Eden Beach

A cool Apollonian breeze woke my hot-beach dozing with an oracular whisper: time for the last blog. But as I walked back up the ancient stone steps to The Eden Beach Resort Hotel--an hour south of Athens--a burden of Herculean scope emerged: how to convey in mere words the memory of this place? I am now summoning the courage of Dionysus to rhapsodize without hyperbole. It has a vibe, a European vibe, naturally. The bar's white drapes billow to the soft jazzy rhythms wafting from the speakers while the The Young--Frappe's in hand--mingle unselfconsciously in the sun. Few tourists here. It is a rocky, Mediterranean scenario of Sangria sunsets. This could be Barcelona or Nice.

Eden Beach reminds me of my teenage summers in St. Tropez. Not many know, but growing up in Sioux Falls, I had a childhood friend who moved from France. I still remember the day he entered our class in the 5th grade. So embarrassed was he of his French accent that he said his name, Pierre, was pronounced Pier. Pierre Feloffa. After he became one of us, we would tease him with 'He fell-offa zee Pier.' In the summers I went back with him to St. Tropez and met his relatives, including his cousin, Brigette. We used to sit on the dock, kick our feet in the water, and she'd tell me one day we would get married, move back to South Dakota, grow grapes, and she'd teach me how to pick them. But then I met a more beautiful Barbara from Sheboygan--my Barbarella--and my new dreams of making Brats in Wisconsin replaced the cold winds of St. Tropez.
I sometimes wonder what happened to Brigette Bardot.

This entry is a team effort from the team. The team is now tired. Happy, but tired. They are eager to see you again. In two days.

Wryly but truly,
LV