Each morning in Mykonos I would pull back the edge of the floaty curtains and take a peek at the weather outside. "It's beautiful and sunny, blue sky". I would say. Then a brief pause before I would add the final, essential detail - "a bit windy, though". Every day of our week was the same, the 30 degree heat tempered by gusty winds that would fluff up unsecured hair or steal an unclasped hat from one's head.
In town it was easy to tell how far from the shore we were by the strength of the wind - if it felt refreshing and breezy then we were up on the hill, if it swirled the fallen bougainvillea petals like a tornado and lifted shopping bags until they were horizontal then we were definitely near the port. Tablecloths remained firmly fixed to the taverna tables here, their corners flapping angrily against their tethers, while on the worst days the cruise ships were unable to dock and dispense their hordes of confused looking tourists into the white-washed streets.
In those streets we could lose ourselves for hours among the fancy boutiques and trinket stalls. Mykonos is beautiful; a picture perfect Greek town with all the tatty edges and back streets carefully removed, much like the wrinkles from the moneyed middle-aged American men who visited the island; you know they should be there but they've been willed away to leave the surface clean and smooth and slightly unreal.
We wandered, like tourists do, with cameras round our necks and hats firmly pulled down to our ears taking shot after shot of the narrow streets with their toe-to-toe balconies. We met the resident pelicans as they ambled like drunken kings in and out of the restaurants, closely followed by a coterie of people snapping away like paparazzi trailing after Britney Spears.
I liked Mykonos. I liked its tangle of pavements and prevalence of frozen yoghurt cafés. I liked the bar by the hotel pool, where at least one squishy sofa was always available for us to relax and listen to the oddly eclectic selection of music piped through the speakers while we played backgammon on an elaborately inlaid board purchased in the centre of town. I liked the way the sunset turned the houses a golden pink and the way the old ladies would nod hello if you greeted them in Greek.
How do you sum up a week? A week that is made up of thousands of tiny moments, each worthy of a picture or a postcard but each fleeting and quickly superseded? We slept in, ate and drank too much and tried not to get burnt by the deceptively fierce sun. It was heavenly.