted to make their house look ‘cycladitiko’ in style would build square blocks, add a couple of arches, paint it white with blue shutters and call it good. This is a later model one and is one of the nicer examples of that style.
Here is a plainer, slightly more original building in the island style. No arches. I like it better than the first example, but still don’t like it much.
Then some people started building gorgeous houses. I want one of these!  I love this cute little house near Souvlia.
And this one is gorgeous, it totally fits in with the landscape. And its for sale!
Notice that these houses are all simpler, no fancy door surrounds, no sharp corners… and no arches!
Last but not least, my favourite! I just adore the uneven finish on the walls of this house. Its so much more authentic in my mind. In the old days people didn’t have professionals to finish their walls, they built houses from stone not brick, and then rendered then as best they could – unevenly with rounded corners and no hard edges.
My way!
I don’t know if you can see it clearly in the photo, but the walls have an uneven surface but not a rough texture.
Therein ends the lesson on greek island architecture.
Consider yourselves experts now.
z

shabby on paros

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As you know, my thia Marouso (aunt Marisa) is a collector (little Zef would call her a hoarder). Ever since I got here she’s been lamenting that I’m not in Athens where her ‘stash’ is. However, she’s done quite well despite that. 
One of the things she found for me was this old spool. “I’m sure you can make something out of this,” she said.
Of course I can.
A photo holder. Though ideally you need the right photos to display. Something like that one of my great grandmother…
Or like the ones I’m taking with me when I go back to Australia… photos of mom and dad when they were young, old black and whites with crinkly edges.
Forgive the blurry photos. I don’t have my lightbox and have to make do. I’ll just say its artistic, the blurry effect makes the photo more nostalgic and romantic.
Yep. That’s what I’ll say.
And btw, just so you know, I’ve managed to extract a promise that thia Marouso will leave me her collection of goodies when she turns up her toes.
Not a hard thing to do as it turned out – little Zef is more than happy to unload it on someone else. Of course, the women in this family are long-lived… I’ll be too old to do anything with it by the time I get it.
Still, I’ve seen a sample of the kind of things my aunt collects. She’s got things in unopened boxes from the early 60s. She has embroideries and doilies made by her grandmother…
Of course, she has all these things locked away in chests and drawers. To keep them safe.
I say, what’s the point of that when you want to see and enjoy them… I love the whole repurposing thing, to me an object from the past is good cause you can use it to create something that you can enjoy now.
I’ve been making my aunt a lampshade for her bedroom. She’s seen people make light fittings out of lace and doilies and wanted something like that for herself.
Terrific. Yes, I can make it for you.
Just give me the doilies and lace.
So she brings out a stack, unfolds them and shows them to me:
This is an old curtain your grandmother gave me.
This is a doily given to my by and aunt.
My mother made these laces etc.
You can use these, would they work?
Oh, but don’t cut them.
And don’t use glue. I don’t want them ruined.
Umm, I don’t want it too lacey. I like it stretched tight.
I’ll help you sew cause I don’t want to tire you.
That’s too tight. I can’t sew it tight like you can.
Did you make that rusty wire heart? Its so cute.
You can’t put that on the lamp shade. It’ll rust the lace.
You know, don’t use that doily on there. I don’t want to ruin it.
And don’t use that one either. Its part of a set and I’d rather you made something out of those four together so you don’t separate them.
Cause I bought them in Griffith in 1965.
Oh, I like that. Aren’t you clever?
But… what if we did it this way?
You know, I was thinking you’d make it like this…
Look what I found! Another doily!
But you can’t use that on this. You can use this one on Zefi’s light fitting.
How are you going to do Zefi’s light fitting?
Sieves?
Are you sure?
Well, you’re the artist. You do it your way. I won’t talk.
Hmmm, that’ll be nice.
But I was thinking it’d be like this…
Oh ok. You do it your way. I’m sure it’ll be nice.
Are you going to use these doilies on Zefi’s light fitting?
Don’t cut them! I don’t want them ruined.
How did you cut the lace for the lamp shade? 
Can you give me the pattern?
How did you make the pattern?
Can you cut me the panels and I’ll sew them.
Here, I’ve ironed all the doilies for you.
You can use this, this and this.
And this.
But not this. I’ll keep this one.
And this one.
Actually, I’ll keep this one too.
You can cut up the old curtains for her light fitting.
 
Sure, thia, it can be a doily light fitting without doilies.
Sure.
Whatever you say.
Your doilies, your lace.
No, I’m not offended at all. Its your lamp shade. You can have it however you want.
Its fine. I can work with curtains and not doilies.
Yeah, whatever you want.
No I’m not upset. I’m just reading FB and not paying too much attention to you.
Sure. I’ll do it.
Leave it there and I’ll fix it.
Yes, you can use the same pattern for a smaller lamp with the same shape, just don’t add extra for seams.
Not a problem, I love doing things for you.
Yep. I can do that.
Sure thing thia.
And it goes on and on.
She’s not my mother and I yet I still want to strangle her at times.
At least my mother doesn’t ask me to make her something creative and then dictate how to create. 
She just asks me to hang out washing, bring in washing, move furniture and likes to point out the same landmarks and houses every single time we go past and tell me what they are and who they belong to, despite the fact that, not only have I heard the story 500,321 times, but  I lived here. I grew up spending every summer on Paros.
sigh.
Just last night she was giving directions to little Zef:
You go up the road toward Aliki. At the Monastery intersection you turn left, then first left again. The road goes up past my cousins Mitso’s place on the right and his brother Dimitri’s place on the left. You come to a crossroads. The right leads to Giorgo, Dimitri’s son’s, house, the one to the left goes to my nephew Kosta’s place, he’s built a beautiful house there. On the other side of the road my entire family has property…

Thia, I just need to know which road to take. I don’t need to know who lives where!
Ok, ok, you go past the intersection and you get to a big house, build by Spiro, my mother’s godfather, of course he’s long dead, he left it to his daughter Eleftheria and her husband Niko and their 2 children, of course they’re grown up and married now. Each with their own family… Well, at the end of that property is a small church that my great grandfather’s uncle built….
You get the picture.
Ah the joys of family.
z

the family resting place

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My mom comes from Paros. She was born here, as was her family for as far back as anyone can remember. Her mother’s family all came from the same area on Paros. Its like people in Tasmania – the old folks you still meet who were born and bred in one spot and never had any reason to leave or go anywhere else.

When we visited my cousin Niko, we drove past a lot of houses which mom pointed out along the way “That there belongs to my grandmother’s sister’s brother’s uncle, who died of a heart attack in ’75 after a fishing accident on his friend’s boat, the one your grandfather worked on with his best friend, who had three children, the youngest of which is the one who owns the restaurant we like to go to for fresh fish…” etc.

Anyway, confusing family lineage aside, the entire family was always buried in the area, and later, their bones were taken to the monastery for their final resting place… Yes, you heard read me right.

Greeks are the ultimate recyclers. In Greece we recycled graves. People are buried for a limited period, then they’re dug up, put in bone boxes and placed in ossuaries where the family can visit, light a bit of incense and pay their respects.

I actually think its quite horrific. Not only do you have to face the fact (again) that you’ve lost a loved one, you actually come face to face with the loved one yet again. Not in a pleasant way.

However… The site of our families ‘bone boxes’ is beautiful. At least my father, grandparents and other countless relatives have a beautiful view.

The monastery itself is now empty of nuns. In the past, during my grandmother’s childhood, it was a thriving place. The nuns ran a school for children and taught girls to weave and other handy housewife things. They had to… they relied on the locals for their food, living on whatever the locals were willing to give them.

 

The monastery grounds are beautiful and well maintained. Hopefully it’ll become a museum one day so people can visit and see how the nuns used to live.

 

 

 

Inside the small church of Agios Arsenios, mom found the key to the ossuary so we could go visit dad.

Now THATs a chandelier!
The icon of Agios Arsenios.
These little tags are called ‘Tama’ – something like a promise and a wish all in one. Ag. Arsenios was a miracle worker. People who need a miracle buy a one of these and hang it on his icon and pray for his help, while promising to do something (or not do it) in return for a miracle.

 Inside the ossuary we were able to find dad’s bone box but not my grandparents. Apparently they’ve been extending the place and they’ve moved boxes around.

Dad’s box with a photo of dad (left) and his father (right).  

I also found my mom’s grandmother’s box. I’d never seen this one before. I really wanted this photo! 

Isn’t it beautiful?

So, today has panned out to be a visiting day. This morning we visited Niko, then dad in his final resting place. In the afternoon we’re visiting some other relatives…

That’s the downside of living abroad and having a large family. A large greek family. Everyone wants to see me, I have to visit everyone, yada yada.

I thought having thousands of FB friends proved I was popular, but having to visit everyone I ever knew, or never knew I was related to, is really rubbing the shine off popularity!

Oh well… maybe sacrificing the worst day (so far, knock on wood) of my holiday to do some visiting is a good investment. Maybe mom will leave me alone for the rest of my stay (don’t hold your breath but where there’s life there’s hope).

How to cram as many cliche’s as you can into one sentence 101.

Its really windy today. I mean really windy. Its been windy since I got here, windy enough that clothes hung on the line are ripped to shreds about 2 minutes after they dry. And they’re dry 5 minutes after you hang them out. Speed drying we call it.

But the wind kicked it up a notch last night – I saw some australian tourists being blown down the esplanade complaining of the cold.

(NB when visiting a greek island, bring a sweater. You’ll need it.)

Hence a day of visiting.

Back to sea worshiping tomorrow.

z

meeting my cousin niko

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Today I met my cousin Niko for the first time. He’s actually my mother’s first cousin so I’m not sure what that makes him to me other than related… 
He’s an artist living on Paros. I’d not only never met him before but I’d never seen his work either. Mom said “you must meet him, he makes things with rocks”.
Niko is actually a sculptor who works with rocks he collects from beaches as well as marble. He told me he got into it gradually, starting off making jewelery out of stones in order to support himself when he lost his job many years ago, then moving on to other items and sort of landing where he is now.
Niko’s been making free flowing, organic shapes out of marble which he puts together using metal, timber and heavy duty fishing line in some instances, to create forms which move and change when you look at them from different angles.
Being a true creative, however, he doesn’t limit himself to his ‘serious’ work. He’s decorated his home with some of his own designs. Like this bookcase. Based on the old ‘student bricks and planks’ idea, Niko created a beautiful bookcase using square slabs of white marble.
Gorgeous, but I don’t think our floors would hold the weight!
He also makes fun stuff like these works of stone, metal, marble and other found objects.
And of course this one, something very close to my heart: a rusty old tin can made into a boat.
Anyway, his work is interesting, beautiful and sometimes quirky and humorous. Just as he is himself. I really enjoyed meeting him and his family and getting to know another creative soul in the family.
 z

loud and proud to be greek

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Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike greek television?
I mean american and australian soaps are bad enough, but the greek ones I’ve seen make me long for an episode of The Bold and The Beautiful (and that’s saying a lot!)
Maybe its the influence of the old greek tragedies, the epic dramas of mythology… but it seems that greeks have taken over-acting to a high art.
There’s nothing at all natural about acting in greek soaps or series I’ve caught bits of since being here. In fact, you really don’t need to understand the language to understand what’s going on. You can read it clearly in the huge gestures, exaggerated facial expressions and anything but subtle tones.
I know greeks are known for their hand gestures and heated conversations. At family get togethers  everyone will be yelling, waving and gesturing to eachother. That’s normal. Its just a friendly conversation. If you saw a group of greeks ordering food at a restaurant and didn’t understand the language, you’d be excused for thinking the knives will come out any minute.
You’ll know when its not just a friendly chat – it usually involves flying frying pans.

Years ago when I lived in Greece I had an opportunity to work in the theatre. A young actor found a play he liked written by an american playwrite, brought him out to direct the play and he produced it himself. (Or rather his parents did.) I got the job as director’s assistant and translator.
It was a great job!
However… the acting… ugh. It was all the playwrite/director could do to tone them down, to try to get them acting normally. You know – the way you talk at home, not on vaudeville. It was a serious play, not slapstick.

We worked together on sound effects, stage sets, and reining in the wild expressions and dramatic gestures. Once the play opened our job was done and we both left.
I bet it was less than a week before the acting reverted to Benny Hill acting standard.
To be honest I can’t remember if there are any greek movies I’ve seen where the acting is more plausible… Its almost like you go for an interview and the casting director asks, “Can you make a mountain out of a molehill? Good! You’re hired.”
When I was a kid I loved greek comedies cause they really were funny, but I hated that every greek film had to have some musical number in it. Or three. It was like the law.
Someone was happy so they’d break into song and the whole town would start dancing around them. 
Just like in real life.
Someone would have lost the love of his life so he’d go to a taverna to drown his sorrows and there’d always be a band with a singer singing the greek equivalent of the country song …my wife left me, my dog ran away, the truck broke… and greek men dancing ‘zeibekiko’*.
Not to mention the countless dream sequences – a woman in love dancing with her dream man among stars, or lying on a bed with willowy billowing curtains with cupids dancing around her…
Ugh.
Even watching the greek news is like watching a greek tragedy. I glimpsed one of those current affairs programs one night where they’d quartered the tv screen and had a panel of 4 discussing and issue. 
It was like a catfight.
Maybe its cause greeks are hot blooded and have loud opinions they’re more than willing to share. Just ask Wayne. I’m sure he’d agree with that.
z
*Zeibekiko – A traditional greek dance for men, danced to the rebetiko, the blues equivalent in greek. Although now women also dance it, in the past it was a dance only for men. There seem to be no set steps, it always looks like its a means of self expression – a way to express sadness, loss or drunkeness.

meet my friends

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Anyone that knows me knows I’m passionate about animals, dogs in particular.
Everywhere I go I see dogs that I just must say hello to. I’ll be walking along with one of my cousins, see  a dog and run off calling “Hello gorgeous!”, leaving them standing in confusion… thinking I’ve seen some long lost relative or an ex boyfriend… only to see me running towards a cute dog making kissing sounds.
Other people go goo-goo over babies. I go goo-goo over animals.
Almost every shop in the Agora (market street) seems to have its resident dog these days. That means I have to go into every shop to give them a pat.
And at the beach… we went to the open air cinema last night and there was a dog there too! 
Cats are everywhere of course. Some people feed the stray cats, other cats live around the smorgasbord of the garbage bins. Generally speaking, stray cats in Greece are fast and very wary. This old tom was sleeping on a fence near our house and went on full alert when I pulled out my camera.
 
Marouso’s kitten, the one briefly known as Roxy, has disappeared. She was a wild kitten we found at the beach and brought home. We fed her, loved her, Marouso had her future life planned out: luxury, pampering, sleeping on the bed, a big fat belly… I guess we needed to find a younger kitten who hadn’t yet learned to fend for itself. Either that or we needed to keep her locked up longer. This is where a dog crate would have come in handy.
Marouso is heartbroken. She’s been looking for Roxy for 24 hours now. I hope we find her or find another kitten for her. She plans to be a crazy cat lady when she grows up and needs to start training for it.
z

rusty barbed wire heart – creating on paros

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Seems my reputation has preceeded me…
I arrived on Paros and my Aunt Marisa was all over me. She’d seen the windchime I’d given little Zefi, but he’s already been subjected to months of “Mom, come see what big Zef did”, so she was prepped and ready.
“Come and see what I have for you to make”, she said, and proceeded to show me her collection of STUFF. The doilies she’s had for years that her mother made, the old curtains, the collection of ribbons and things that will come in handy one day….

I hear an echo in here…
Did I ever mention my nieces?
I’ve never had kids, right? But I have tons of nieces and nephews thanks to my brother and the fact that I have 23 first cousins. 
And somehow, even though I haven’t had children of my own, I have somehow managed to pass on my genes…
My brother’s daughter is Maria. Apparently he often calls her Zefi cause she’s got my temper and my good looks. She’ll say “Dad, I’m Maria, not Zefi.” (ie Are you senile already?) He’ll reply “I know what I’m talking about.”
My cousin PG’s daughter is Alex. Apparently a carbon copy of me. In all the good ways: moody, stubborn, my good looks…
Little Zefi’s daughter Marouso way more beautiful than me… except for the fact that she’s a mad animal lover. Yesterday at the beach she found a kitten and brought it home. Little Zefi gave me the filthiest look. Its all my fault. Those are my genes popping up in the next generation.
I feel quite pleased with myself. I’ve managed to create Zefi carbon copies without having to worry about pregnancies or changing nappies!
But I digress… I was talking about my Aunt Marisa and her plans to harness my creativity to her own ends.
She keeps dragging things out of cupboards, neighbour’s yards and roadside bins for me. She has visions… “Look what I found. You can make something with this right?” “Fuzz (my nickname), I found this. I think we can make … but I’m only giving my opinion… its up to you… I’m just suggesting… you’re the expert… you tell me…”
The other night my hands got bored. I’d already bought some basic tools – a small set of pliers, some fine wire, a hot glue gun. 
I already had a box of odd and ends, bits of lace, a million buttons from the 50s and 60s, some old dessert forks, some rusty stuff I’d scavenged.
And a piece of barbed wire I took off a fence on the way to town.
I even have Little Zef’s son working for me now. Every day I come back from the beach he has another treasure or three for me. A rusty grill, some rusty tools, a key…
This heart hangs outside Zefi’s bedroom door: barbed wire, some old lace and ribbon, an old key, a small fork, rusty washers and a rusty door strike plate. I added some dry wildflowers as well this afternoon.
Its a pity I don’t have this ‘team’ with me in Tasmania. I could have a ton of stuff to work with if I had Aunt Marisa and little George foraging for me.
Just in case you’re wondering, I’ve already put in my claim… Aunt Marisa is leaving me her collection of STUFF in her will.
I guess I better get to work on the other projects awaiting me. I have to pay for my room somehow, right?
z

windmills revisited

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This month on Paros there are a lot of events celebrating history and culture. Among the events was the opening of the newly restored windmills on the hill at the end of the ‘paralia’ in Parikia. That’s the esplanade – a road which runs along the sea front full of cafes and tavernas where everyone hangs out at night.

There used to be 4 windmills up there in my mother’s day. One was knocked down to build a house, another has been a bar for quite a few years now – a great place to have a drink and watch the sun set. The other two were falling down till a local council initiative had them restored to their original working order.

There was an ‘opening’ ceremony which included speeches and a blessing from the church. There was meant to be a demonstration of a working windmill where the windmills would work for the first time in 65 years or so.

As is often the case in Greece, plans and actuality didn’t quite come together…

Somebody forgot to tell someone something about it so nobody knew anything and nothing was done.

The entrance of the windmill, ground level is an open area where grain was stored.

A narrow winding staircase leads upwards to the upper levels.

The windmill upper level houses the mechanism which grinds the wheat into flour using the wind and sails.

This was all rebuilt to the original design using recycled timber as much as possible.

A cute little arrow moves with the wind, telling you which direction its blowing in.

The grindstone. Good to finally see what my nose is always pressed against.

Holes in the upper floors provided a way to raise and lower sacks from the top level.

They even stuffed some straw into the gaps in where the ceiling meets the walls to recreate the bird nests.

I adored seeing the restoration. They did a great job and I think its a definite improvement. There are so many abandoned houses here, left to rot and fall down cause the owners either can’t afford to fix them or they died and left them to children who live abroad… or (as is often the case) to siblings who argue and in the end no one gets to use the house.

My aunt Flora told me a new greek joke this morning. When someone disagrees with you or won’t do as you want them to, the new threat is “Do it or I’ll give you a house”…

The joke being that Greece has now introduced taxes and rates and everything so that owning a house isn’t the blessing it used to be.

I dunno. We have to pay rates and taxes and electricity bills inflated by the lovely carbon tax in Australia too… I wish someone would give me a house on Paros…

Maybe I just need to be more annoying?

z

it was a mudbath!

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There’s a beach on Paros where the rocks produce the perfect mudpack. People have been going there for years, happily assisting erosion of the hills as they chip, crush and plaster themselves in mud to achieve a youthful complexion.

Mom took us there yesterday and we smeared mud all over ourselves and each other. The clay mask really does work… This is what I looked like before:
This is what I look like now.
I wish.
This is what I actually looked like during.
That photo should have come with a warning. I do apologise.
Here are more scary photos – notice I’m sparing you the pics of me in a bathing suit.
Pretty girls who really don’t need the magical qualities of the mud…
Me and my mom, who do…
Inge and her daughters
Have I mentioned that my friend Inge is visiting from Holland? Inge and I met on Paros in… when I was 17 years old. Some numbers are best kept to myself. We’ve been friends ever since. I’d visit her in Holland, she’d visit me in Greece every year, then I left for Australia and she’s never forgiven me.
For some strange reason I’ve always loved Holland. Its almost like I belong there if that makes sense. I always felt at home and not like I was in a foreign country – if you ignore the fact that I can’t actually speak the language.
And that’s another thing. I’ve always loved the sound of dutch and the dutch accent in english. Almost like I lived in Holland in a previous life…
Maybe I was Rembrandt.
…Ever notice how everyone who claims to be reborn was always someone famous?
Yep. I was actually a rat, living under the mattress of the woman who cleaned Rembrandt’s studio and once gnawed on a canvas he threw away… That would explain why I love art but can’t actually speak dutch.
Whenever I come to Europe I catch up with Inge and her family. I’ve watched her kids grow up from cute babies to gorgeous adults. I learned to change nappies on her oldest daughter. That’s just the kind of thing to mention in front of her friends.
Its been great having Inge and 2 of her daughters here on Paros again after so many years. We tell them stories about our youth and they laugh and laugh. It fun introducing the girls to Paros for the first time.
Only thing is, having friends and visitors means entertaining. Not me entertaining them as such, but going out, eating, going places, eating, going swimming, eating.
I’m so over eating. I mean that both ways. Overeating and over eating.
I’m trying not to eat much but when you’re faced with greek salads, fried zucchini, tzatziki, greek bread and pan fried potatoes… well, what’s a person to do?
I’m not hungry! I don’t want to eat! I swear. They force me to!!!
I was hoping for my ideal holiday: hours on the beach, reading, swimming, reading, swimming, walking, shopping, reading, swimming, eating. Pretty much in that order.
I can’t complain though. I love seeing them. Inge is as much family to me as my brother. At least she and I never argued over onion breath in my bedroom and who could burp loudest. After they go I can (maybe) do the humbug thing a bit and blame old age and living in Australia too long for having to stay home and go to bed early now and then.
Its very un-greek… but I enjoy being here without having to go out every night. 

z