Have I told you about my scooter? Well, let me say first that I’m using the “my” in that previous sentence rather loosely and what I really mean is: Have I told you about the scooter I rented for a week in June and the wild adventures I had on it?

I’ve never really thought of myself as someone who is “into” transportation. I mean, there are things that I’m into, like now for example, I’m into baking with blackberries and I’m into the rope swing at the lake. I’m even into drinking beer on the patio. But this will make my fourth blog post about transportation. So I guess it turns out I’ve got something to say about it.

Mainly, what I want to say is this: A girl could get used to life via scooter. Motor scooter that is. I mean, have you tried it?


At this point I should probably acknowledge that I didn’t really try any advanced moves (like, for example, the one seen above) on the scooter. In fact, my most advanced move was riding on the back with enthusiasm. Of course, I did try to drive the scooter–who wouldn’t–but after veering into a pothole and nearly slamming into an orchard wall on a narrow Greek street, I realized I might ought to stick to what I do best, co-piloting with the camera:


After a long trudge (okay, longish) through wild sage bushes and eleven (minimum) varieties of prickly vegetation (most of which I notice, decide to avoid, lose my balance while avoiding and then step directly on) under the glaring mid-afternoon sun, no treat is as sweet, not even ice cream, as hopping on our scooter. Justin up front, me behind him with the pack full of our climbing gear, we cruise along the island’s winding seaside roads, gazing up at the endless rocky cliff faces, thinking, maybe that one tomorrow then, ooh, maybe that one. We zip along past bushes of pink and white flowers planted along both sides of the road, their bright flowers in full bloom, and gaze at tiny white chapels with bell towers and Agean-blue roofs.  It’s the picturesque world I envisioned when I heard the phrase “Greek Islands”, only it’s zipping by in full-color with the roar of a small, fuel-efficient motor crooning in my ear.  I won’t even mention the built-in excuse to throw my arms around a hunky rock climber and nuzzle my cheek right up to his neck, our ill-fitting helmets knocking romantically against one other in the crepuscular light.

Maybe I make it sound silly, but really, really, I couldn’t have been happier.



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