The Crazy Island

The thing about Corfu is that almost no one you will meet here is actually from Corfu. I have met many people from other places than Kanoni, and most of them are originally from England or other parts of Greece. In fact, I would say about 90% of the families whose children ride at the barn are from England while one of the spouses is from a different part of Greece or the Mediterranean. Although this can be disappointing at times, since I came here expecting to immerse myself into a distinctly Corfuite culture, it also makes things interesting. People have a great sense of the world around them and a greater appreciation of the beauty of the island, which is usually the reason why they decided to move here in the first place.

Most of these people who are outsiders of Corfu but citizens of Greece refer to Corfu as “The Crazy Island.” Although, based upon my experience of the town thus far, I first assumed this was meant in the terms of tourism traffic and the bustling night life, but most often, this term actually refers to the mental state of the people that live here being slightly like a loose cannon.

I think (or at least I would like to think) that I experienced my first “Crazy Island” experience as I visited the Vlacherna monastery that is about a 5 minute walk from my house. This monastery is a small, white building that is situated on its own mini-island that can only be accessed by a narrow levy lined with fishing and tour boats. As I approached the end of this levy I caught sight of something pink, round, and flowery prancing around in front of the chapel. When I came closer, I saw a very colorful, portly old man who was probably in his mid-seventies wearing his nicest gray Sunday slacks and a bright pink button-down. There were roses and pansies of every color tucked in his front pocket, pants pockets, ears, and receding hairline. He smiled a wild, uninhibited smile while he wandered in the courtyard of the monastery, almost taking the same open-armed stance as Fraulein Maria while she blared “The hills are alive…” on her mountaintop in the beginning of The Sound of Music. Although his eyes were a bit crazed (indicating that the cheese may have slid off his cracker, if you know what I mean), his wrinkled face that was haloed in flowers gave every sign that he was in utter bliss just to wander through Corfu like a living rainbow.

In much the same way, Captain George who owns and operates “Captain George’s Restaurant” that is right outside the driveway of Villa Silva is also a quite lovely character. He came to our table as we ate dinner tonight and began to explain to us why most men and boys in Corfu are named “Spyros.” He told the story of Saint Spyros whose body is buried in a church in Corfu Town, and his face lit up when he described the yearly festivities of taking the body of Saint Spyros out in a parade and changing his shoes in the belief that he will walk the streets that night to grant the prayers of all the devout Corfuites. People who desire to be parents in Corfu thus pray to Saint Spyros so that he will grant them fertility in his yearly rounds, and they will name their baby in his honor when and if they become pregnant. And as enchanting as this story is by itself, Captain George’s depiction of the custom—complete with dancing around the restaurant, putting his foot and shoes on out eating table, and fanning himself with a huge oriental fan afterward—is certainly proof that a tale told slightly crazy man who is incredibly excited to share Corfu with others makes an already wondeful story at least 10 times better.

Just from my brief encounter with these people from Corfu, I can definitely say that if this “Crazy Island” is a disease, I am ready to catch it.