What is it about islands?
British writer, Lawrence Durrell, used the term “islomania” in his
memoir, Reflections on a Marine Venus, about
the time he spent on Rhodes after World War II. He wrote
of an obsession with islands, an inexplicable enthusiasm for these chunks of
land detached from the rest of the world. As far back as Plato’s story of
Atlantis, written 2,500 years ago, the allure of islands has endured as a human
passion and captor of our imagination. I once knew a man, a
fellow travel literature book club member, with a manic attraction to islands, which
led him to limit his travel to only these, both large and small, whenever he
needed to get away. Durrell was also a confirmed islomane and at every
opportunity fled to one of the many island paradises in the Mediterranean. The fantasy of the island
as tranquil retreat for harried, frantic souls has long been around and it may be that the idea is as appealing as the reality.
Yet there’s no denying that the
stirrings of a deep physical response emerge as the shadow in the sea off the
bow first comes into view, particularly in the half-light of dawn. What is at
first indistinct soon clarifies into the detailed silhouette of a place filled
with possibility, a source of fascination, inspiration and delight. There’s something
about islands that taps into a fundamental desire for tranquility, for space
and for solitude in a world where such are often rare commodities.
Must our idyllic,
month-long retreat to the Greek isles really come to an end? Kos is the final island
we visited independently (our upcoming cruise includes brief stops at Ithaca
and Corfu) and we had a hard time accepting that we would soon have to leave. The most famous native
son of Kos is Hippocrates, father of Western medicine and born on the island in
460 BC in the age of Pericles. Until
we’d eaten during our month in Rome at a restaurant which shared the first
modern doctor’s name and whose owners were from Kos, we’d never before heard of
this particular Greek isle. The guidebooks describe it as a lovely place with a
lively harbor and so we decided to give it a try. We booked a dirt-cheap hotel about
a mile from town ($31 a night for a clean room with Internet, a basic breakfast
and a pool) that was overrun by raucous, inebriated, young Australians (and
they say Americans are noisy). We at long last met one US compatriot at the
budget hotel: a college student from Kansas studying at a program in Athens
who’d come to the island on her way to Patmos to visit the Cave of the Apocalypse
in which St. John is said to have received revelations from God.
Kos was quite an
international place, save, once again, the almost complete absence of
Americans. There were scores of British, Scandinavians and Australians vacationing
in the casual, beachy neighborhood in which we found ourselves with wall-to-wall seaside
tavernas, bars and purveyors of every type of colorful beach gear imaginable. We
saw the most beautiful rose displays in gardens that lined our daily walks into
town – big, brilliant blooms in red, yellow, peach and pink on healthy, well-manicured
bushes and strong, rambling vines. The harbor was indeed spirited, just as the
travel guides had described, with ferries, luxury cruisers and fishing,
excursion and pleasure boats coming and going alongside the massive fortress of
the Knights of St. John. At the head of the harbor is the Tree of Hippocrates,
a sprawling plane, reported to be the oldest in Europe (while the current tree
is only about 500 years old, it is said to have sprung from the original which
stood in the same spot on the square) and under which the master taught his
students about modern medicine. Well-used bike lanes lined the harbor and ran
all along miles of waterside. We had to carefully watch our way as we crossed
back and forth and felt a bit like we were back in Amsterdam as we dodged the
two-wheeled traffic.
While quite mountainous, Kos is significantly more verdant and less
rocky than all the other islands we visited. We’d planned to rent a Vespa to
make the circuit and explore its hidden coves and beaches but we soon discovered
that when it came to motor vehicle regulations, not all islands are created
equal. Smiling, gregarious Angelos was all set to hand us the keys to a shiny
motorbike until we told him we didn’t have an international driving permit. We’d
rented ATVs and cars on other islands with Joe’s Maryland license vouching for
his driving ability but the insurance companies and police force of Kos demanded
more. I’m not sure which I was more disappointed about: that my romantic vision
of cruising around the island, my arms wrapped securely around Joe’s waist,
would not become a reality or that we were unable to give Angelos our business.
We ended up talking with him for a half hour about the failing Greek economy
and the country’s complicated politics. And while our attempt to see the island
in-depth was foiled by mundane indemnification details, we left Kos once again reassured
that the fact that the Greek word xenos can
mean both foreigner and guest is not a coincidence. Both are regarded in the
same manner and are given warm, collegial welcomes; to be a foreigner in Greece
is to be treated as a friend with all the respect of an honored guest.
We enjoyed the Dodecanese and met so many more people we can add to our
list of kind-hearted Greeks (we’ll always have a soft spot for the Cyclades, however,
perhaps because they were our first). Retracing
your footsteps to places whose magic you so clearly recall can often disappoint
– they’ve changed or you’ve changed or you so sadly discover that their particular
allure was evanescent.
The delight you first felt was fleeting
– it belonged to a moment in time, locked away, safe in your memory. Not so
with the Greek Isles. For us, their charm, their beauty and the unique romance they
impart have endured. They were there then and they are still there now.
Am I an islomane?
Without question, when it comes to the islands of Greece.
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