A small village of 700 or so clings to a steep hillside of the Argolian coast in a place known as Xiropigado. The beach is of pebbles, the water is every shade of blue, and existance is very sleepy. Many eek out an living renting domatia to Athenian weekenders and stray foreigners. Some grow olive or citrus trees. Others seem to earn a living cruising the village's two or three streets on their noisy motorbikes. I am passing my time swimming and torturing the locals with pantomime peppered with the ocassional poorly pronounced greek word. Basil will return soon and our adventure will continue.
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