You might recall I wasn't keen on going to Greece.
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I thought I might enjoy a holiday in Wagga as much as anything Greece could throw our way.
Of course, Wagga does have a bit in common with Greece, and I can see why the Riverina has attracted generations of Italians and Greeks.
But really? I thought I was too tired for Greece, because in March life took one of its big turns.
It was only February when we very quickly accepted an invitation to join a friend for his 60th in the Peloponnese region of Greece. His brother in law Svend would sail his yacht from Denmark and we would share a villa. The stuff of dreams.
But an urgent phone call on March 23 changed everything. I drove to Sydney to be with my suddenly, seriously unwell mum.
Four weeks later, on April 23, mum faded and was gone.
May 1, I flew home with my life emptier. I felt the bittersweet privilege of a good death.
By the time we were scheduled to fly on September 1, I fretted that Greece was too far and I might be overwhelmed.
Somehow my mum's death made me feel old and cautious.
Somehow my mum's death made me feel old and cautious.
To me, the long haul flight was only a wee bit more appealing than riding Dream World's Tower of Terror with a hangover.
And Greece was never on my must-see list. Well, poke me in the eye and call me negative Nancy ... I could not have been any more wrong.
OK, there was the odd exhausted moment when, in Dubai, I left my passport on the handy dandy border scanner.
But this wasn't going to be a bad omen holiday, especially when I was chased down by a pair of younglings, wildly waving my passport.
Greece was to be a good omen holiday.
Of course.
By day two in Greece I was skinny dipping and by day seven drinking shots of the most amazing (legal and free) mind-altering liquor because the bar owners knew a Tasmanian.
By day three, "of course" seemed to be the Greek response to life and I was in love.
"Of course," the shops have plenty of double extra large men's t-shirts "have you seen our men?"
"Of course," Bob the fisherman cleaned our fish.
"Of course," Kristos the butcher let me behind his counter to see his lamb.
"Of course," Akis the taxi driver waited till we collected a hire car.
So many "of course" moments.
Like when Bob cleaned the fish AND cooked a pile of fresh sardines, poured red wine from its plastic bottle and offered to share his lunch. His wife, Theodora picked a lime and cut tomato.
We spoke broken Greek at a funny little table in a quiet back street of a sweet place called Ermioni.
We learned Bob spent five years driving a taxi in New York before coming back home to Greece to open his fish shop. Of course.
Three days later the bed was spinning after we'd downed Margaritas at a rooftop bar in a tiny place called Monemvasia ... Google it.
Before we left, the bar's young owners shared shots of Mastiha just because they knew a Tasmanian living in Sparta.
"Mastiha smells like a sun-drenched rocky Mediterranean hillside covered in wild herbs, like crushed juniper berries and fresh-torn spearmint leaves, like the hauntingly deep aromas of rain-soaked cedar wood and violet essential oil." (BTW $49.99 @ Dan Murphy's).
My grief comes in waves of a deep missing of my mum, but of course, now I have lived Greece.