September 8, 2010 / zachster

Mykonos: Boys at the Beach

It’s a whole new world, stepping off that boat and onto dry land. But the bumpy bus ride through the hills of Mykonos, South to Paradise Beach, brings back bad memories and fears of more cold sweats. It takes fifteen minutes, but feels like an hour. I’m in a daze as I check in to the hostel and dump my bags in the corner of my cabin. The white on white nothingness of the room is only briefly disorienting as I drop onto the mattress and sleep for three hours. I wake on the white sheets in the white room with the white storage cubby; the white shuttered window and door are closed to the fresh air outside. I’m suffocating inside an early iMac commercial.

I put on my swimsuit and step outside. I’m immediately refreshed by the cool ocean breeze under the hot european sun. The hostel is built just outside the beach, running in wide aisles of cabins and dormitories. I walk down the rows of identical bunkers, following the signs for BEACH –>. The large double doors open onto a food court with bars, food stations, and an array of eating areas. Beyond that, rocky sand. Beyond that, clear blue water.

None of the beaches in Greece have been very comfy. The sand ranges from gravel to granules with a few rocks and boulders thrown in for good measure. I wonder a bit on how Grecian beaches are always featured in those top beach lists of the travel journals and television shows. I wonder … until I turn from the natural beauty, however rough, to the clientele dotting the shore. The boys are sculpted and hairless, many holding hands. The girls are slim and tanned, many topless. Pop and hip hop blankets the sand from a dj booth farther up the beach. Dancers on tables spin inside the circles of worshippers. It’s mostly boys, piled up against each other, dancing, skin to skin. Farther out from the crowd, girls shake and bounce. This can’t be organic. It must have sprung from the screens of MTV beach houses across the world, teaching travelers what to do when they get to Mykonos.

I lay in the sand. I take to the water. I float. I drip dry.

I wander up the beach, glancing at the nudity as slyly as I can.

The Australians are hanging out too and we spend a while chatting. These aren’t the Australians from Paros (Livia, Van, Ngoc, Mina). They’re the girl friends (Amy, Kate) of the boy friends (Dan, Paul) of those Australians. It’s mostly Australians around here, I guess. Or at least they’re the ones speaking English and deigning to befriend Americans. We’re talking about the full moon party tonight at the beach club. It’s twenty euros, but promises to be a quintessential Mykonos night. It doesn’t get started until 1am, so I head into town to see what’s to see.

Like Santorini, Mykonos is adorable. Narrow streets snake through the town in a maze of art galleries, cafes, and shops. The larger venues are closer to the water, perched atop hills looking out over the piers. But the smaller ones, set further inside the maze offer more eclectic options. The paths through town are crowded. Tourists keep to lanes of traffic moving slowly past open doorways where the patrons are as pretty to ogle as the dishes and wares. I head closer to shore and eat at a cafe perched atop a cliff overlooking the water. I’m mostly killing time while I wait for the Aussie girls I left back in Paros to arrive by ferry. I’m finishing up as I see their ferry cross the horizon. By the time I get down to the port, it’s floated past and headed farther up the island. There are two ports on Mykonos, F your I. I picked the wrong one. It’s too far to walk, and I know they’ll have scattered by the time I make it over there. I say goodbye to my Aussie friends for a while and wander the streets, waiting for the clubs and bars to open.

The crowds are waiting for something. Everyone’s polished and dressed; too fancy for a night of wandering the shops. But it’s only eleven and the clubs stand open but empty. We’re waiting for a crash of revelry to let us know it’s okay to start the night. But by midnight the crash doesn’t come. It’s off in the distance somewhere, but running slower than my patience. I catch the bus back to the beach and wait for the full moon party to pick up. I stroll in around one am and it’s just starting to pick up. The headlining DJ isn’t on yet, but the dance floor is hip hopping around. It’s mostly boys dancing in big groups, with some girls satelitting near the edges. There’s a farther ring of straight guys trying to get the girls’ attention, but I don’t see much happening. The club is cool, dominated by a large swimming pool in the center. But it’s closed! And there’s no beach access from here! We can see the full moon overhead, but otherwise might well have been in town. Booze is pricey, and the bar lines are not long. An overflow of liquor would ignite the situation into awesomeness, but that’s not going to happen.

I mostly wallflower around and try not too look lonely. I’m not nearly as concerned with being lonely as looking lonely.

My favorite thing to watch is the group of Japanese boys improvising dance routines. I fear for a moment there will be a fight over who gets to be Neo in their interpretive Matrix dance. It’s a huge relief when they agree they can all be Neo.

Agent Greg is opening for Robin S (of the 90’s hit Show Me Love, obvs) and by the time he comes on, the crowd is jumping. Everyone’s having a good time, but it feels a little forced. Maybe I didn’t drink enough. It’s hard to let go when I feel penned in. It’s like one of those monster new years eve parties they throw. Everyone’s paid so much to be there, they’re sure as hell going to have a great time.

I check out around 4am with the party going strong. I saw what I wanted to see… plus a lot of dudes kissing. So it was a day well spent. I made the short walk back to my bleached beach bunker and quickly fall asleep.

Maybe it’s the ocean, or the sparseness of the room, but I sleep righteously here. I rise before noon and float in the ocean before I’m fully awake. I love the glamour and cuisine of this place, but all I really need is a good bed and a warm ocean. I head back to town and have an amazing lunch of muscles and risotto. The cafe is in a corner of town called Little Venice. There are no canals, but I dine on a balcony hanging over the sea. From the balcony next door, a little boy fishes with a little rod and catches a little fish. He goes inside for a little lunch. My wine is interrupted only occasionally by ambitious waves from the rolling water far below.

I’m back on the bus for some more time at the beach when I get a text from Van. We meet up on the sand, and I’m happy to be with a group again. Traveling alone is a vicious cycle of camaraderie and solitude; each feeding my need for the other. We lay in the sand and play in the water until the warmth fades at last. By then, the beach dance party has started (every day from 4pm to 8pm) and we ogle the gyrating crowds.

The girls wait for me to get changed, and we head back to town. Before going back to their hotel we stop at a market and buy a bottle of tequila and some mixers. Once everyone’s showered and dressed, we sit around a table and (one at a time as we have just one glass) down mixed shots of tequila and juice. When half the orange juice is gone, we fill the carton back up with tequila and start the walk back into town. By the time we get there, we’re nicely sloshed. Van especially seems toasted and eagerly grabs at the carton for more. Being the gallant gentleman I am, I finish it off to save her from further inebriation. It’s the least I can do…

Walking along the shore, we run into a young girl, playing alone with a large stick. It’s late. She’s alone. It’s weird. We strike up a conversation and get pulled deep into this odd story of hers. Her story seems made up, based on some things we tell her and things she’s heard from others. She’s from California. She’s from Orange County. Her parents work at a restaurant here. Something about the way she goes on and on terrifies me. I’ve seen too many horror films where the demon is a young child. I might actually be afraid of children now. At least when they’re carrying a big stick. As we’re talking, a number of people walking by stop and greet the girl by name. These are other tourists, and it seems like they’ve also been pulled into her stories. We play for a while, but when we leave, I feel like I’m running away.

This night is livelier than the last. The full moon parties at the beach clubs split the population but tonight everyone’s in town. We run in and out of clubs, trying to find what’s happening. A lot of them are empty. I’m especially sorry that “Jacuzzi” is completely dead. Photos at the door show half naked boys and girls dancing in a hot tub. But it’s a wasteland inside and we don’t want to be in there alone. A few of the clubs offer us free drinks to come inside. They’re all looking for that initial bump to draw a crowd. We stay for a while and take some silly pictures, but then move on to the next.

Mostly we stream down the streets, following the crowds. I think it’s the pressure of being a minority, but that’s no excuse for the hordes of straight men who roam the streets looking for girls to accost. They’re handsier than a drunk santa at an xmas party. It’s kind of a bummer to see this kind of behavior in a place where everyone is so friendly. At least they don’t seem to be American. I couldn’t take it if they were.

There’s a strong vibe that the night’s winding down around 2 or 3 when we run into Dan and Paul. I haven’t seen them since leaving the boat, and the girls haven’t seen them since Paros. Maybe Mykonos is only meant to be seen in the arms of gay men. They pull us deep into a club in Little Venice. We’d walked in this place before, but the throngs of men, grinding into each other soon pushed us back out into the street. Our respective genders and preference were found lacking. But with Dan and Paul, we slip quickly up to the second floor where there’s room to dance and booze. The guys are so fun, and there’s a steady stream of characters floating through the club. Bodybuilding boys dance with themselves in the mirrors, shirts off and eyes fixed. Tiny queens, dance with runway girls. Mina rides Paul like he’s a horse. Good times. Good times.

We stop about an hour after the sun comes up. Walking out bleary eyed into the morning light, shirtless men stand under a rainbow flag. It reminds me of the scene in City of Angels where the angels meet at the beach for sunrise. But they’re in LA, so the sun rises away from the water, so they stand with their backs to the ocean. Here in Mykonos, the boys stand with their backs to the water, facing the club where they spent the last six hours.

It’s my last day on the islands. I don’t want to miss anything, but I need a few hours of sleep. And then it’s back to the beach. We hit a different one this time. It’s a bit more posh and a bit less crowded. The rocky shore at one end has been crafted into a makeshift pool; the mossy rocks cushioning stone seats. It’s neat, but also a little gross.