Astypalaia: a butterfly in the Dodecanese (Part 1)

That’s it: Dimitra’s last stop is just Astypalaia. The ferry-boat got empty on the Cyclades during the night and now few passengers are going to land. The most of them are Athenians looking for shelter in the far Dodecanese, very closed to Turkey, on the islands less trodden by the great international tourism. The sun rose a couple of hours ago and a deep light is hitting the white cupolas dominating the landscape, up there on the castle. The dock is a simple quay made of cement, a small party of well-tanned tourist is peacefully standing on waiting to board: Dimitra is going to take them to Piraeus.

Once you are on the island, you should follow the only road which starts just from the small harbour, leads on the coast of Chora and divides the beach from the typical cafés exhaling an appealing smell of food. In front of the first of these cafés there is the bus stop where you can read the timetable on a little blackboard; obviously the timetable is really ‘flexible’. The Islanders are sitting at the cafés, are sipping their coffee and smoking their cigarettes; they have come down the harbour to have a look at the new faces and to watch the boats. Some of the eldest people still remember few Italian words, last memory of the short Italian fascist occupation.

“Are you looking for a room?” A whistle, a name, few greek words and someone gets smiling closed offering you accommodation at his’. So it is for us. We follow Nichols, a middle aged man decently dressed who suggests us to choose a bus or a cab. We go for a bus because the queue at the taxi station is too long; someone explains us that there are only four cars on the whole island.
The shape of a trembling vehicle is getting closed raising a cloud of dust and making a vague noise of a motor-carriage. A few minutes later the bus comes, at last. There isn’t room enough for everyone and we are compelled to stand on a eight square meters surface. A tourist asks in English where the luggage deposit is and the bus driver, who is also the owner, smiling peacefully points out the room between the gate and his sit. Another tourist gets a bit nervous for the bad service, but others are quietly laughing about the adventurous taste of the trip. I’m becoming aware that the bus stops are ‘flexible’, too; as a matter of facts passengers get off and on whenever they want.

At Nicholas’ nod the bus stops and eight tourists including us get off . We struggle a bit to find and collect our baggage, but we finally manage that. His wife is waiting for him on the threshold near the main gate. Further on the right there is a pergola under which there are three big tables made of wood and some chairs. A few guests are busy making their breakfast. Man and wife are now talking and by their expression we guess that there are no rooms available. Nevertheless, the landlord keeps smiling never getting his eyes off me and invites us to follow him on the first floor.

On the long polished corridor there are the numbered rooms. With ‘nonchalance’, Nicholas opens them all. Then he comes back thoughtfully, enters an empty room and in perfect Italian tells me: “quick, put something on the bed!” I’m tired, I have traveled all the night and my reflexes are vaguely slow. But he snorts, he takes my sweatshirt I have around my hips off and throws it furiously on the bed. His smile comes back immediately. He opens him arms and with much satisfaction cries: “Here it is, now this room is taken!”.

Our vacation has just begun.