House where wind lives

Spacious breaks into the lungs, fills the whole body as weightlessness, tears off the ground. Make the last effort – and up, up. Paved, straightening hands-row, swell through the tight jet of incredibly transparent air. All above. For me, the rocky island in the pearl of the surf necklace with white-blue spots of the villages and greens of vineyards. In the ears barely heard slim bell tape: "Dilin Dilin Dilin Dilia, Santorini, Santorini. " Knock at the door. Without leaving heaven yet, mechanically moving and open, "Your luggage, ma’am", – uncertainly, as if apologizing for the invasion, pronounces tanned Greek with white, like sea foam, teeth.

I’m on Santorini, Island in the Aegean Sea. I just entered my new home for the next few days, and I’m getting wrong, . indescribable sad because it will soon come from here to leave.

As soon as I found myself on Santorini, I loved this little Greek islands with huge and honest love. More precisely, I shared with him my first love, which is entirely given to the Crimea. Trampled a small piece of his first love and gave him Santorini. The piece instantly rummaged to the scale of the island itself, and maybe more, right up to the mysterious extinct volcano far into the sea, which decorates my new view from the window. I feel here at home. I am all familiar to me. Beautiful views that open up almost everywhere, endless, blue-blue spaces dissolving in the dairy whiteness of the horizon. Transparent air, smooth, drowing air jets, in which they like, light clouds, continuously changing watercolor sky, coming up at the night of the star, descending so low that you can stroke their velvety backs. The plexus of myths and reality, the harmony of nature and man-made beauty, endless blue of sea and narrow black stripes of sandy beaches – this is my Santorini. My house here is called "House winds" – it is one of five houses that are all called "Citurose collection" (Tsitouroos Collection). And this is a really real collection of beautiful works of art, which has become, thanks to the efforts of Dimitris Cycuros of the famous designer and collector, – the small Greek village of Firostefani, admitted to the rocks of the island high above the sea, the guests of this little hotel were many celebrities. Among them are friends of Dimitris – Gianni Versace and Franke Mosquino. Every house wears your name: "Sea House", "House portraits", "House of Porcelain", "House Nureyev", And, of course, my "House winds". It may seem that houses are filled with objects, things, furniture, paintings, drawings and other things,. You can describe the ancient amphoras with traces of shells, Byzantine icons, Venetian lamps, porcelain plates, French engraving. In fact, at home literally woven from fantasies, gots, small and large incarnations of thoughts and feelings of their creator. "Sea House" Welcomes you with a wide fan wave carrying on your feet sea treasures: an old sea chest, ceramic fishery of Picasso (which I do not expect at all), marine cards, fragments of amphorous and our icon of St. Nikolai – Patron Sailors. "House portraits" takes into the past, from where you look at you thoughtful faces from vintage canvases, Lord Byron and Teresa Macci – Echo of the old love, sadness of parting and delight of meetings. Bronze Kandelabrov is reflected in the mirrors in gilded frames, and the memories of the careless youth of the last century are spinning in a silent dance. "House of Porcelain" – This is a continuation of the white-blue sentiment of Santorini in the collection of China famous plants Minton and Royal Copenhagen. Another equally interesting collection – the objects of the old furniture of different eras and styles that peacefully coexist in the warm lemon color of walls, tapped in the window openings of the Aegean Sea Pierce. The most air, the most flying and weightless, as if Bolero, frozen in a long jump, is "House Nureyev". Above all other houses, with a spacious open veranda, breaking into azure far, it is as if it is specifically designed for lovers. Veranda is a real treasure. In the evenings, the grand presentation of the famous sunsets of Santorini is played here, more beautiful than whose indescribable, there is no indescribable. On the walls of the house – a collection of drawings depicting Rudolph Nureyev during his Athenian tour. And, of course, my house, mysterious "House winds". Why mysterious? Because the wind lives here. In the morning he is playful and gentle as a child. It breaks off with the sea freshness in the open window, strokes the cheek, confuses the hair, swears on the rooms with vaulted ceilings, staining everything around into transparent blue tones, freezes for a second in the living room, faced with funny cherubs, sitting on the ancient Venetian oil lamp, breaks down Again, to, slapping the door, come back again and demand the game, movement. Having lured me out of the house, he flies forward, throws me on the narrow streets of the fira, stealing dust on the stones of the ancient city, in the ruins of which hurt the time, sweels my dress on the black sandy beaches of the island, takes away the towel and, finally, the charter goes around near the sun , only occasionally touching hair strand. In the evening, he changed, it seems sad, curling out in my room on the marble of an antique column adapted under the table. Sings about something, first quietly, then sharply screw and keeps a high note until it calms down. At night suddenly wakes up, trying to get to me under the blanket, whispers in the ear that alone, tells the confusing stories of his infinite life. I first listen, then fall asleep, happily a monotonous melody, tomorrow you need to get up early in the morning, hours in six or a little earlier, when the roofs of the churches have not yet been painted blue and still dorms of the local cats with funny bells on collars, go to the balcony and wrapped in a blanket, Watch how the world of amazing beauty is born from the dark, shapeless space. Slowly awaken rocks – draw out of the wandering predestal shadows. Come to life and churches. Filled with paints and sounds of Firostefany, and with it and the collection of Mr. Citurose. A wakes awesome island, and the name of his singing of a ringing bell is spread over the waves of the Aegean Sea – "Santorini, Santorini, Santorini".