No photos – want to know why? I was inspired to write this after reading Ishita’s post about dondurma, which takes up the dpwriting challenge, “Snapshots”. Create an image with words. It’s a challenge I need to put myself to more often….
The music just got heavier. There was no notice, and no reason. It’s not suddenly sunset. Nobody famous walked in, but the music’s previous beachy vibe has switched to a churning beat. The manager sends three girls up on the podiums between the bar and the beach, as if to tell us, “No more chilling. Time to drink and dance, or pack up and go home.”
The furthest is blond and petite, wearing a frilled bikini and waving her arms and legs around like a baby flamingo stuck in an oil slick. There for her barbie-doll looks I suppose. In the middle is the goddess. Buxom, brunette. Leopard skin bikini top and some hipster cut-offs barely cover her rude bits. She’s a hip dancer, and most eyes are on her. Every now and then she gyrates a little more aggressively and the prude in me turns my eyes away, grabbing a cooling vista of blue-green Mediterranean.
The one closest dancer to us is almost comical, but we all end up drawn to her. She’s hoiked her pants up into a sexy wedgie, revealing some peachy firm butt-cheeks. She’s got a mismatched top on, some butch looking tats, and low-rise biker boots. But it’s not just her “F-you-I’ll-show-you-what’s-alluring” attitude that is so eye-grabbing. She’s stamping and kicking like she’s putting out a fire. It’s not particularly elegant, nor feminine, but it’s on beat, and every time she turns around, her bum wobbles outrageously so you can see the method in her brolga moves.
My husband is pretending not to look.
My eldest son (10 years old) honestly doesn’t care. He might get a glimpse of flesh in the reflection of his iPad, but it goes largely unnoticed. If he’s not in the sea, nothing else counts. My youngest however is fully engaged. He watches for ten minutes, and arranges the table debris around the perimeter of his elevated dance floor, then leaps up to join the ceremony, lending his gorgeously convulsive and geeky movements to the beat. His pal, daughter of our friend is also keen, and busts a move more convincingly. Baby sequins in the sunlight turn her into a disco ball, and within moments, she’s pushed my goldilocks out of the way, taking the table for herself. Drinks fly, the boards of the tabletop bounce with flecks of potato crisps, and all eyes rest on her. I wonder if the podium dancers feel a chill as so many heated gazes shift simultaneously away from them and onto someone younger and prettier?
Mykonos is bizarre. There’s another part of course, the whitewashed stone, donkeys, pretty souvenirs, long lunches and short walks through the cobbled streets. But today we’ve been dragged to Paradise beach by our 23 year old companion. Here, the curtains don’t just part, they fall off their rails, and leave us with an overt display of modern pagan ritual. Sun worship, ceremonial robes of scant proportion, initiatory ambrosia (vodka-redbull) and of course the altars and fervent dancing. It’s decidedly grown up and I’m here with my kids.
And my Dad.
Although his age is at the other end of unacceptable, he’s not out of place, not in the slightest. He’s like a kid in a candy store. Berevement finally takes a back seat, as he finds the upside in not having his wife around to tell him not to look, not to drink too much, and definitely not to dance. He throws back two pints, then starts doing a gig on the sand. He’s an amalgam of Bill Cosby, Spike Milligan and Rainman. He moves with a shuffle, kicking sand in the imaginary faces of all who would tell him he’s too old to party. His cane becomes a tool of dance rather than fall-prevention. He’s wearing his clunky, orthotically doctored shoes and white socks pulled up to mid-calf. His black shorts are almost falling down, dragging with coins from the many countries he has visited in the last four weeks. He’s wearing a medical necklace that advertises his pacemaker, and it jingles and flies around as he shuffles with ageless glee. His cap says “Australian Meat”.
My husband laughs. So do our friends. Dad’s grinning so madly his face looks about to break. Our mirth draws eyes that this crazy Grandpa hasn’t already managed to attract with his caper and then the clapping starts. It doesn’t last long, but it’s fairly well dispersed to each set of palms within a 10 meter radius. He’s a star. He’s shown every lithe young body on this beach that you don’t ever have to lose it. That you’re never too old for Paradise.
Paradise Club is on a beach of the same name in Mykonos, Greece. It’s an all-day venue, and there is no age limit. However it gets pretty rowdy after the sun goes down. Family groups are better off keeping this venue to the daylight hours.
Getting there: Catch a bus from the top square of town. Timetables are on rubber time, so don’t get antsy if you have to wait. Scooters are a good option, but don’t drink (too much) and drive. Map
And, because I can’t leave you without just a few shots of Mykonos, here’s a little instagram gallery. I assure you, no shots are from Paradise beach.