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Postcards From Corfu
by Sandra Downs
      

Excerpts:

     Corfu, the fabled island, beloved of Odysseus, stole both my sisters’ hearts. Sally settled down and married her ex-mariner, Tony, after a decade of debating the island’s charms. Sue came over for the wedding and fell in love with the best man, Keith. Now family matters draw me here. Could I understand – and resist – the allure?  . . .

. . .

. . . I sit in the sunshine behind Sue’s house, a converted stable, to read. From my vantage point on the stoop, it could be 1940. Nothing in my view suggests modern life, save an aging power line and fuse box. Cats wander past, flicking their tails as they seek out a spot to stretch and sleep. I feel content, sitting here against the whitewashed wall. Sparrows chirp overhead; a soft cloud of orange blossom fragrance wafts by. A donkey peers out at me from the barred window of a stable.

     I await the magic hour, when I can invoke the ritual of buying bread. Like an eager child, I clutch the drachmas tightly. I practice my kali mera and yassis on passerby as I walk up the winding road. The bread is steaming warm, fresh from the oven. Ena psome? I ask, handing over my coins and leaving with a loaf wrapped in paper. I have learned perhaps a dozen words of Greek, not enough to do much more than smile and say ameriki when villagers accost me for lengthier conversation . . .

. . .

. . . Our feet sink deeper in sticky muck as Sue and I attempt to cross a newly seeded lawn in Sidari. “I think we’re headed in the right direction,” Sue says, struggling to keep her balance. We’re in search of the Canal d’Amour, which the guidebooks tout as a beach with unusual sandstone formations. “I’ve only been here once before,” Sue cautions. The northwestern coastline guarding Sidari boasts wave-sculpted cliffs punctuated by coves. Ankle-deep in muck, we reach the famed canal and discover just how slippery the formations are. “This isn’t sandstone: it’s clay!” I whoop, scooping up a bit to confirm the earthy smell. Thick, rich kaolin clay! An amateur geologist, I’m thrilled. It’s the same sort of clay used to make fine china. In the sun’s baking heat, tourists – and travel writers – mistake it for rock. We slip and slide over the formations, admiring layers of gold, blue and gray sparkling in the early morning rain . . .

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