beautiful things instantaneously

I was in Santorini exactly this time last year. Within a year, many things changed, and I am no longer the same old Kapa traveling alone. Eventually I put my story of Santorini into words and images and have it published in the Zing Magazine in Shanghai. Here's the story:

Santorini：失心

 
Xing Zhao

当我透过埃及蓝木门间的玻璃向里张望时，一个男人正在做他的晨间运动。他是一个三十出头的男人，深色头发，身材瘦小。他戴了眼镜，穿了一件日本电影“圣战”的T Shirt.而他周身所围绕的，是满架满架的书。“我想问你几点开门？”我问道。

这是一间小小的英文书店，在希腊的火山岩小岛Santorini的小镇Oia上。小镇上布满了岩石建造的洞穴房子，一味的涂成了雪白的颜色，漂浮在蓝色的海洋上，挤的满满的，却都没有门牌号。亚特兰蒂斯书店就在其中的一间洞穴的地下室。几年前，Craig, Oliver还有Chris借了一笔钱，选了书，再将书运到岛上，便来到了Santorini.和其他人一起，他们从海边捡了漂流木，在那个洞穴里搭起了书架和床，将书店建了起来。从此，希腊的小岛上便成就了世界上的第二个莎士比亚书店：一个旅行者，作家与他们所爱的书的家园。

“那你今晚有地方住吗？”Luke问道，且带着伦敦北部的口音。我告诉他没有。于是他给了我一张书店最里面的木头床，在书架与书架的之间，我成为书店的宿客。在巴黎多年之后，Luke现在生活在意大利与希腊。作为一个三十几岁却未有分文的男人，他却熟悉书店里的每一本书，且在写作一本小说。

等我下午从海边游泳回来时，我认识了John,那个诗人。John是个英俊的年轻威尔士人，他有着浓重的牛津口音和略微神经质的表情，说话时微微的口吃。他在书店已经住了两个礼拜了，正要搬去柏林从事全职的写作。当Natalie爬上房顶时，我和John正在清扫最近的一场风暴给露台带来树枝与沙尘。Natalie大概25岁的样子，皮肤晒黑，加利福尼亚口音。她站在一旁跟我们说着话，巨大的太阳眼镜盖住她的大半张脸。她住在岛上已经一年半了。爱上了这个地方，于是从此便没有离开过。在她的旅游签证到期之后，她成为了希腊的非法居民。夏天她是一家餐馆的女招待，而其余没有游客的日子里，她便不工作，而只是过她的生活。

就这样，我开始了我的岛居生活。早上10点起床，给自己做早餐和咖啡；吃早餐时也看书店。总是听见好奇的游客从楼梯上走下来，说着“看，一家书店！”他们常常是美国人，有时是英国人或者欧洲人。我和他们聊天，帮他们找书。安静时我便在那里一边听爵士，一边读希腊神话。我坐在屋顶的露台吃午饭，在地中海的万丈日光里，脚下便是深蓝色的爱琴海。午后的时光总是沙滩，和一本书在一起。而沿路回家时吃一根Magnum的冰激淋。天黑前，我漫步到游客聚集的海边去看世界上最壮丽的日落之一。黄昏时对面小店的女孩子总是Luke Luke的唤着要我们将路灯点上；此刻店门口的金银花也开始散发甜香。晚上，我给书店里的人做饭，而晚饭之后则是更多的茶与诗歌的诵读。有一些夜晚的时光则是在星空下抽着烟喝着葡萄酒度过的。

有一夜我们在Natalie的洞穴房子里做希腊肉丸到凌晨3点。那一晚我们喝了很多酒，抽了很多烟，且抚拍了很多进来借宿的流浪狗。我问Natalie是否后悔当初的决定，如今成为非法岛民。她倚在半开的木门上，抽着一跟烟，在一天的工作后显得一脸疲累，但是笑容柔和甜美，“我觉得已经找到我的幸福，这便是我想要的人生。”

Santorini是一个夏天里的美丽乐园，但是冬天来时，却仿佛一个被遗弃的孤岛，只是雪白，难得见到人迹。它是个孤独的地方，只有流浪的猫狗。但是冬天对于Natalie，却是和渔夫一起打鱼的季节。在这样的岛屿，住着更多知道或者不知道自己到底要什么的人。但是Santorini对于热爱一切美好事物的人来说，有着自己的生活步调，缓慢而且美好。

当我离开Natalie的家时，渐渐已是黎明。走在这个火山小镇的边缘上，身边的大海正在初夏渐明的天光里醒来。我轻轻的将书店的门推开。Luke正睡的香甜。Raki,那只总是徘徊在书店的流浪小狗，静静的跟了我进来，跳上了一张床，便睡下了。

Santorini: the Lost Heart

 Xing Zhao

When I peeked through the glass window of the blue-framed door that morning, a man was doing his morning exercise. He was a man in his early thirties, dark hair, small and slim. He wore spectacles and a brown T-shirt from the Japanese film Battle Royal. He was surrounded by shelves of books.  “I was wondering what time you open?” I asked.

This was a small English language bookshop in the town of Oia, on the volcanic island of Santorini, of Greece. In a town without house numbers, Atlantis Books was located in the basement of one of the numerous whitewashed Mediterranean cave houses. A few years ago, Craig, Oliver and Chris settled a debt, found books, shipped them and came to Santorini. Together with some others, they collected driftwood from the beach, and built a bookshop with beds. From then on, Atlantis became a second Shakespeare and Co: a home to travellers, writers and their beloved books.

“Do you have a place to stay tonight then?” Luke spoke with a north London accent. I said, “Not really.” With his invitation, I was given a bed among the bookshelves, in the back room of the bookshop. After spending years in Paris, Luke was living and travelling between Italy and Greece. As a thirtysomething man with no money, Luke knew every single book in the shop and he was writing a novel.

When I came back from a swim in the cove, I met John, the poet. John was a good-looking young Welshman with an Oxford accent and a nervous look. He stuttered a wee bit when he spoke. He had been staying in the bookshop for a couple of weeks before moving to Berlin to write full-time. When Natalie came up to the terrace, John and I were sweeping off the remnants from a recent storm. Natalie was in her mid-twenties, tanned and spoke with a California accent. With half of her face covered under her novelty sunglasses, she stood, chatting with us while we were working. She had been on the island for a year and half. She fell in love with the place and decided not to leave, thus, she became an illegal resident after her tourist visa had expired. She worked as a waitress during the summer, and for the rest of the year, she just lived her life.

So it is, I began my island life in a bookshop. In the mornings, I’d get up at 10 am, make myself some breakfast and coffee; watched the shop while having breakfast. I’d hear curious tourists walking down the stairs with comments like “look, here is a bookshop!” Often they were Americans, sometimes British or Europeans. I’d talk to them, or help them find books. When it was quiet, I listened to Jazz and read Greek Mythology. I’d have my lunch in the glorious Mediterranean sun on the terrace, which overlooked the dark blue Aegean. My afternoons were often spent on the beach with a book, and a Magnum ice cream on the way home. Before the dusk, I’d go to where the tourists gathered to see the one most dramatic sunsets in the world. In the dusk, the Greek girl from the shop next door would call “Luke, Luke”, telling us to turn on the lamp outside the bookshop; and you start to smell the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle flowers. In the evenings, I’d cook a dinner for whoever was there. More tea and poetry reading would follow after dinner, and some of the night time was spent smoking cigarettes and drinking wine under the stars.

One of my nights in Santorini was making Greek meatballs in Natalie’s cave house at 3 am. We drank lots of wine, smoked lots of cigarettes, and patted street dogs who came in for a shelter. I asked Natalie whether she regretted her decision, that she would never be able to leave this country. She was leaning on the half-opened wooden door and having a fag. Her face looked tired after a long-day’s work, but her smile was all soft and sweet, “No. I think I’ve found my happiness. This is what I want in life.”

Santorini is a wonderland in the summer, but when winter comes, it’d become a deserted island with only whiteness but little sign of people. It’d become a lonely place with street dogs and cats. However, winter for Natalie was for fishing with a local fisherman. On this island, live many other people who know or do not know what they want in life. Nevertheless, for people who love all beautiful things in life, Santorini has its own pace, nice and slow.

When I left Natalie’s flat, the dawn was already breaking. I walked on the edges of the volcanic town, and the ocean was just waking up in the early summer twilight. Quietly I opened the bookshop door. Luke was soundly asleep. Raki, the street dog who came to the shop all the time, quietly followed me in, jumped into one of the beds and went to sleep.

 The magazine version of On A Midnight Express to Istanbul