Long ago, Niko told me that Ikaria is an island you either hate or fall in love with, and that the love lasts a lifetime.
That is how it happened to me. I fell in love. I became addicted, and the only cure was to keep going back. Again and again… for twelve years now. You can never fully part with Ikaria. You tuck it away deep on the left, close to your heart, so that it doesn't hurt too fiercely, and you wait for the next meeting.
Ikaria is an island with its own time, its own sound and its own rhythm. It is not an island you tick off as a number before moving on to the next one, where the only proof you were ever there is the little souvenirs you bought. I know island collectors.
Ikaria collects you.
Slowly, piece by piece, until it has made you into a finished picture with no missing parts.
I am not writing about the endless blue of the sea or the deep violet of the evening sky. All the Greek islands are indecently beautiful. Nor is it the centenarians, who draw foreign visitors like a magnet. Nor the heavenly, honest food, the liquid gold of the olive oil, the honey that smells of forest and bees, or the ruby local wine.
I am writing about the people.
About Anna with the widest smile, and Niko, an aesthete to perfection. About Atsahas, who dreamily crumbles oregano while his faraway gaze follows the sunlight dancing on the waves, warm-hearted Galya, and Dimitris, always ready to help. And all our friends there, with their kindness of gold.
That's just how it is: the soul of the island is its people, each one of them unrepeatable. Every one of them wins you over in their own way and pulls you back there. With a smile, because people go to people, not to stones.
The warmth of the Ikarians has been pulling my heart to the land of Icarus for twelve years. To warm it and widen it, to enrich it, to free it of doubt and to fill it with a wide horizon and a longing for more, and more.
Who would turn down so much wealth: 39 sunsets in one summer, and not a single cloud?
