High life
Wonderland
Taki
Mykonos Tis the randiest place east of Fire 1 Island. The spirit of the ancient gods of Olympus — a terribly sexy bunch who did nothing but eat, drink, dish out punish- ment and, above all, make love — per- vades, together with the winds of the Aegean that turn Mykonian waters into something more sparkling than the H20 that flows in the Perrier ads.
The great Greek poet Kavafi once said that these islands are still the playgrounds of the gods, that although invisible they still roam between the craggy shores, drinking, playing, and fornicating. Kavafi was right. Eros's presence is tangible. So is that of Dionysus. And if there had been a god of homosexuality his presence would be the most pervasive of all. There is also Poseidon. When he gets into one of his rages, which is often, the light-blue waters beat against the prehistoric-monster-like rocks in wild, foaming waves.
Perhaps because of Mykonos's loose ways, it is no accident that there are 365 churches dotting the island. The locals dress traditionally, act like islanders should, but when the night falls they forget Christian doctrine and anything goes. In the morn- ing, there is always a church nearby to do penance. Needless to say, however, it is the foreigners who are the real sinners — or swingers, rather. They come in droves, from April well into late September, seeking sin and sun as if — to use an original phrase — there was no tomorrow. Even the AIDS scare doesn't frighten them. Starting around 10.30 in the evening patchouli- scented young gays congregate around Pierro's Bar, the island's answer to Studio 54, Xenon, even Annabel's, dancing fren- ziedly until sunrise. The fact that Greek law prohibits an establishment to remain open after 2a.m. seems to worry the owner and the clientele almost as much as a mouse worries a biologist. The word loose takes on a new meaning in Mykonos. Even the police seem to be laid back, an unheard of hap- pening in a land without real crime. Except that of passion, that is.
And that is what Mykonos is all about. Walking around the white-washed narrow streets is like having taken an LSD pill made for children. So much whiteness could be monotonous, but the innate good taste of the Mykonians has managed to pull it off. There are picturesque wooden balconies,
loaded with pots of basil and carnations, the window frames and doors painted in blues, greens and even orange. It reminds one of one's youth, when magic places were imagined to be white, clean, full of flowers and a permanent air of excitement. The houses are more like nests, and there is none of that depression which usually per- vades the four walls of houses in a city. Like Papa Hemingway once said about a Spanish cafe, this is a clean, well-lighted place. I've been coming to Mykonos since 1957, and all I've been thinking about since I've been here this time is why on earth I have wasted so much time going to other islands. Spetsai is for geriatric social climbers, Hydra for vulgar ageing gays, Crete for unhappy honeymooners, Zante for failed poets, and Corfu for retiring RAF officers and a few Rothschilds. Such have been the joys of my present trip that I have finally decided to give up my Odysseus-like roaming and buy a house here. The first thing I will do is fire my captain. Then I will sell — give away, rather — the only bad thing Taiwan has ever produced, my boat, and with the money I will be saving I will buy a tiny white house with a large garden off a beach called Saint John. There will be added bonuses. Instead of eating the oily garbage my captain-cook tries to poison me with each meal, I shall dine like a Mykonian gentleman at my friend Fillipi's each night, and after that I shall take my usual drink as the resident heterosexual at my newest best friend's place, Pierro's Bar. After that anything can happen. And probably will. Once can even run into a wonderful English girl by chance, or end up being content enough just to keep drinking. Anyway, I don't want to commit myself. My karate team-mates, who are here with me, say that Mykonos is the only place they can train properly. I say that it's the only island (England excepted) that makes me feel con- stantly randy. So, goodbye Oxfordshire, goodbye Egerton Gardens with your pro- hibitive proximity to the Aga Khan's ghast- ly mosque, goodbye 71st Street and your muggers, goodbye Southampton and your climbers. From now on it's Mykonos and only Mykonos, and even the fact that Melina Mercouri and her disgusting boss live only 90 miles away shall not deter me from being the first great Mykonian to prefer girls.
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