Today was Kathryn’s birthday, so our itinerary on this – the largest and most populous of the Cycladic islands – was completely up to her.
Immediately after disembarking (what a cool but limited word), we headed to the Portara, the most famous image of the island. Basically, it’s a large, marble doorway that was once part of a temple but is now just a ruin on the edge of a short causeway.
After 30 seconds we got bored and headed back to the port, past a shallow beach we called the “Yia-yia” beach, after the dozen or so older Greek women who populated its waters. Yia-yia is the Greek word for grandmother, you see, not just another word I enjoy saying. And from there we walked down the long and touristy strip of restaurants and shops along the water, had breakfast, and went window shopping, per Kathryn’s direct orders.
On Naxos we realized first-hand what a mixed blessing tourism has been here. For thousands of years, these small, isolated islands have remained the same – the ancient nautical culture, the traditional and healthy foods, the quiet sanctity of being “off the map.” 
Then, in the 1990s, the influx of flocking archeologists and Philhellenes necessitated the construction of asphalt roads and, thus, cars, which didn’t exist on most of these islands until then. Before then, donkeys and carts were the only methods of transportation. This brought in more tourists and, thus, crass commercialism, including waffle stands, internet cafes, and touristy trinket shops. Sure, it was nice to use the internet and I’m sure the locals appreciate the newfound realm of foodstuffs and tschotchke, but the reprieve from the busy, workaday Western world that so many tourists are no doubt in search of is sadly getting harder and harder to find.
Anyway, back to the blog. Because Naxos had been ruled for a couple centuries by the Venetians, there still existed a very well preserved Venetian “castle,” really a walled collar around the peak of the mountain on which the existing Greek Hora was set.
So, past the touristy shops we walked, up the narrow and painted walkway to the inside of the Venetian Kastro, where, again, it must have been siesta time on the island, as almost every shutter and door was shut.
Although it was nice to amble the empty streets through the artsy-fartsy neighborhood, it was getting hot, so we stumbled back down to the port, hopped on a local bus and jumped out 10 minutes later at Plaka beach, a long swath of sand just south of the more touristy city beach.
Here we slept, read, swam, and watched a bevy of young German men drink beer and toss each other very long distances in the water. No, I take it back. They weren’t men. They were “guys.” Drinking, laughing, and playing games that almost guarantee injury, they were having a good time – as were we, sitting like Nascar fans, less interested in the game than we were the morbidly fascinating catastrophe that was, we thought, imminent.
Fortunately or unfortunately, we were wrong, but I guess a playful mood rubbed off on me, as I felt the need to bury myself in the sand. Here’s a sequence of me doing so.
Although the sand, water, and sun were all relaxingly warm and peaceful, we’d had enough after about two hours and headed back to the boat to shower, get gussied up, and head out to a popular restaurant one road back from the beach where we could properly celebrate a birthday at what appeared to be the VIP table at a very popular place. Again, local favorites like Greek salad, tzatziki, and Mr. Octopus himself made an appearance on our table.
Dinner was followed by one last walk down the crowded tourist strip, where we stopped for dessert – baklava – before heading back on the boat for the night. In all, it was a quiet and enjoyable day … not a bad for a birthday.
Immediately after disembarking (what a cool but limited word), we headed to the Portara, the most famous image of the island. Basically, it’s a large, marble doorway that was once part of a temple but is now just a ruin on the edge of a short causeway.
After 30 seconds we got bored and headed back to the port, past a shallow beach we called the “Yia-yia” beach, after the dozen or so older Greek women who populated its waters. Yia-yia is the Greek word for grandmother, you see, not just another word I enjoy saying. And from there we walked down the long and touristy strip of restaurants and shops along the water, had breakfast, and went window shopping, per Kathryn’s direct orders.On Naxos we realized first-hand what a mixed blessing tourism has been here. For thousands of years, these small, isolated islands have remained the same – the ancient nautical culture, the traditional and healthy foods, the quiet sanctity of being “off the map.” Then, in the 1990s, the influx of flocking archeologists and Philhellenes necessitated the construction of asphalt roads and, thus, cars, which didn’t exist on most of these islands until then. Before then, donkeys and carts were the only methods of transportation. This brought in more tourists and, thus, crass commercialism, including waffle stands, internet cafes, and touristy trinket shops. Sure, it was nice to use the internet and I’m sure the locals appreciate the newfound realm of foodstuffs and tschotchke, but the reprieve from the busy, workaday Western world that so many tourists are no doubt in search of is sadly getting harder and harder to find.Anyway, back to the blog. Because Naxos had been ruled for a couple centuries by the Venetians, there still existed a very well preserved Venetian “castle,” really a walled collar around the peak of the mountain on which the existing Greek Hora was set.So, past the touristy shops we walked, up the narrow and painted walkway to the inside of the Venetian Kastro, where, again, it must have been siesta time on the island, as almost every shutter and door was shut.Although it was nice to amble the empty streets through the artsy-fartsy neighborhood, it was getting hot, so we stumbled back down to the port, hopped on a local bus and jumped out 10 minutes later at Plaka beach, a long swath of sand just south of the more touristy city beach.
Here we slept, read, swam, and watched a bevy of young German men drink beer and toss each other very long distances in the water. No, I take it back. They weren’t men. They were “guys.” Drinking, laughing, and playing games that almost guarantee injury, they were having a good time – as were we, sitting like Nascar fans, less interested in the game than we were the morbidly fascinating catastrophe that was, we thought, imminent.Fortunately or unfortunately, we were wrong, but I guess a playful mood rubbed off on me, as I felt the need to bury myself in the sand. Here’s a sequence of me doing so.
Although the sand, water, and sun were all relaxingly warm and peaceful, we’d had enough after about two hours and headed back to the boat to shower, get gussied up, and head out to a popular restaurant one road back from the beach where we could properly celebrate a birthday at what appeared to be the VIP table at a very popular place. Again, local favorites like Greek salad, tzatziki, and Mr. Octopus himself made an appearance on our table.Dinner was followed by one last walk down the crowded tourist strip, where we stopped for dessert – baklava – before heading back on the boat for the night. In all, it was a quiet and enjoyable day … not a bad for a birthday.
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