Parga 1.

Parga is on the Greek west coast opposite Corfu. It is its own little state within the country, a bit like the Vatican only with a Mayor instead of the Holy Pontiff, and like Catholicism it changes slowly. In fact the only upheaval in these numerically choppy times was more due to rain. Stefanos whose character and taverna dominate Parga life had a winter collapse. The two balconies of his taverna that shelved from the scrubby cliffs a hundred feet above Voltos bay collapsed in the winter rains onto the rocks below. His new tabled shelves are wider and stronger but still perilous. Stefanos’s restaurant is the best fish restaurant in Parga because Stefanos is a fisherman first, a cavalier second and a restaurateur third. His dry leather glove of a hand that welcomed me was testament to daily salt and ropes. Costas had moved from his usual beach bar due to a fall out, and Michael, whose bar was always a little too aloof to be profitable, is moving back to Canada with wife and winter baby. Elli who tends the sun loungers next to the stream that shyly slots the sand is as ever Elli. Five feet and nothing more with her purposeful feminine shape tends family rather than tourists, playing with babies and bringing everyone up to date with Parga news since their last visit. Mothermouse and Elli loved each other from their first conversation. These are mostly about her dealings with the pontiff, her female account of God and the workings of Parga being a constant thorn in his side. If Elli has ever been untrue to her heart and mind it’s a well kept secret. Catholics take note. An uncomfortable woman is worth a hundred clerics. So Parga where we sleep in and out of the sun bundles up our unwanted cares and posts them along its golden trail to the setting sun one more time.