By early July, the temperature rises above 30 degrees. It’s warm enough to plunge into the sea without taking tentative steps into the water before catching your breath. Under a cloudless sky, the sea is a deep turquoise, reflected in the underbellies of seagulls hovering still above the water. Last week, I’d shiver after my swim. This week I can wear my swimsuit all day, even when wet.
Two weeks ago, the news on the Greek bailout was ambivalent. There’s hardly a sign that anything’s amiss, to tourists, that is. The shops, tavernas and bars all do brisk business. Only a few decline credit cards. Then news filters through there’s to be a referendum. Yes or no, but what is the question? We might be in the thick of it, but with patchy wifi and intermittent news reports from the BBC, it’s hard to work out what the Greeks are voting for or against.
Then we start to notice graffiti. OXI sprayed onto the side of a bus shelter. We laugh. Isn’t it an Oxford postcode? We see another, and another, then posters go up proclaiming OXI. The Times website explains it’s Greek for No to austerity. OXI is everywhere on this small island. I even see a man with OXI on his T-shirt. This referendum looks to be a foregone conclusion.
But does anyone understand the question? It’s 74 words long, refers nebulously to the plans drawn up by the EU, but what are the plans? Will ordinary Greeks understand what they are voting for or against? Maybe that’s the point. The Government seem determined that their people reject the terms of the bailout.
Everywhere, in cafes and bars, we see mainly elderly Greek men talking loudly and gesticulating over their tiny cups of strong coffee.
One day, on returning from a day on the beautiful island of Antipaxos, we stop at the ATM. We think we have enough to cover us for the rest of our holiday, but want some extra, just in case. The ATM is empty and has been for the past few days, despite assurances from the media that tourists will have no problem extracting money. My waiter friend appears; he’s from the café in the square where we drink coffee and in broken English offers to take 100 euros out for us. We can pay him back in a couple of days when there’s cash in the machines again. No problem, he says, grinning his broken toothed smile. I’m stunned by his generosity and trust. We barely know him.
But this is typical of the locals. One in three work in tourism. They depend on summer visitors for a tiny window of about 10 weeks only. It’s make or break, just as this referendum is for them. They are welcoming, generous and determined to show us that nothing has changed. The tavernas are open for business, serving delicious, freshly-caught barbecued fish and sweet, juicy tomatoes, all with a smile. And the sea is still turquoise and beautifully warm for swimming and snorkelling.
For the time being, we can continue to enjoy this bubble far away from the reality that will affect us all.