August

In August the village stops being the village. This is not a complaint — I want to be clear about that — because the taverna where Giorgos has worked for thirty years needs the summer to pay for the other nine months, and the accommodation my neighbour Eleni rents has put both her children through university. The economics are not a mystery.

What happens is something more like a costume change. The streets fill with people who are happy in a way that is slightly exhausting to witness, the way very loud music is fine at a distance. The beach I walked at six in the morning from March through June becomes unavailable. The bakery which usually has my order ready when I arrive starts running out of things by eight.

By September fifteenth it's over. The beach is mine again. Giorgos goes back to being a person I eat lunch with and not a person I have to wait for. The village recognises itself. There's a particular quality to the light in late September here that I think of as the village breathing out.

I don't tell the tourists any of this. They seem to be having a very good time.

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