2001-03-30 :: 4:27 p.m.
I am thinking about this August, and my spot on my pier by my beach house on an island of Greece. THe part where I sit, it's like molded to my butt. I've been dangling my legs off that spot for twenty two years.
You watch the salt trace itself white patterns on brown skin.
Clothes look really good on you when you've been heated by Mediterranean sun. Hell, towels look good on you too.
I watch the hairs by my temple go blond. I watch the water where the sun spills diamonds on it, I watch the view of my house get smaller from the front seat of Nicholas's speedboat.
We take the big-ass ferry, my cousin and some friends, five hours, six hours, to Naxos and Sifnos, maybe Paros maybe Rhodes.
We rent bungalows and sleep on starchy crisp white sheets. We laugh in outdoor bars and drink Ouzo. I document everything, in pictures, in words.
Every daylight second spent outdoors. Under the hose when it gets too hot, on the front porch during quiet hours, playing backgammon. Sound of crickets, sound of sprinkler.
Sandy flip flops outside the front door.
If we're not too lazy, "I'll go once around the island on skis, go get them."
Nighttime and it's still warm. We'll get decked out and glow, we'll dance at our favorite spot, we'll close the place, we'll be on the tables, we'll drive like maniacs on the empty highway.
We'll sing our anthem.
Barbecues at night on the beach, it might be someone's birthday, it's usually August 15, we'll dance, we're all code names and inside jokes, we'll let the fire die out and lay in a puppy pile watching the stars, the radio going.
It's all so dreamy and romantic. Isn't it?
The thing is, it's all true. This makes the rest of the year seem worthwhile.