Travel

Cyclades Island Donousa

A grandmother sits in a little bay on a small island, someplace in between Naxos and Amorgos, lonely on a wall and dozing in the sun. She wears a black bandana, a layer of jumpers and a woolen skirt. She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. It is a warm spring day, ultimately the sky has opened, no rain and no much more storms. Impeccably blue are the sky and the sea. Fani Prasino pokes a wooden strolling stick in the stony earth and humming a song. Goats are cowering at their feet. They climb on rocks, leap from walls, complain in the streets and bushes. Goats all over the place and chickens and cats and far and broad no 1. Fani Prasino, eighty-eight many years outdated, widowed for half a lifetime, mom of 4 little ones, grandmother of a pack of grandchildren, is the final inhabitant of Kalotaritissa, a settlement abandoned for many years in 10 easy homes in the north of the island of Donousa, and almost nothing and no one will They ever consider her away from right here, not her little ones and not the priest. Once in her daily life she was far away, in Athens, numerous many years in the past. Her daughter had to carry her back to Kalotaritissa immediately.

With bent back she drags to the secure. Her feet harm, she can barely stroll without the need of her two sticks. But Fani Prasino stays stubborn. Here she was born, right here she will die. She lives in a little household with a bed, a fuel cooker, an electrical heater and a phone. She cleans, washes, cooks, beats the cross, pours the backyard, feeds the animals, and when she feels like it she talks to God and the goats. This is how the days go by. Often come family members, mates, outdated neighbors and supply them with bread, veggies and noodles. And when a month, the priest comes and holds the mass. A frugal, reclusive daily life in a deserted hamlet that has fallen out of time – like the entire island.

One hundred and fifty inhabitants, 3 hundred cats

Solitary and windy, Donousa juts out of the sea. It is the remotest island of the Little Cyclades, a barren, scrubby rock in the Aegean, so little that it can very easily be crossed in two hrs on foot. A village, 3 hamlets, 1 hundred and fifty inhabitants, 3 hundred cats, a street, a money machine, a medical doctor, a grocery shop, a coffee household, no bus, no taxi, and definitely no police: this is Donousa, past the tourist season. A planet of easy execution, as every thing on the island is of terrific simplicity. The arrival in Stavros, the principal town and tourist epicenter of Donousa, in actuality a village, is like coming into Greece, which was believed to have died prolonged in the past. No sweeping harbor promenade with bars, cafes and the typical thicket of billboards welcomes the newcomer. At the harbor, far from the spirit of the instances, stands a no-frills coffee store, a mixture of coffee household and mom-and-pop store, and almost nothing else. The bar and the restaurant upcoming to it can only be witnessed at 2nd glance. Stavros is as unobtrusive as his inhabitants.

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