Starting out with an apology for my tardiness in getting to this, but I’m blaming Apple.

(Scott is both happy as hell about this and furious with me for having an iPhone in the first place. But I digress.)

Anyway, my phone acted up the whole trip and since has held my photos (368 of them) hostage, so I bought a new phone and am still unable to access the photos because of stupid iCloud, but I will limp along. As the now-defunct Tech Mom, I know some work-arounds and so I will be working-around.

Here we go with Part One of Corfu, the captivating Greek island with multiple personality disorder.

SATURDAY/SUNDAY, DAY ONE: Corfu Town

I set off for Greece with my sister-in-law Diane and my brother-in-law Jeff to attend a Memoir Writer’s Workshop on the island of Corfu.

Corfu lies on the northwest coast of Greece in the Ionian Sea. As you can see it is shaped like a sperm and is 90 miles long, with Albania to the immediate north. And I mean immediate.

Over the course of the week, we traversed it from stem to stern and at one point we could have swum to Albania, although that seemed nearly as rigorous as our walk to the beach (read on for that story.)

Diane and I were to be ensconced in a villa on the north shore of the island, near the village of Acharavi, while Jeff settled down at a nearby hotel to enjoy a week of hiking, sightseeing, and exploration. But first we landed in charming Corfu Town, midway down on the eastern shore. It took us 3 planes, 24 hours, and a miracle in the Athens airport to get us there, but we ended up at a sweet, little boutique hotel with a handful of rooms and a breakfast buffet, with made-to-order Eggs Benedict (take that, Hampton Inn and your delicious waffles!) We ate in the garden and enjoyed our first taste of Kumquat Liqueur, yes for breakfast. No judging. We were curious. It’s delicious.

An afternoon of exploration gave me my first hint of what this Greek Isle is all about. The town looks like a dowager version of the French Quarter in New Orleans built into mountains instead of the flat Mississippi delta. But it’s as if the French architecture got all up in the business of some Spaniards, Italians and those ancient Greeks you’ve heard about. The result is this appealing mash-up of impossibly narrow passageways, wrought iron balconies, awnings and columns. The whole town is punctuated by shops, cafes, restaurants and homes spilling out into the alleyways and streets.

I was lost the entire time and never got my bearings even after we came back for another night in a different hotel at the end of our stay (hilarity ensued there, but that story is for Part Two.)

Dinner was at The Bougainvillea Restaurant, down the hill from our hotel. The evening was cool under a lush canopy of flowering namesake blossoms, and our dinner of Italian, Greek and seafood, was delicious. Afterward I bought three tiny doughnuts which were the most decadent I’ve ever had, filled with cream and smothered in salted caramel and nuts.

MONDAY, DAY TWO: Journey to Acharavi

After our lovely breakfast, we schlepped our luggage to the rendezvous location where we would meet up with Tammy, our writing coach/host and our four other (six in all with me and Diane) writing buddies. I say schlep because we dragged them across cobblestone streets since cabs can’t reach the center of the town and everything is within “walking distance” (a wicked deception when you are 71, wearing cute and colorful Toms, which are in no way suitable for cobblestones, and dragging a suitcase the size of Gibraltar.) It was there we also met Elena, our Concierge, for the first time. (More about Tammy and Elena as we go along.) When we were fortified with coffee, we said goodbye to Jeff and were whisked away in two vans (since everyone had nearly as much luggage as I did, we could not all fit into one car.)

Not one to do anything simply, the fabulously flamboyant Elena took us first to a beach where we stepped gingerly into a shining wooden boat for a tour of the cliffside and grottos. This was not expected and my shoes (the aforementioned Toms) were not seaworthy, but they survived. By the way, this was to become the theme of the trip for me: I NEVER had on the appropriate shoes.

The boat was akin to the old Chris Craft of the 50s, all gleaming wood, highly varnished, and I longed to be clad in a one-piece white swimsuit, wearing enormous sunglasses, with a white scarf billowing behind me, a la Grace Kelly in some such movie. But I digress.

The grottoes were breathtaking. In one, the rocks glowed red by virtue of the sun-loving algae; in another, swarms of bright blue fish gobbled up the food thrown by our skipper. Up ahead the monkey-shaped out-cropping looked down on us, while huge fingers of knobby rocks jutted out of the water. It was a surprising, but appreciated, interlude and introduction to the brilliant blue sea surrounding Corfu.

Lunch was in the restaurant overlooking the water. Elena had ordered family-style servings of two salads, spinach croquettes, prawn croquettes, calamari, bread, and mushrooms. She said this was a “light” meal, about which we begged to differ, but looking back, she was right. Every meal after that was a groaning table with the ubiquitous Greek Salad at the heart.

The true Greek Salad is a simple heaping bowl of wedged tomatoes, sliced red onion, quartered cucumber, green pepper, and Kalamata olives, topped with pie-sized slices of feta cheese. The whole thing is drizzled with a simple salad dressing. Opa!

After lunch we were driven, thank God, to the top of the mountain to wander the grounds and chapel of a monastery. Greek Orthodox churches and monasteries abound on Corfu, whitewashed and ancient, mysterious and beautiful with colorful icons and flickering candles. This one also boasted a donkey and several goats.

Loaded back into our vans, we finished the winding trek up to our trio of villas. Nearly new and quite modern, each boasted a private pool. Diane and I had had one to ourselves and we loved it. The view from our little patio was stunning over the treetops, clear to the beach. We enjoyed breakfast there every morning, and it was my special writing nest.

The villa kitchen had been stocked with everything we would need for the week: coffee, wine, cheese, crackers, yogurt, granola, nuts, fruit and bread. We even discovered tomatoes and cucumbers, so we were able to create a lovely dinner on our own that first night, since we were still full from our “light” lunch.

TUESDAY, DAY THREE: Introduction to Memoir Writing and the Beach

Our writing coach was Tammy Houts, n author, chaplain, and seasoned vet at hosting memoir writing retreats. She runs TLC Writing Retreats for Women and had brought groups to Corfu before COVID. Some of our group had even been to those retreats with her. I completely understand why you would want to attend one of Tammy’s retreats more than once.

Our sessions lasted several hours each morning and included breakout sessions to write using the prompts given. It turns out I had more to talk about, explore, and discover than I would ever have hoped. Every woman’s writing reflected her own journey, sometimes funny, sometimes heart-wrenching, always honest and revealing.

At the end of the week, we had laughed and cried with each other and made new and, I hope, lasting, friendships.

And I brought home fodder for some future blogs.

After our session, Elena brought in her version of a light lunch: two kinds of salad, a huge pan of chicken and orzo, naan bread and four different kinds of dips. Elena Karoumpi is a force of nature. She knows everyone on the island and was adept at getting us from place to place, with fun surprises along the way, lots of laughter and incredible patience.

We needed to walk that off, so we all got comfortable and headed to the beach. Keep in mind I could see it from my patio, how far could it be?

I’ll tell you. About 1.5 miles. Downhill, part of which is a road so rough, you could hide small children in the ruts. I was wearing electric blue Toms and my sunhat. I looked precisely 71 years old. We started out, got through the first leg, turned and walked down a less-rutted road, past a grove of olive trees, boasting net skirts, for catching the olives when they shake the trees, we are told. We turned again, onto the busy road I could hear from our patio, crossed it and walked a while on the shoulder, then turned again onto a less-traveled road, walking past homes weathered by salt sea air.

And I could see the beach. It was right there, but a tidal-created barrier of rock kept me from it. So we turned again.

We kept walking, toward the sandy beach, I thought, but it never materialized and we finally turned into an open-air café and ordered drinks. Coke Zero. My first of many. And I was so grateful for it. A few minutes later, two of our more intrepid swimmers went on to the sandy beach. The other four of us turned around and trudged back up the zig zag hill to the villas, finally scurrying from shade pool to shade pool, as the temp had climbed.

I didn’t go back to the beach. I had been to the beach, I saw the beach, I did not conquer the beach, but I decided instead that my watery fate would be to soak my Floafered feet in my lovely pool and look down on the beach. That was enough.

Until Friday, but that is for Part 2.

That night, two cabs drove us, slowly, oh, so slowly, back to the beach, where we ate at Barden, an elegant open-air restaurant, not far from our end point earlier in the day. Elena knows the owner, of course, and we were treated to award-winning cocktails, an artisan hamburger, and photos of our group against the stunning Ionian sunset.

WEDNESDAY, DAY FOUR:

After our emotional writing session, which daily featured alternating meditation or stretching before discussions about the pitfalls, impact and catharsis of memoir writing, we had the afternoon to ourselves. Elena brought in a masseuse for relaxing massages. I opted out and spent the afternoon, feet in the pool, organizing photos, then visiting with the other writers. Conversations with Diane, Tammy, and the others became very appreciated as we shared more of our lives with each other, often one-on-one, but also in groups of twos and threes.

Two new cabs came for us that night, and inched us down the hill to go back to the beach for dinner at Taverna George. Again we shared delicious new dishes, mushroom sauce for French fries, fried cheese drizzled in honey among them, plus the ever-present Greek salad. Elena demonstrated how to eat the head of a seabass. I couldn’t look away. She was very dainty about it, but the eyeballs were a bridge too far. By the way, a seabass brain is the size of your baby fingernail. Figures.

I’m stopping here because I can see you nodding off. I’ll continue with Part Two in a day or so. In the meantime, drink some water, stay hydrated, and do some stretching.

We have a lot more adventures ahead and you need to be ready.