Grant and Kris on the Hora shora-line. I only wrote it that way so that Hora and shora would rhyme, but really it was just a shoreline.
The town of Hora on Mykonos was filled, though not to capacity, with friendly people, as a cookie box with cookies. They were very nice, but sparse like colors on a zebra. In fact, all the Greeks we met were incredibly friendly, like a dog with a peanut butter chewtoy. On more than one occasion we stopped someone to ask for directions, and found that they spoke as much English as an American teenager in South Dakota. But, they were very willing to go in search of someone who did speak our language to help us out, like an Eagle Scout at 23.00 trying to fit his good turn in before day's end. Okay, the similies have really got to stop... Downtown Hora has streets so anorexic that no motor cars can fit between the shoppes and flats. We parked our little lawnmower motors by some incredibly ineffective windmills (which showed astounding potential, if they only put the sails up) and headed into town to walk, whisper, and windowshop. I really liked the town, but not because of its anti-congestion or rising sealine slash sinking port.
I liked it because of its charismatic and fulfilling personality. I loved its meterstick streets and contiguouos buildings, welded together as affectionately as books on a shelf might be. I enjoyed the voluptuous coastline composing the Eastern border and the garrulous Greeks drying their aprons over the city walks. I ate happily on the smogless veranda and relished in the smooth air streaming in from the sea. I certainly gained a penchant both for Mykonos and its communities. The sunset that night, as seen from an ocean-battered stone housing windmills and lovers, was beautiful- as all sunsets and people should be.