Hey, free taxi from the port! Free ouzo with grenadine (it's pink, see?)! And you don't have to come into contact with a single person who doesn't speak english (unless you're in the room when the cleaning staff comes in). In the brief time we were there, we got to talk to one of the waitstaff (all Australian, while the kitchen was staffed with Americans), who said he'd been there for five years: and learned only enough Greek to tell the maids (all natives, of course) which rooms to clean.

Although we had nothing against drunkenness per se and would indulge in it frequently while on the island, the brand of drunkenness there forced us to flee from its empty idiocy. There are all kinds of vacationers out there - we were the kind that ran from all American accents. Also, i hate grenadine.

Our stay at the Pink Palace was the great humiliating secret of our month of travel. It made us feel degraded and dirty, and gave Erik some kind of illness that made him appreciate so much less the beautiful rest of the time we spent on Corfu, that March, warm March, pre-tourist season, a week of olive-and-wine-colored dream.

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