There is definitely something liberating about them—these little barren mountain tops which stick up out of the Aegean Sea, forming some of the most beautiful islands on Earth. I arrived on Mykonos in the midst of that summer by ferry from the port of Rafina, on the Greek eastern mainland. Amid the turquoise water of the port, the place was on fire in June with tourists from everywhere that evening. They all were milling though the narrow, labyrinthine streets with their colorful, scant attire and the smell of suntan lotion, sweat and perfume synergizing seductively in the air.

        My research had explained these spiraling pathways between shops and eateries on this unique island as simply an ancient defense system against pirates. Yeah, those real marauders from the 13th to the 19th centuries. Barbaric and murderous men, always too happy to take gold, silver, food and women back to their native lands at the southern and eastern edges of the Mediterranean. Between the Ottoman Turks who ruled all the Greek islands for some four-hundred years and the Saracen ship raiders from north Africa pillaged these islands regularly. The local villagers of Mykonos had to use any form of trickery they could muster just to stay alive. When a pirate ship pulled into the little port and its attackers freely stormed into the homes of the village to do their carnage, usually killing the men and boys, raping and abducting the females, the little populous would stream out into the spiraling cobbled streets, often successfully alluding their pursuers by confounding them by the maze of pathways. It was a real cat and mouse game at best, but the labyrinthine footpaths proved over time to be the best hope of the island's survival.

         Today these narrow streets still confound the seasonal visitor, but delightfully so, as the wanderer is constantly discovering one little art gallery or jewelry shop after another along these  paths, often never finding them again in the matrix of bars, tavernas, and the ever-present island clothing shops which comprise the central town on the waterfront.

         After securing my reserved room, just one winding street and a series of marble stairs up from the gentle lapping sea, I looked out my window to catch the sun just setting at nine-thirty in the evening. The hills above the port were dotted with what seemed to be a myriad of white boxy houses sporting blue, green and turquoise doors and windows. Some were bunched together within the field-stone walls covering the hills, and some up higher still, were of immense size and standing alone as grand villas. These palatial homes languished in the pink and orange light, amid more fortified walls and substantial roads. Looking at these more luxurious abodes in the distance invited the question of who it was that had the good fortune of staying so isolated and exclusively private in these beautiful places. What inhabitants, I pondered, over the many years the island basked in the Mediterranean sun and pale blue starlight, had managed  to insulate themselves in the middle of the sea, so quietly and aloof?

        As I was to find out—some of these marble palaces were more than just about money and who could afford them. There was often a story which came with each, dating back hundreds of years, replete with the intrigue of pirates, royal blooded Venetians, Greek shipping tycoons and mysterious others who had carved out their opulent territory there. There was even, as I had diligently researched, legends of night stalkers--those nefarious individuals who were never content to stay in the grave. Personas I was to meet and experience up close and personal. 

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