Buy coke Kythnos

__________________________

📍 Verified store!

📍 Guarantees! Quality! Reviews!

__________________________

▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼ ▼▼

▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲ ▲▲

Buy coke Kythnos

Superb hiking, archaeological sites mesolithic, Byzantium, 19th century mining… , good eats, friendly folks…The weather was so-so for the first two days but then the sun came out, the winds shifted and there was fine weather for getting lost on the donkey trails and photographing more stone walls than I knew what to do with. I am pretty much saturated with walls at the moment. I have a feeling I will finish up the roll I have in my camera today and be done with this island for the time being. I have one more long hike to do tomorrow 12 km so perhaps I will try to use one more roll. Typical family-run, spitiko, without all the frippish tom-foolery of frankish cuisine. I ate roasted goat in lemon sauce last night; grilled fresh sardines the night before…local, mild feta on my salads. We had a good time and then Kostas called Giorgos and he and I had a quick chat. I love these alliances. So Yalos Byzantio is my spot. I dine there again tonight. My small studio overlooks the harbour of Merichas. The ferries dock just a few hundred meters away and the ins-and-outs of tourist sailors in their small rented sailboats make for interesting comedy-drama. Only some seem to be good sailors. The rest look like they are trying too park their cars. Oh well…I wish them all the fun in the world. The Aegean is a lovely place to sail. I am tired of living out of my luggage. I will have a lot more of that this summer so I suppose I should get used to it, but for the moment…. I left Paros on May 10th, after a four-day general strike which threw all my plans into the air. As a result of this strike, I was forced to use one of the High-Speed ferries that runs around the Aegean. I hate these things for many reasons. The only other time I was on one was in and I picked up a terrible respiratory bug just by being shut inside the interior for several hours with no fresh air. True to form, by the time I reached Evia on Thursday the 12th, my throat was scratchy. By Saturday I was on antibiotics, decongestants…sick. I need to go home. I feel great, but it is time to sit on my own terrace, sleep in my own bed…. As luck would have it, the same ferry that would have brought me to Syros, continues on home to Paros. So I will leave Kythnos Friday morning and be home in time for tea…. Pezoules, walls and and Agios Anathasios, Kythnos, I never finished it. The jist is that someone has achieved this status after years of labor perfecting their skills and craft. I know some artists here on Paros, people of curiosity and brightness. I have been working with some other young photographers as of late, perfecting our technical skills. I get up in the morning, go to work, have some leisure time away from work, etc…. Greek Easter was splendid and filled with the aroma of roasting lamb. We paid homage to the spirit of the lamb and honored its sacrifice. Our food had a face. We connected the source with our bellies. Here is an interesting link regarding Francis Bacon …. About 12 people showed up and we viewed three different works each for ten minutes a piece. The kouros below is a small statue that I enjoyed a great deal. This weekend I will jump back into the darkroom and, I hope, print at least 6 new pieces. I also have rolls of film to develop. Next week I am off to the nearby island of Naxos for a couple of days. There is a 75km mountain bike ride I wish to take. As I departed Sikinos this afternoon, the Meltemi came in gusts of Force 6. The air was hot, the sand flew in my face, the boat arrived, I boarded. An hour later I disembarked at Folegandros. As such, the island has secured all the charm of the Cyclades without the vast throngs that clog the narrow streets of the ancient Minoan hub. Thank God for that. I have been to Santorini and was not impressed. Here it is different. The restaurants are all open and have large, taverna-style menus on chalkboards outside. I have already walked past and it looks very inviting. They also have rabbit, one of my favorites. They have rabbit on the menu too. This is a good sign for the next few days. The reports on hiking are all positive. I will take advantage of this but I will also take it easy. There are some good beaches and I have a book to finish reading. The stone walls here are lovely. My observations on the bus ride from the port to the Chora where I am staying have already whetted my appetite. I will post some images when I have them. For now I finish my espresso-freddo and look forward to a night of good food and rest. Tomorrow I take a short walk and head to the beach. I arrived here yesterday, 15 June. I checked into the Hotel Porto Sikinos charming and comfortable and knew that what I needed was a brisk walk and then a leap into the sea. So I did that. Nothing too strenuous or out of control. Then I cleaned up, i. It is a 5 km drive up the winding road. I was told there was a decent restaurant there. I ordered saganaki tiri, fried potatoes, fried eggplant and lamb chops paidakia. It was pretty good but I know a lamb shoulder chop when I see it. After a long day of travel I slept like a log and woke up around The breakfast at the hotel was quite good, and plentiful. I skipped the bready things and ate the yogurt, boiled egg, both honeys, coffee and juice. Today I was going to hike to Episkopi! Yes, I did eventually get there, but it was adventure I am not eager to repeat. My fault, by the way. This is the rundown…. I chose a well-traveled path out of Alopronia up the Chora. No real worries, but I strayed off at one point and had to bushwhack through the thorny underbrush and eventually backtrack m downhill to where I joined the track again. I arrived in the Chora an hour later sopping with sweat. Good thing I did. I would need it. There are two ways to reach Episkopi. The first is along the paved road that leads directly to the place. The other is a donkey track just off the paved road that also leads right to the ancient temple. Of course I chose the donkey track, or so I thought. What I chose was a different donkey track that mirrored, for a while at least, the one I currently trod. Then the path began to narrow. Hmmm…I continued since it was not a problem. Then as I was happily sauntering along I came around a corner and there was the fence. The path continued on the other side…I could see it. Then I realized my mistake. I should have gone back, it would have been easy enough, but no. I decided to go up and around the fence, or so I hoped. Long story short…. This led to a three-hour uphill, across ancient terraces, through thorns that would pierce leather and my skin trudge. I was able to find short stretches of paths, more goat tracks than anything else. Then they would disappear into a thorny mass. At this point I was aware of two things: I had not seen any goat droppings in a while and the foliage was becoming more and more wild. The fig trees were small and dried out, crackling under my grip. The olive groves were overgrown and unkempt, the trees stunted from the wind and unpruned. My reading of Homer told me that I was far from civilization. Oh yes…water…I had 1 full liter left. I was becoming disheartened, but what choice did I have but to keep pushing up and, I hoped, reach the road which I knew was there, yet I could not see? My excellent topo map gave me a pretty good idea where I was. So I scrambled and clawed my way through the thorns as they tore my skin. I climbed ancient terrace walls, carefully planting my feet and hands. Should one collapse, I was finished. No joke. I was getting worried. I began to remember what I had packed: Water, two cameras, my Swiss Army knife, two sarong for padding for the cameras. They were brightly colored. I also had both my mobile phones. I ran several conversations through my head…I prayed a lot. Asked for all kinds of help: just 20 more meters; just over this terrace; just a little more. I was loath to drink my water. Only a half liter remained. At one point the underbrush thinned slightly and I saw a real path. Stony, uneven, but going up and without many thorn bushes. Thank you, thank you…whoever. I moved up. I clambered over a small pile of stones and then I saw it: the guard rail. The road. The blessed road. Only 50 meters now…30…20…10 and I was up and out standing on glorious tarmac. I have never been so happy to see pavement. I looked to my left and there was Episkopi. I made it. The breeze was blowing. I began to feel chills, a sign of many things, almost all bad. I walked the meters to the glorious and historical building, seeking shade. I walked along the side and plopped down on a small bench out of the sun. I dropped my pack, took off my shoes and socks, hung my soaked t-shirt on a wall to dry and took some deep breaths. Grateful, I leaned against the cool stone of the former-temple-of-Apollo-turned-Byzantine-church and blissfully felt my core temperature drop. I took out my watch. It was Now to get back to the Chora and the port. There is a large cistern at the site and I refilled my water bottles but I needed potassium, salt and more water. Cold juices. And bananas. But first some pictures. I made it back, dear readers, yes, I made it back. I have just counted the distance and I probably hiked a little over 12 km, the hard way. Tomorrow I go to the beach and relax. I will read my book, swim and let the antiseptic quality of the Aegean cure my lacerated limbs. Then I will nap. Tuesday I head to Folegandros. I will be there for 5 days. I am a lucky boy, in many ways. Tag Archives hiking in the Cyclades. Masters , John Masters , Paroikia , Paros , quiet islands , skill and craft , spiritual journey , spring in the Aegean , stone walls , Uncategorized , working. Masters , John Masters , mountain bike race , mountain biking in Greece , Naxos , Paroikia , Paros , quiet islands , rangefinder camera , silver darkroom , skill and craft , spiritual journey , spring in the Aegean , Uncategorized , working. BCE kouros. By John on June 18, in beauty , craft , Cyclades stone walls , Cycladic stone walls , Greece , hiking in the Cyclades , quiet islands , rangefinder camera , skill and craft , spiritual journey , spring in the Aegean , stone walls , working. By John on June 16, in beauty , Cyclades stone walls , Greece , hiking in the Cyclades , quiet islands , skill and craft , spiritual journey , spring in the Aegean. Thorns that tore my flesh.

Greece Port Congestion: Number of Vessels: Kythnos: Passenger Ships

Buy coke Kythnos

He lives with his wife and son in the only other house on this side of the small bay. He tolerates my coffee and I tolerate the questions he keeps repeating. Hills, stones, paths—all sleep to the breathing sea. A place, just a place: no meaning, no wisdom, no secret loves or unrevealed purpose. You an absence. Walking the beach, I feel waves wash over my feet, wet sand press between my toes with each step. Or I might spend the afternoon on this beach, reading and watching bathers lay out their towels and straw mats. A grandmother with her grandkids maybe. Some boys kicking a soccer ball. A pair of lovers on the low wall near my well, in the shade of a long-needle pine. After the sun sets, I listen for bullfrogs in the cistern, there, where the houses end and the underground spring bubbles to the surface, watering a garden of lemons and pears. I feel invisible here, leaping thought to thought, memory to memory. Just the way I like it. A redheaded woman with two Irish setters is sitting next to him. Two overhead fans turning slowly. The redhead, sitting on his other side, is wearing lots of makeup, red lipstick, strong perfume. Her setters are well-groomed, the same shade of red almost as her long, wavy hair. Their leashes clatter on the tiled floor as they get up, lie down, get up again, first one, then the other. Tongues hanging out. Panting quietly. No music from the jukebox. My name is his name. I try turning a little faster on the barstool. He and that redhead have been drinking for a while. Sure, I like the dogs, but right now I just want to go back up to our room. I mostly like the layovers. He rarely reads them to me. We take our time. He calls me skinny and a towhead whatever that means when he wants to tease me. But when I press my face close to the mirror, there they are—that little nose, that dent in my chin. For dinner we go to whatever diner or coffee shop is nearby. He mostly orders steak and potatoes of some kind, usually mashed. Never talks much while we eat, never leaves anything on his plate, insists that I clean mine, too. And he always has coffee, cup after cup, whatever the meal, puts down his fork now and then to have a cigarette, takes a few puffs then lets it burn down in the ashtray as he continues eating. He likes Westerns and war movies. I like cartoons and the fast-paced newsreels. Always soldiers marching somewhere, planes crashing, big floods or earthquakes. And I like sitting there in the dark next to him, just me and him, the smell of popcorn, the feel of my shoes sticking to the floor. Other nights we just watch TV in our room. Do I miss her? I miss my brother more. Janet, my half-sister, not so much. We fight a lot, Larry and me. He never shares his toys. I know that he likes to hit me with that brace he has on his leg. Tries to hit Dad with it too when he yells at Mom or throws something at her. Dad just ignores him, gives him a shove and sends him to his room. Sometimes he swats him for no reason at all. I sleep better in these hotel rooms beside him than I do at home, sharing a bed with my brother. Larry always kicks me in his sleep. Larry was born with some disease and has to wear that metal thing. So, when I came along two years later, I was all his, even though I too was defective a preemie, she says, kept in a tent for three months. Even named me after him. He loved to put me on his shoulders and walk through the neighborhood. I was his. End of story. Which meant, when they finally split up. Did she gather up my brother and sister and take off? Did she kick him out? Did he just up and leave, with me on his shoulders? Mom says one thing, he says another. Crossing the beach this morning, I scan the hills surrounding this cove, the rocky terraces that grow only barley, thorny scrub, and a few scattered fig trees, except in that crease between the slopes, that ravine where a spring, sometimes above the ground, sometimes below, seeps toward the garden on the other side of the cove, then into the sea. Shading my eyes, I follow the drystone walls angling above that ravine, up past wild fennel and oleanders, past a tethered mule and a few grazing goats, past stands of spindly cypresses, all the way up to the blue expanse of sky. Going from shop to shop, I fill my backpack with tomatoes, cucumbers, capers, and olives for salad; canned tuna and sardines for dinner; peaches and honeydew melons for breakfast or after a swim; and fresh bread, a loaf for me, one or two for my neighbor. I let the goats grazing nearby stare at me while I sit on a toppled granite slab, imagine the heavy, muffled clopping of mule and donkey hooves going round and round that abandoned stone floor, threshing barley like I endlessly tread memories in my head. Turning the days of my childhood, all those months and years in California, over in my mind, moment to moment, face to face, I try to piece together those fragments into whole scenes, filling in the gaps as best I can. Came close with Patty, though, the first woman I was with after I came to Greece. The two of us almost one, at least in the beginning. Ten years together with my Italian-Greek companion, three good ones, then seven with things steadily disintegrating. He tolerates my coffee and I tolerate the questions he keeps repeating: what are you doing here in Greece? No answer ; why are you here all alone? Still no answer. All the wild figs I can eat. What more do I need? At that he throws his head back, drinks down the last of his coffee, all but the grounds. Of course, I tell him only half the truth, the half I keep telling myself, that I need, I really hunger for solitude. And somehow, with absolutely no memory of it, I stumble back down the mountain to my Cave at first light, more like the Cyclops than the man I say I am. They let me play with my cars in the lobby sometimes, but mostly I stay in our room, build stuff with my Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, and watch TV. He left me in the room right after breakfast. He can read better than my father. What he does, he does for all mankind. Will bless you. God will save you, no matter where you are. He makes me feel as tall as a mountain. Raise them! He calls for all of those in attendance to come up to him, and, through prayer and the love of Jesus, he will heal them. Heal my eyes. Make me see like everyone else. No signs and wonders. His weight on the mattress wakes me, then the smell of whiskey and cigarettes. His loud snores keep me awake, till Oral calls out to me again, puts his hands on my head, and sleep falls over me. Lying in bed, listening to the waves slap the rocks below my veranda, I recall again how those days riding Greyhounds with my father abruptly ended, not long after that Sunday with Oral Roberts. There, in that bar, with that redhead and her two dogs, me turning around on a barstool—that was the last time I was truly with him. But that day, in that bar, there was no miracle, either. There was a sign, though, a secret one between my dad and that redhead. I know because, in memory, I can see that woman stand up suddenly and totter toward me, bringing her two dogs with her. You could play with them, every day. Am I gonna have a new mother? Live here in Fresno? With her?! I promise! With one hand he pushes me away, with the other strokes my head, the back of my neck, trying to calm me. I can see deep into his hard, green eyes. No tears. Not sad, just determined. And I start crying. Since that time, he has been living and writing in Greece, traveling extensively, teaching, and serving as an administrator at various universities—Greek, American, and British. Fluent in Greek, a citizen of both his homeland and his adopted country or, more precisely, the country that adopted him , he has published several poetry collections as well as an anthology of American poets in Greece and translations of contemporary Greek poets. Seeger Writer-in-Residence fellowship at Princeton University. Recently retired, he and his companion live in both Athens and Thessaloniki. Never makes trouble. The author at five. Will it still be like that when we go back? The author, aged three, in a bicycle basket. Young goat on a rock, Kythnos. Like today, a Sunday. Oral Roberts and early Christian television.

Buy coke Kythnos