hello!!! ~ from very hot, very dry, very beautiful Greece.
The jet lag doesn’t fade. It breaks like a fever, leaving me suddenly, beautifully awake in the middle of everything. For five days I had been a ghost moving through the white Mediterranean light, but now my skin finally feels attached to my bones again.
Below me, the ancient Olive Valley of Phocis is a giant, shimmering ocean of silver-green silk rolling down to the Gulf of Corinth. The air smells of baked red dirt, wild oregano, and the heavy, intoxicating sweetness of overripe figs splitting open in the heat. Every few minutes, a sudden, cool breeze sweeps up from the gulf, forcing a million olive leaves to turn their silver underbellies to the light all at once, flashing like a school of fish. In the distance, across the blue water, the rugged peaks of the Peloponnese mountains looked so impossibly jagged and violet they almost break your heart.
High above them, pinned to the sky, hangs a pale half-moon, lazy and faded.
I sit in the heavy heat, my linen dress sticking slightly to the hot metal chair, completely mesmerised. In front of me is a glass of the house rosé. The glass is thick, heavy, and coated in thick beads of condensation that pool on the rough wooden table, glueing the base to the wood every time I set it down. It is ice-cold, tart, and tastes like crushed wild strawberries and flint. A cheap, honest wine, exactly like the colour pink I want to be fused with right now.
A young waiter appears, smelling faintly of loose tobacco and cheap cologne, with dark, heavy-lidded eyes and casual grace found only in boys who know they are beautiful. He drops a small ceramic plate onto the table with a flourish, his thumb leaving a damp print on the rim.
“On the house,” he murmurs.
On the plate sits a thick slab of something totally unrecognisable to my eye. It is pale, dense, and gleaming with a slick coat of green olive oil and a heavy dusting of dried mountain herbs. I look at the mystery block, then up at his beautiful, indifferent face.
“What is it?” I ask.
He looks at me like I had just asked him to explain the basic mechanics of the sun.
“Grilled cheese,” he says, flatly.
He turns on his heel and saunters off, leaving me alone with the mountain breeze, the silver trees, and the salty cheese. I turn to my journal and write.