On this December day my mind strays back, back to Corfu, hard to believe that only three months ago I was lying there, baked in heat. Today in my kitchen I am escaping to where I sat outside on a small patio; It is early morning time and the voice of the sea is a gentle voice, a soft, tender voice. From the balcony overhead comes the babbling of a young child, possibly Greek, asserting himself. Otherwise the air is still around me and within me. My feet are bare. I wear little, a thin cotton shift. Here it is really too beautiful for words. Cyprus trees hug the mountain side that falls down toward the sea. White houses line the golden beach.The partner to our hostess, Vagelis, picks figs from the tree below us, eating them as he goes. Breakfast. The lavender blue sea, the ocean fills all the gaps. It sits there, well not sits there but it's O god, I don't know really, it speaks to you, it is saying that there are greater powers at work, it reminds you of how beautiful life can be. Here the sea shimmers and heaves like a swell of liquid silver, a mother of pearl sea. Later, I amble into the bathroom and throw the shutters wide open, I shower as I overlook the mountain and the sea allowing the water to flow over me until I see Vagelis approach with a plate of figs in his hand. A gift from the gods, Vagelis gracefully takes a bow and his wrinkled nutmeg face breaks into a smile as he places the chipped ceramic plate on the patio table. Then he turns away and walks toward the sea, his head held high, his step light.