Delusions of Grandeur †My Summer in Greece :: Personal Narrative

Delusions of aristocracy My Summer in GreeceIt is the lawlessness of Greece that attracts both travelers and forbiddencasts. They arrive on convey boats with the eagerness of immigrants, drunk with notions of escape and pleasure. This hedonistic lure of the Greek islands is removed removed from the academic splendor of mainland Europe. In myth, Greece is a land command by the selfish whimsy of the gods, and this climate of self-indulgence blows across the Ionian island of Corfu want a frolicking wind. Teetering, as it does, on the far edge of horse opera civilization, Corfu presents itself as a haven or a refuge, depending on whizzs orientation as traveler or derelict. Here, travelers can brave out their adolescent fantasies and outcasts can be gods. The playground of these gods, the Mount Olympus of debauchery, spills carry out the steep east coast of Corfu like a glob of Pepto Bismolthe intercept Palace. I came to the Pink Palace in late May, one of a steady trickle of off-season travelers who had arrived just in time to enjoy the cobblers last of the cool nights before the torrent of peak season vacationers, drawn by the summer heat, filled the island to capacity. The last leg of a nine-month solo dispatch through Europe, the Pink Palace was my last indulgence in independence before I flew home to start college. On paper, the resort looked like Paradisethe very leaflet seemed virginal with ambrosia. Pictures of gleeful scuba divers, big cliffs that fell into the Ionian Sea and sunny rooms lured me from the mainland. But the brochures utopian promiseIdeally situated on the litoral of Agios Gordios beach, the Palace assures a stay that youll never forgetturned out to be, at best, a euphemistic appraisal of the jarring reality that await me. The Pink Palace was a glaring twentieth-century smear on an other than primitive landscape. At night, the profusion of light and music that came from the resort was as obnoxious and out of place as the sickly pink beautify structure that scarred the green hillside. Self-indulgence came in liquid organize at the Pink Palace, with names like Ouzo, Blowjobs, B-52s, Kamikazes, and Alabama Slammers. Having dutifully saturated themselves with the culture of the mainland, my fellow guests now allowed themselves the corporeal pleasure of drunken oblivion.