Every year, sometime in the beginning of the summer, I have an intense, short love affair with the country I call home. It begins when the sea’s odor first seeps into my nostrils, when chills run up my spine as I sink my feet into the wet sand, when the sun setting in horizon seems an arm’s length away, when the breeze sets my salty hair, when all I hear is laughter, near and far. Tomorrow is not glim, it’s not ridden with abusive taxes, Troikas, Angela Merkels, inadequate governments, strikes, protests and poverty. The beauty of this country has the amazing power of making it all disappear. Like a tanned, gorgeous lover, whispering in your ear, holding your hand, talking till sunrise.
The affair is short-lived, as all perfect affairs tend to be. This kind of love doesn’t stick around forever; beauty is passing, sounds, odors and feelings change, become dull, ordinary. As you grow older, you learn to not fall for the same facade. Greece and I, on the other hand, seem to meet for the first time each year, and I, as if a teenager with amnesia, immediately embrace it for all its glory.