2002: Robbing the Cradle of Civilization.
by Carl Russo
4.
The harbor at Molyvos, Lesvos, where we started to go native.
A gaggle of middle-aged women greeted us at the bus depot in Molyvos, a cobblestone fishing village fixed on a hill under a Byzantine castle. The geriatric hotel hawkers swarmed, waving pictures of rooms to let, or domatia. Vanessa loathes these people and their desperate pitches, so we made inquiries at the nearby tourist office. When I voiced our preference for an ocean view, one of the grannies pounced. We soon had an entire house for 25 euros, and you could see a strip of Aegean blue if you leaned far enough over the balcony.
Competing with the town's beauty are the surrounding beaches, which attract sun worshippers by the busload. We fell in with a small crowd in search of Eftalou, hiking along the rocky shore and through a weird old thermal bathhouse, till we claimed our own private stretch. The water was the color and temperature of a motel swimming pool, and Turkey was within spitting distance. With binoculars I spotted a white mosque. If the Turks were spying back, they'd see a naked American couple trying to get comfortable on hot pebbles.
An isolated restaurant on the edge of a cliff seemed to await our arrival for lunch. The tables were perched precariously on a shelf while crashing waves sprayed our ankles. We ate mezedes, appetizers that in this case consisted of rich pita bread dips and delectable stuffed zucchini blossoms. The idea is to munch on these while you sip ouzo, which is about half alcohol. As fate had it, Lesvos produces the finest ouzo in the world, and I ordered a glass of the local stuff. In the Greek manner, I added a splash of water, which turns the liqueur the color of semen. Intense flavors of anise, spices, vanilla from the mastic. (If you've only had Metaxa-brand ouzo from the mainland, you’re missing out.)
Buzzed in paradise, we flipped through our guidebook in search of more "naturist" spots. Clearly this trip was going to be less culturally enriching and more hedonistic.
Unlike the nude beaches of northern California, which are mostly gay cruising scenes, those of Europe lack the prurience. Entire families picnic and swim in the buff. Mostly the demographic is dominated by ancient leathered hippies, German blubber, and, fortunately, the beautiful people. It's no shame for solitary young women to strip down in plain view. (Prurience is in the mind of the beholder, dear reader.) So the next day we threw our SPFed asses into the middle of the crowded dunes of Petra, just south of Molyvos. What, no volleyball?
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