Sitting at a gorgeous café, looking out at the sea. The sky is a hazy blue and a strong southern wind sends big swells crashing into the rocky shore.
Once again, I’m thinking I should buy some land here. This place, right at the entrance to the wild Mani Peninsula, not far from Kalamata, feels like a hidden gem on the western Peloponnese. Behind me rises the awe-inspiring Taygetos range. This morning, the sight of its green foothills rising into barren, beige-grey peaks reminded me of the Sierra Nevada mountains in Colombia. I felt the same serene presence I did while visiting that secluded coffee farm, some invisible harmony in the landscape, impossible to explain, but deeply felt.
Kardamili is steeped in history. The ancient town, once mentioned by Homer in the Iliad as one of the cities offered by Agamemnon to Achilles, has long been a place of quiet magnetism. In modern times, it became a haven for artists, writers, and thinkers, especially after the legendary British travel writer and war hero Patrick Leigh Fermor made it his home. His stone house, perched above the sea, hosted a stream of literary and artistic figures throughout the second half of the 20th century. Bruce Chatwin, John Betjeman, and even Picasso’s circle are whispered to have visited. Fermor’s influence remains palpable. You can still sense it in the cobblestone alleys, the simple grace of local architecture, the lingering quiet that invites creation.
A year ago, I sat in this exact spot with her. We had stumbled upon the ten-year anniversary of the Kardamili Jazz Festival, organized, fittingly, by a Norwegian jazz club, while on one of our off-season road trips. That was the last trip we would take together. The final chapter of a life we had shared for a decade. A chapter I am only now learning to truly appreciate, as the reality of our breakup slowly settles into the marrow of my bones.
After Kardamili, we followed the coast north and spent a week free-camping at Omega Beach, near Costa Navarino. We swam naked in the sea every morning before sunrise. We made love a couple of times, the empty kind I had come to accept. Quick, disconnected. She had no patience for anything else, and I had stopped asking.
By then, she had made it clear that she no longer desired me. Looking back, it had probably been like that for years. Just before that trip, she told me she wanted to end our marriage, or at least begin seeing other people. She confessed that I had never really been her type. She liked dark-haired men with dark eyes. She described in detail an old German boyfriend she once adored, how she couldn’t believe he ever agreed to go out with her. Then, just as casually, she explained why it didn’t last: he was anti-social and negative.
I still clung to hope. There’s a voice message from her, sent while I was traveling to Denmark and Norway. In it, she tells me not to worry, that she didn’t mean what she said, and of course we’re not going to break up.
But I wasn’t innocent either. I had arranged a meeting with a young woman from Kristiansand in Copenhagen. We had met under strange circumstances in the airport just before my father passed. Even stranger, we crossed paths again at a remotely located Aurora concert. I needed to see her again. Nothing happened, but we’ve kept in touch. And yes, I still wonder what it meant.
Back then, I was desperate to find someone new before my wife officially left me. I never could have predicted how it would happen. She had once confessed to a fascination with Black men, tracing it back to reading The White Masai in her early teens, a book about a German woman who falls in love with a Masai warrior. So when she rerouted our Japan trip to Tanzania, I should have known what was coming.
But that’s a story I’ve told before.
Now, I’m here, surrounded by rock, sea, and sky. The thermal wind rustles the olive tree above me, its leaves dancing to the rhythm of the song in my ears. I always write to Eminem’s Mockingbird instrumental these days. It’s almost a form of meditation. The words just pour out.
I try not to think about the fact that she is likely on a beach in Kefalonia right now, with her new African boyfriend. Just a few hours up the coast, our coast. Our favorite island. Free camping. Cheap hotels. She’s probably showing him the same hidden spots, like that tiny pebble beach beside the Italian restaurant where we used to pitch our tent in secret after sunset.
They say it’s good to revisit the places that shaped your love. A pilgrimage of sorts, for hurt and healing. It reminds me of the novel I wrote during our early years together. A story about a man who travels back to the Greek island of Evia where his girlfriend died by drowning the year before. It was not just a journey to deal with his grief, but also an attempt to better understand the true nature of their turbulent relationship.
Looking back, it was almost prophetic. My subconscious saw her more clearly than I could, constructing an alter ego for both of us. It’s eerie to realise how much of the "real" her I captured, the parts she hid behind her fortress of psychological defences. “A masculinity cage you’re carrying on your back,” our couples therapist once said to her.
From the age of ten, she had to care for herself. Her mother was an alcoholic. Her father had died of cancer shortly after she was born. She became the adult in the house. Those years left her with a deep fear of death and a need to control everything. Later, after an abusive boyfriend, she had a breakdown. I only learned about that, and her childhood traumas, six years into our relationship, after another anxiety attack.
I wonder when the next one will come. Choosing a guy ten years younger as your next great love rarely ends well. Especially when it involves living in a poor village in Africa. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.
What I can do is take care of myself. This spiritual path I’ve started feels real, and I need to honor it. I have to cut back on drinking, it slows me down. I need to focus on creating the men’s circle in my garden, and the yoga space in my home. I’ve taken steps, reached out to yoga teachers, made local connections. After I sell my company next month, it’ll be time to move faster.
I’ve also reconnected with a jazz band here, The Daisy Sisters. Two talented young women and their boyfriends. I’m thinking of inviting them to play at my garden opening this September.
But for now, I must go. The wingsurfing conditions are perfect, and the sea is calling.