A balcony of one's own

My entire paradise is defined by one tiny patch of man-made shelf. It is my apartment balcony, in which I happily centre my whole Kefalonian life around. Imagine living somewhere you could wake each morning, open shutters onto a balcony and eat your breakfast overlooking the sea. In summer it seems calm and benevolent, a pale shimmering blue on the horizon. In winter I imagine it to be powerful and raging, a dark dangerous blue black. Stephanos says they sometimes hate it here, the unwavering sunshine. It reminds me of Kenny saying the exact same thing in Israel. I love the heat, the feel of it soaking into my skin as though I am a sponge which has been left in the cold and rain for months on end. Yet I can see the British seasons are a unique and wonderful thing, which I would miss if I were exiled from them. The red-gold of autumn and the new shoots of life in the spring after the dread and drear months of January and February. I imagine also it is the necessity of change; I know all too well the stagnation of routine, the monotony of the same thing day after day. I crave change so I imagine after a year of constant sunshine maybe I would say the same as Stephanos. I could never grow tired of living by the sea though and getting to spend so much of my day outside.

I start each day on this balcony and I come to love it like it's my own. A space where I am private yet can see outside, to the sea, to the olive groves and bougainvillea. I have my own tiny world from which I watch others' comings and goings; the Swiss She-Ra who lives across from the Studios and happily joins the men in their brick-walling labours. I can see her organising them all and hefting boulders around as though they weigh nothing. She is tanned like a nut and her body looks strong and taunt. She has a shock of blonde hair. I think at first that she is in her forties and am all amazement at her fitness levels. Later at an evening meal at the bar, I meet her, and discover she is in her seventies. She tells me that she goes wind surfing when she has a break from building the wall. We are all of us stunned into laughter and awe at her unconventional lifestyle. The Greeks think she is insane. I rather admire her eccentricity. Then there is Stephanos' family, his brother's children who live across from the apartments. His granddaughter has all the adults wrapped around her small chubby sweet clasping fingers. She runs rings around her mother who yells at her to no avail. This small child is a force of nature. There is also Pari, the apartment dog who barks at every disturbance. I ponder the potential reward and discord of a family business where every family connection is so strong and so embedded in the business of the apartments. Do the brothers ever fall out? Does the business element clash with the emotional aspect of the family?

I could be so happy in this small apartment, my every day defined by balcony sunshine and writing. A 'lady writer', a modern-day Nancy Mitford. If only I had her wealth...