Ex-pat Inn

Every Greek Island must have their own version of an ex-pat run bed & breakfast; see Mamma Mia for reference.
Last night Conner and I ate dinner at Agistri's version, The Agistri Club. If I were to write a fictional short story about how the trim and handsome older proprietor arrived at his new profession, I would put him in an after hours business meeting in a Rat-Pack chic London wine and cigar bar. The latest real estate development deal looks like it's going through, and while he used to be elated when he pocketed the 1 million pound paycheck and celebrate with an oxygen facial and a glass of Johnny Walker Blue with one cube of ice, now he just feels kind of bored with the whole thing. He looks out the window onto the cold, drizzly London night, vamped-up East London girls drunkly stumbled past; he's 52, successful, handsome, and bored as hell.

So he packs up his money, ditches his black wool suits in favor of khaki shorts and white cotton button-down shirts, buys a shitty old building on the outskirts of town on the way to the island's best nudist beach, and sets to work renovating and painting all the stucco a nice Greek white.

Now he's the much loved gregarious host of the evening meals, dancing around entertaining guests and eternally waving a tall glass of gin and tonic in his hand.

We had a lovely meal and were presided over by George, who had the "good sense" to keep our icy cold beers full. Halfway through dinner the power went out over the whole island, cutting Frank Sinatra off mid-Fly Me To The Moon. Apparently it's a regular occurance because no one seemed surprised, lit the candles that were already set all about the patio, and soon brought in the British bard who played guitar and sang 1970's pop ballads.

When we tried to pay for our food we were told, "Oh my dear boy, guests don't pay! We run an all-inclusive joint here." I'd totally stay there if we were sleeping in a hotel, but as it is, we're camping on the eastern seaside cliffs in between the Agistri Club and the nudist beach (pictured above). There are lots of flat, if not slightly rocky spaces big enough for tents. When we first arrived on Saturday it was so packed that we had to hide some way in order to hunt down one of the much coveted tree-shaded spots. By Sunday evening it cleared out considerably as people left on the last ferry back to the mainland. So now we've upgraded to a nicer, closer spot and have purchased some rectangular floaties which provide cushioning from the tiny rocks that make comfortable sleep in the tent absolutely impossible. They floaties also serve their original purpose and turn the Mediterranean Sea into the greatest water bed ever. The only downside to the latter use is that yesterday Conner and I both fell asleep while floating over the waves and now sport slight sunburns. Alas.