Hannah George

FOAM

This sunny weekend I have done a lot of daydreaming about Greece.  Several years ago I spent a summer there.  Right in the midst of the protests and riots and the economic crash, there I was in the sandy sunshine and salty waves. Greece is a monologue of photo opportunities.  Every side street, bicycle, church, and ruin insists on being photographed, painted and remembered.  But when I close my eyes, what is painted most vividly is foam. 

Foam tops Greece like the fluffy head of a root beer.  The foam made me thoughtful.  How many times I paused and watched the bubbly remnants fizzling on shore, or sipped coffee foam through a straw while overlooking the rugged mountains. 

On boating excursions, I positioned myself aft, where I could lean out and watch the foam churning to the surface of the water and finally exploding in soft white against the glassy blue waves. 

Foam still tickles my lips as I remember the famous Greek frappes.  I was coached to combine a tablespoon of instant coffee, sugar and a quarter cup of water.  Then whip whip whip whip as the foam filled up the sides of the glass cup.  The foam was so thick that it held half sunken ice cubes as though they were elevated by clouds.

Greece was exquisite, but while there I was forced me to grow up in sudden and painful ways.  I so quickly forget the loneliness, and frustration, the language barrier and vulnerability.  My memory is white washed by a glorious cloud of foam.