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Published: September 9th 2006
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If you've ever been to Mykonos, the spelling of the title should immediately bring to mind the sound of the island's mating call...Myykonooos! When you first hear 'Myykonooos' (probably from a pack of drunk Italians flying by 3 per scooter), you think to yourself, "that is the epitomy of uncool. Who does that?" But this is the island of Dionysus, the god of the harvest, the ultimate party host. Spring time debauchery was celebrated in his name. Large statues of male phalluses were *ahem* erected in his honor. He will get you drunk, provide a feast for the eyes as well as the body, and seduce you into his ways. The following are his tactics...
Around 3pm the first day you'll be sitting on Paradise Beach and the DJ will turn up the music and in a baritone voice between sets power out a low (try to hear if you can)...'Myykonooos.' You may not notice for the first 5 hours since you're soaking up all the tanned bodies and beautiful water, but it's there, lurking in the background. As the sun starts sinking towards the horizon, the beach chairs are abandoned for the bar. Young Italian men are swarming
Super Paradise 2
A typical view on Mykonos. I may not be able to talk to 'em, but that doesn't stop me from loving 'em. Viva Italian Women! any warm female body in sight. Subsequently the beautiful young things find refuge away from them dancing on the bar. The human animals are practicing their mating dances for the early morning hours. A man wearing nothing but a banana hammock (aka stripper thong) stands next to a topless go go dancer and shouts into the microphone...'Myykonooos.' The persuasive power of positive association is at work. Around midnight you are a little tired, ready for dinner and a drink at the bar. You're standing in the doorway to your hotel room checking your pockets for everything and anything you might need for a night out when you hear Dionysus quietly calling for you in the distance...'Myykonooos.' It sounds enchanting coming over the hills. You have the strength to dismiss it, but notice a fresh hop in your step on the way in to town. After your gyro dinner but before you suck down a flaming lambroghini with the new friends you just made, you'll hear it echoing anonymously through the narrow maze of the old town...'Myykonooos-oos-os.' It's only a matter of time. You make the rounds in town and get to the club around 3am, wondering if you've arrived too
Tropicana, Paradise Beach
At the end of the day people abandon the beach chairs for dancing on the bar. early. It doesn't matter. You're soon sitting at a table, channelling Dionysus through a bottle or two of vodka with your new friends. Before you know it the place is packed and you are dancing the night away. The ex-stripper turned fire-dancer and DJ wants to hear the crowd scream, so through thumping bass, an uptempo high pitch voice shouts over the music (and I know you can hear it now)...'Myykonooos!' Bass thumps your very being: woomp! woomp! woomp! woomp! The brightly feathered females go crazy throwing their hands in the air, enticing the males to use their best moves. The dance goes on into the early morning hours, well after the sun has risen, thinning out as guys give up or go home with their proud prizes...'Myykonooos.'
The next day you wake up around 2 or 3pm (probably because a pack of drunk Italians are singing "World Hold On" or "Ride the White Horse" as loud as they can.) You meet up with your friends and refuel with an orange fanta and another round of gyros for brunch. Everyone recaps the ending to their nights. Success here, an early night there. A camera is passed around, reminding someone
jersey boys
These guys are trouble. Fathers hide your daughters. they spent 2 hours dancing in their boxers on a stage with a brass stripper pole. Everyone has a good laugh and pats him on the back 'well done.' He counters with a tale not befitting even an internet blog. More pats on the back. Someone mentions they wish they never had to leave. And that's when it hits you. It was never a mating call. It's the echo of memories. A reverberation of the night before. The glory of the past and the potential of the future. It's a shot of red bull for the weary; a flaming lambroghini for the hard charger. It's the first of old memories with new friends; a new memory with old friends. It's a momentum builder for drunk banana hammocked Italians. It's a battle cry for fire-dancing ex-stripper DJs. By the first round of Mythos on the second day there is nothing else that can sum up your memories of last night and your hopes for the coming night so succinctly. So you put pride aside, raise your glass, and shout it out...'Myyyyykoooonooooooooooos!!'
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Christina
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Viva Italian Men!!! Sounds like a great trip. I am SOOOO jealous I can't stand it. By the way, I dreamt that I saw you at my doctor's office last night! I was like, " Wow you're back already! How was the trip!?" I know, random.....