Each year when we come to this unnamed Greek island my mad Italian hiking friends tell me about the enclave of old Russians on the southern side, here since their escape from Chernobyl in the 80s, all of whom enjoy robust health, a gift of the island. These Russians make jewellery with crystals and allegedly have an underground bunker and have tapped into the energy of the place. Even this year I failed to hike over there. It's not that I don't want to go, it's just that once again, I didn't. That day I went hiking in the opposite direction and we met up later at the lighthouse for beers.
I do believe there is a force here — there is some sort of magnetic energy bouncing off the rocks. And if you think an island is locked in place by a groundswell, and rooted to the seabed, well, this is the playground of the gods. The thing is, I remember that springtime when the Chernobyl cloud went over Europe, it was my first year in Paris after running away from home. I was a penniless au pair who'd just had her wisdom teeth wrenched out in a student dental hospital, and an infection was raging through my head.
After the lighthouse we walked down to the coast again and some of us danced on the beach, drank raki, far too much of it.
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