One year ago I entered Greece. In greek-named Saranda (“fourty”: the number of monks who founded the tourist resort), the last city of the Albanian coast, opposite Corfu, I had decided to stay one day longer. I knew that Julius had to be in South Peloponnese just one week later, which was tight. In effect, after spending 3 months together, I was deciding to split up.
It was November 30. We had already caught our first few drizzles – I’d hurt my hand a few days before in Llogara due to a combo of serious downhillness, heavy rain, pea-mash fog, and bad brakes. And another night we’d spent inside a squeaky van parked very close to a cliff, listening anxiously as it was battered by a very windy storm. Yet what depraved, twisted mind would realistically anticipate actual winter weather after 3 outdoor months of a gorgeous, undying summer? Continue reading