After all of those wonderful experiences I had on Friday (which I described in my previous two posts), the night ended, not in tragedy, but in a way not befitting of the goddesses.
After returning to the hotel, I dozed off for a bit. When I woke, I was hungry. It was past ten, and my mind told me not to eat at such a late hour. But I ignored my mind and walked down to the waterfront. I bought a soulvaki from Yanko's, where everything is fresh and cheap, and a small salad with olives goat milk cheese from Gregory's, a place next door, and took them down to a park by the water.
After reveling in the tastes of that moment, and the other sensations I experienced during the day, I started my walk back to the hotel. The apartment in which I stayed the previous night was now occupied by a couple on their honeymoon so, as Irini said, I was moved to another room. While not as spacious, I hardly felt cramped: It's bigger than apartments in which I've lived, and had a balcony of its own.
But the doorstep stood a few inches above the ground, with a "step" carved of stone in between. I wasn't looking for it: I entered as if the doorstep were level with the ground.
I let out a howl not usually heard in Milos.
My left foot struck that "step" and pushed my big toenail back 45 degrees, pulling away the skin. One of the hotel staff members ran up to me and, seeing the blood spurting from my toe, called Irini, the owner, who drove me--up the winding road I pedaled earlier in the day--to the tiny hospital in Plaka.
There a medic splintered and bandaged my toe. He didn't remove the nail; instead, he told me to go to a doctor in Athens, where I was headed Saturday, the following evening. And he prescribed an antibiotic.
Irini stayed with me the whole time and, the next morning, went down to the port, where my prescription was filled in a pharmacy. When I went to the courtyard for breakfast, she gave me the pills.
I have to admit, I was tempted to change my plans and stay in Milos. But I had a boat ticket to Athens (Piraeus), where I am as I write this, for Saturday night and another ticket back to New York for Tuesday morning.
So I went to a place I never imagined I'd go: a mining museum. (Last year, I went to the Landmine Museum in Cambodia. I never thought I'd go to a place like that, either.) Turns out, Milos and other Cycladic islands are rich sources of minerals. Why do you think such beautiful pottery and jewelry were made there? Even today, a few minerals are extracted for use in everything from paper to cement. The exhibits also include films in which old miners were interviewed.
What I found really interesting--and encouraging--is that the museum makes a real attempt to show that women did at least their share of the work. Many worked as sorters and packers, but some actually worked the mines. I have a hard time, though, imagining how one would carry so much equipment and bear the heat of those mines in an outfit like this:
Oh, Irini took me to the museum and back to the hotel for lunch--and to the ferry. With hospitality like that, I'm going back to a place where an orange guy tells the world there's no room left in his country?
After returning to the hotel, I dozed off for a bit. When I woke, I was hungry. It was past ten, and my mind told me not to eat at such a late hour. But I ignored my mind and walked down to the waterfront. I bought a soulvaki from Yanko's, where everything is fresh and cheap, and a small salad with olives goat milk cheese from Gregory's, a place next door, and took them down to a park by the water.
After reveling in the tastes of that moment, and the other sensations I experienced during the day, I started my walk back to the hotel. The apartment in which I stayed the previous night was now occupied by a couple on their honeymoon so, as Irini said, I was moved to another room. While not as spacious, I hardly felt cramped: It's bigger than apartments in which I've lived, and had a balcony of its own.
But the doorstep stood a few inches above the ground, with a "step" carved of stone in between. I wasn't looking for it: I entered as if the doorstep were level with the ground.
I let out a howl not usually heard in Milos.
My left foot struck that "step" and pushed my big toenail back 45 degrees, pulling away the skin. One of the hotel staff members ran up to me and, seeing the blood spurting from my toe, called Irini, the owner, who drove me--up the winding road I pedaled earlier in the day--to the tiny hospital in Plaka.
There a medic splintered and bandaged my toe. He didn't remove the nail; instead, he told me to go to a doctor in Athens, where I was headed Saturday, the following evening. And he prescribed an antibiotic.
Irini stayed with me the whole time and, the next morning, went down to the port, where my prescription was filled in a pharmacy. When I went to the courtyard for breakfast, she gave me the pills.
I have to admit, I was tempted to change my plans and stay in Milos. But I had a boat ticket to Athens (Piraeus), where I am as I write this, for Saturday night and another ticket back to New York for Tuesday morning.
So I went to a place I never imagined I'd go: a mining museum. (Last year, I went to the Landmine Museum in Cambodia. I never thought I'd go to a place like that, either.) Turns out, Milos and other Cycladic islands are rich sources of minerals. Why do you think such beautiful pottery and jewelry were made there? Even today, a few minerals are extracted for use in everything from paper to cement. The exhibits also include films in which old miners were interviewed.
What I found really interesting--and encouraging--is that the museum makes a real attempt to show that women did at least their share of the work. Many worked as sorters and packers, but some actually worked the mines. I have a hard time, though, imagining how one would carry so much equipment and bear the heat of those mines in an outfit like this:
Oh, Irini took me to the museum and back to the hotel for lunch--and to the ferry. With hospitality like that, I'm going back to a place where an orange guy tells the world there's no room left in his country?
