If there is ever a time to put Champagne through the white-glove treatment, it’s for a visit from the Queen. Okay, perhaps not the Queen of England (she was busy overseeing her recent grandson’s wedding after all), but the Queen of the Jenkins’ household (Clare’s mom) and her royal partner–behind ever regal woman is a patient man–are just completing an epic month-long cruise that began in India and terminates in the Mediterranean where we have plans for a week together on the Greek island of Corfu.
Coming from the high-standards of a cruise ship, Pat and Ron act upon astute foresight and book us all a house for the week rather than attempting to join us on our 10-meter floating shoebox. And they didn’t get just any ol’ house…do you see these photos? Is there anyway we can make this an annual reunion? I don’t think the gods on Olympus can do much better.
In preparation of leaving the boat, we had reserved space in a marina to ensure safe keeping and easy access, but it turns out that Greece is full of public seawalls operating on a first come first serve basis. Considering it is still early in the cruising season we have little trouble finding space beside a friendly neighbor who (for a bottle of decent wine) agrees to keep an eye on our girl in our absence—this saves us a heap of cash and provides us an exemplary welcome to Greek hospitality. With the boat parked, we set about sprucing her up for the royal visit.
This isn’t the first time Clare’s parents have laid eyes on Champagne, but by god we’ll make sure it’s the best. On the day of their visit the seawall is inundated with fancy mega-yachts allowing us to feel a bit chuffed that the well-to-do are sharing the same space as our humble floating bottle. Climbing aboard requires a brave effort in transiting our makeshift gangplank–it was the best I could come up with under the circumstances–but Pat and Ron both prove to have capable sea-legs. But anyway, who wants to see a tired old boat when you have a villa and car on Corfu?
Clare’s mom gave me the nickname Zachari (rhymes with safari) when they visited us in the Florida Keys, and I do my best to maintain the reputation by plotting our travel routes for the most scenic drives and picturesque stops (okay fine, I use a guidebook). Although Corfu is not a big island, it is rugged and the roads are an absolute tumbling spaghetti mess of switchbacks, hairpin turns, and prolonged dead-ends to remote scenic coves where small cafes selling ice cream and cold beer make a living off of googly-eyed tourists such as ourselves.
Perhaps we don’t see it all, but then again who wants to be cooped up in a small sedan all day when you have an absolutely gorgeous three-storied villa at your disposal. We spend lots of time dipping in the pool, lounging on the sofas, and saving a buck or two by cooking-in most our meals. Time with family over the dinner table allows for the surfacing of history-rich conversation, which bubbles into rehashing forgotten memories and rehearsing dusty lineages—a pastime we are all happy to indulge.
Before you know it, we are driving the Jenkins to the airport and saying bittersweet goodbyes. According to Clare, she can’t remember passing a more trouble-free splendid week with her parents than this one, and there’s no doubt I thoroughly enjoyed myself–something, mind you, not everyone can say about time spent with in-laws! Pat and Ron have a series of long international flights to get them home to Melbourne, which hopefully provide a welcome opportunity to fondly reminisce on our postcard-perfect time in Corfu.
An extra day with the rental car allows us to provision the boat with Greek delicacies and fill our jerrycans with diesel for the boat. With the parents gone, it feels somehow inappropriate to spend anymore time than necessary on Corfu—better to leave our collective memories of the place on the highest of notes. Thanks again Pat and Ron, even if the rest of the summer somehow turns into a total flop, at least we have Corfu.