What do I see, what do I see, really
Illustrious sceneries
And through the air a smell of hot rattan
Oleanders along the road
And doors opening on the sky
Dark velvet poppies
Soaked in the sun
Waved by a path-wind
There, the sun turns, creaking
One watches the sea from a bench
Where does the road stops, I can’t say

Hydra is a place of warm, steep alleyways, where a red bell tower appears around the corner of a staircase. It is a village with a high-perched school, where children run with the sea stretched out below them. Backgammon is played in the shade of cafés, and people settle under porches to paint bougainvillea. Old men sit with their sleeves rolled up, waiting for you to pass so they can smile. Hydra is the port where everyone rushes about, and the maze of streets where no one goes, where you get lost in a thrill of anticipation, searching for wooden doors and half-hidden courtyards. It’s where you eat fennel tarts and baklava, syrup dripping onto the floor.

Hydra is the heavy stillness before summer, the urge to nap, curtains drifting in the doorways of solitary houses.

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