I got up at 7:30am for our sailing excursion. It was supposed to be €50/person, but due to the vagaries of the production parameters vis-à-vis fragmenting of the audience to the cable television, carnivals, water parks...we wouldn't be able to do the visit to Delos from Mykonos that was included in the paid-for itinerary. So to make up for it, Gabriel knocked the sailing down to €20.
Shot of the Portara from the hotel after breakfast.
While we were waiting to leave the hotel, Stacy used the bathroom next to reception and got locked in. Somehow she couldn't open it from the inside and the key from the outside wasn't working. I was thinking we might have to summon DMP Drilling to bore a rescue shaft from the other bathroom. But she was soon freed.
We got on the sailboat and before starting the journey someone spotted an octopus in the water. George, our captain/skipper/whatever, lowered a hook-like apparatus into the water and the octopus wrapped all 8 legs around it. George pulled the 'pus onto the boat, slew it with a knife, and stuck it in the fridge below the deck. I didn't know at the time, but the Red Wings had won the Stanley Cup just hours before. I guess putting it in the fridge is kind of like throwing it on the ice.
Most of the group was on the boat, and there was a random British couple who joined us. All of us took turns steering, and I also helped set the sail. But there wasn't much wind, so we relied mostly on the motor rather than the sail. Most people allegedly saw a dolphin come up to the boat, but us starboard people missed it. After 2½ hours heading south we stopped at Schinousa (which I was referring to as Schenectady because I remembered only the Sch part), which is one of the Small Cyclades islands. We had lunch there. As with previous meals, Gabriel ordered a bunch of unfamiliar appetizers that we all shared. Good selections...the star of the show was a fava-bean paste with onions, and I also liked the fried chickpea balls that resembled falafel.
At the lunch table I got this nice pic of a clickida. Carol Brady, laughing at my mistake: "That's 'cicada.'" It looks better if I keep the resolution higher and crop it, but I do enough work for you people.
After lunch we checked out the beach:
The water is this clear at most beaches we visited. We had only 15 minutes on the beach, though, before having to get back on the boat. On the beach someone mentioned the danger of sea urchins and the usefulness of urine in countering the venom. Sure enough, Gabriel stepped on a sea urchin. Me: "I have a full bladder here with your name on it."
It was another 3 hours back to Naxos. During this stretch my legs got sunburned, on the differential between where my shorts end while standing and where they end while sitting. I always forget about that.
At the end of the voyage, George served us shots of kitron, which was the final Greek alcoholic beverage on my to-drink list. Nothing special.
Back in town, we all had ice cream. I had two scoops of chocolate to make up for Fira. Afterward Stacy, Gloria and I went to the Internet cafe. Boners are a point behind in 3rd, continuing to fall. When I was done I went back to the hotel and saw Rosalie, who asked where her daughter was. I said she was still at the Internet cafe and gave its approximate location. She left to find Gloria and/or cross paths with her. For some reason this reminded me of the tape I have from the early '70s of my mom reading Pinocchio: "He went looking for you, and a WHALE swallowed him."
I was proceeding through the 3 S's again (I'll let you imagine the order) when I heard Gloria outside asking people if they'd seen her mom. I quickly threw some pants on and appeared at my door, which had a hinged window part that I opened, and conveyed my knowledge. For some reason I felt like Professor Marvel suddenly appearing in the window at the end of The Wizard of Oz.
Waiting to leave for dinner, I heard Ellie discussing a Greek myth involving Cronus eating children. I feigned mishearing and asked "who are you talking about...Baba Yaga?" What the hell? Where did I pull that one from? I had an odd book when I was little that had Baba Yaga and 2 other stories, that I think we got at Shawmont. And Baba Yaga also ate children. For me to retrieve that from the mental archives, and do it so quickly, and have it be a Russian story on top of everything else, is impressive. And I don't...well, you know how easily I impress. And seconds later I heard Susan and Deb discussing the death of a Greek actor, and again I feigned: "Newman died?"
For dinner I had a "filet" with garlic butter sauce, which tasted more like garlic feta sauce. It wasn't really a filet, and I was charged for a different item, so who knows what cut it was. Also had a large Mythos of course. During dinner Ellie agreed with the statement I made in my China travelogue: "Sharing is one of the worst legacies of Communism." Her country used to be that way, you know.
The Group of Six except Patty went to a Brazilian bar/club/lounge that Sarah found out about. We started with a round of caipirinhas which the girls seemed to like. I ultimately had another one and then most of a margarita that I think one of the girls got bought for her. Also we each had a free fruity shot after the caipirinhas. There was a cleavagey blonde Glamazonian waitress (a little bulky, but still in Glamazon range) who told us she's from Poland. Seems like there are a lot of Polish hotties in Greece, as Mike and I learned from our phone calls with Lainas. That's who I'd be hanging out with if I was doing the real local thing in Greece.
Our waiter Pablo was dancing every time he came to our table, and often got Sarah to join him, as evidence above. When he was done, another guy came over and asked Sarah "are you a professional dancer?" Awesome pickup line. Turns out he's the owner of the place.
I was hoping Jodi would hold out and not leave me as the only one not dancing, but she broke down. I do not dance and I do not enjoy watching people dancing. I let people know this. For us non-dancers, getting dragged to the dance floor is like getting raped by a man. It's extremely uncomfortable, is solely for the entertainment of the perpetrator, I will not be inclined to do it again and I'll do everything I can to fight it. You can't turn me into a dancer any more easily than you can turn me into a homosexual, or a socialist, or a theist, or a smoker. Not without profound structural changes to my brain. I don't know why I have to make this argument because I'm pretty sure 98% of us straight white guys are wired the same way. Musical inclination and dancing are on completely different genes, and I don't have the latter one. So go do your thing but leave me the hell alone. (I'd intended for a much longer dancing rant but it already ran its course during several days of internal monologue.)
We left the Brazilian place around 2am and I went to bed after 2:30am, drunk. Again, I was a bit uncomfortable all night because of the intestinal bug and the carbonation from the Coke I had with dinner before my beer, which was an odd choice. Oh yeah, walking home through the labyrinthine cobblestone streets, I whistled and then sang Patience. Again, nice to hear someone who was 3 when the song came out recognize it. (Jill, I was not pushing to swing.)