Ode to Pink
In dawn's first light, a soft blush appears,
A whisper of pink that chases away fears,
A gentle hue that dances on the breeze,
Like petals of roses and cherry blossom trees.

Pink of the sunset, a sky's tender kiss,
Blending with twilight, a moment of bliss,
From coral to fuchsia, it flares, and it fades,
In the heart of the evening, where day meets night’s shades.

The boldness of magenta, fierce and bright,
A statement of passion, of strength, and might,
It paints the lips and the cheeks of the brave,
In a world that’s too often dark and grave.

Blush on a lover’s cheek, so gentle and shy,
The pink colour of a secret, a sweet lullaby,
It’s the soft flush of love, tender and true,
And gives a delicate promise in every hue.

Pink in the flowers, from garden to field,
The hue of warmth, the heart’s gentle shield,
It’s the silk of a gown on a midsummer’s night,
The flutter of wings in a soft, pink flight.

From the pale of a shell washed up on the shore,
To the vivid pink doors that beckon for more,
In all its forms and hues, pink is a muse,
A colour of dreams, where none can refuse.

As the mix between red's passion and white's purity,
Pink symbolises love, nurture, and compassion's surety.
It evokes comfort, warmth, and hope so bright,
A sign of good health is being “in the pink” light.

Pink is a success when “everything’s rosy”, we say,
Happiness was revealed in “tickled pink” today.
A colour that heals, soothes, and makes right,
Gives a gentle embrace in both day and night.

And finally, let’s toast with a Pink Lady so fine,
A cocktail of elegance with gin, lemon, and wine.
Shake 2 parts gin, 1 lemon juice and 1 grenadine's delight,
Add an egg white and shake with ice till it’s just right.
Strain into a glass, and sip slow, so stately,
Here’s to pink in life and a Pink Lady.

Hey, hey! Cheers to pink, in all its glory,
A spectrum of shades, each telling a story,
From the softest blush to the deepest rose,
In Pink’s embrace, the heart overflows.
Hydra, August 2024

There was something familiar about her, which was, of course, impossible. The beautiful woman beneath the enormous pink bougainvillaea aside Donkey Shit Lane was the spitting image of Sophia Loren as she appeared around the time of the movie *Boy on a Dolphin*, which was filmed on Hydra in 1956. So it couldn’t be her. Sophia is still alive at 89 and cannot just appear like a Time-traveller whenever and wherever she pleases. She would have to arrive by plane and take the catamaran from Piraeus like everyone else, not descend through one of space’s wormholes. She might have come as a guest on a billionaire’s yacht but couldn’t look as she did nearly seventy years ago. Only Time-travellers could manage that.

The thought of finding her on Hydra wasn’t entirely unreasonable, though. After the filming, the movie star had, on several occasions, showered the island with strong praise. Her beauty and talent had always inspired me, and I couldn't help but wonder if this woman was indeed the legendary Sophia Loren. Had I stepped forward and said something like “Mrs. Loren, I presume,” I would have certainly made a fool of myself. I had the presence of mind to take a picture; most people passing the blooming bougainvillaea do so, and no one could deny that the woman might have been Sophia Loren if time had somehow stopped in 1956. But it hadn’t, and I was on my way to the port and Pirate Bar. Had I hoped the woman was heading in the same direction, I would have been disappointed, as she soon turned toward the pharmacy while I continued straight down. I didn’t because a mature man is a realist.

The Pirate Bar, nestled in the heart of Hydra’s bustling harbour, is a timeless refuge for locals and tourists alike. Its rustic interior—wooden beams, weathered signs, and nautical décor—complete with a full-size pirate mannequin—exudes a laid-back, inviting, and nostalgic charm. The bar, a fixture since 1976, is steeped in history, with stories of Leonard Cohen’s son, Adam, and his wife regularly stopping by when they were on the island, adding to its allure. The very thought of this place evokes a sense of intrigue and eagerness to experience its unique charm.

I sat at a table outside near the front door, observing the harbour’s activity and the lively crowd. The sun was dipping lower, casting a pinkish hue over the boats bobbing gently in the basin. The evening was still young, and Pirate Bar was gradually filling with patrons, the gentle clinking of glasses mixing with the murmur of conversations. I had chosen an Ouzo with ice cubes and water, a refreshing combination you can sip on for a long time without it going to your head.

The corner table by the bakery was reserved, and I wondered if it could be Leonard’s son Adam and his wife who would be coming. It was their favourite table. But no, for soon, a very striking woman appeared. Her entrance was as vibrant as her personality. Dressed in a flowing, deep-red sundress that hugged her curves, she moved with a natural grace. Her dark, wavy hair cascaded over her shoulders, complementing her olive skin. She looked either Greek or Italian. Her presence was impossible to ignore; she was the type of woman who turned heads without trying. She carried a small, chic black handbag, and her strappy sandals clicked lightly against the floor as she walked. This was Alessandra, a woman with a magnetic charm and a love for life. Without hesitation, she ordered a glass of Chianti, her favourite red wine. She took the chair below the window, where the pinkish light from the sky highlighted the warm tones of her dress.

As Alessandra settled into a seat by the window, she sipped her Chianti, savouring the rich flavours. She looked out at the harbour basin, the corners of her lips curling into a smile. "There's something about Hydra in the evening," she mused to me. "It makes you feel alive, doesn't it?" she said, looking deeply into my eyes. “My name is Alessandra, and I’m from Genoa. Forgive us if we get a bit loud; my friends will be here soon, and we always have so much to talk about,” she said just as the first friend entered, her sharp eyes immediately spotting Alessandra. She had picked up her drink along the way. With her schnapps in hand, she approached the table and nodded in greeting. "Evening, Alessandra. Already starting with the wine, I see." Alessandra's vibrant personality and Ingrid's no-nonsense demeanour created an interesting dynamic at the table.

The Italian woman's introduction piqued my curiosity, so I ordered another Ouzo to see if the group of girls was worth listening to. I would soon find out.

Ingrid, a German, had arrived with the precision of a well-tuned clock. Her style was understated but elegant, with a tailored white blouse tucked into a pair of well-fitted navy trousers. Her blonde hair was cut in a sleek bob that framed her face perfectly. Ingrid’s pale blue eyes scanned the room with a sharpness that suggested nothing escaped her notice. She carried a structured leather tote, the kind that was both practical and stylish, and her low-heeled, sensible shoes tapped lightly as she approached the bar. Ingrid ordered a schnapps, a straightforward choice that matched her no-nonsense demeanour and sat beside Alessandra, offering her a polite nod. The characters' diverse backgrounds added an element of intrigue and interest to their stories. I could not have heard better sitting at their table. This was Greek drama at its best.

Alessandra chuckled softly, "You know me, Ingrid. Why wait? A glass of Chianti is the perfect way to begin the night. It’s a celebration of life itself."

Ingrid took a seat and glanced at Alessandra’s wine glass. "I can appreciate that. But I prefer something a little stronger to get things going," she said, raising her schnapps slightly before taking a sip. "How’s everything been? Still following Sophia Loren’s advice, I see."

Alessandra grinned. "Always. I’d rather enjoy myself than obsess over being a size 0. Life’s too short for that."

Ingrid nodded in agreement. "True, though I’ve been balancing indulgence with staying fit. It’s all about moderation."

As they spoke, Claire, an Englishwoman, arrived, her dress flowing gently as she approached. She greeted them warmly and ordered a pint of local beer before joining the table. "You two started early," she remarked, smiling as she sat down. Her approach was a bit more casual, and she was dressed in a comfortable floral dress that flowed just below her knees. Her brown hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and a few strands escaped to frame her round face. Claire’s makeup was minimal, just enough to highlight her kind eyes and rosy cheeks. A warm smile played on her lips as she greeted the bartender and ordered a pint of local beer. Claire was the type of person who enjoyed life’s simple pleasures, and a cold Weiss beer on a warm evening was one of them. She found a seat near the bar entrance, where she could easily converse with anyone nearby.

"We’re just getting warmed up," Ingrid replied, raising her glass to Claire. "How was your day?"

"Oh, busy as always," Claire said with a sigh, though her smile didn’t fade. "But I wouldn’t miss our Friday evening drinks for anything. I see we’ve already started discussing the finer points of indulgence."

Alessandra laughed. "You know how it is, Claire. We’re just talking about enjoying life. Like Sophia Loren said, ‘I'd rather eat pasta and drink wine than be a size 10.’ It’s about living, not just existing."

Claire nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of her beer. "I couldn’t agree more. There’s something to be said for savouring the moment. And speaking of which, this beer is hitting the spot."

The conversation flowed easily as the women caught up, the warm evening air and the clinking of glasses creating a relaxed atmosphere. Just then, Amélie arrived, her elegant jumpsuit catching the last rays of the setting sun. She ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and joined the table, her presence adding a touch of Parisian sophistication to the group.

Amélie, the Frenchwoman, had subtle confidence, and her presence was effortless and chic. Amélie wore a tailored black jumpsuit accentuating her slender figure, with a thin belt cinched at the waist. Her dark hair was styled in loose waves that brushed her shoulders, and she wore a soft pink lipstick that contrasted beautifully with her porcelain skin. A delicate gold chain hung around her neck, catching the light as she moved. Amélie carried a small clutch, just large enough to hold the essentials, and ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. She took a seat opposite Claire, exchanging a few words with her in French before turning her attention to the rest of the room.

"Bonsoir, everyone," Amélie greeted, taking her seat gracefully. "What are we talking about? Something interesting, I hope."

"Just the usual," Alessandra said with a smile. "We were talking about how we’d rather enjoy life than worry too much about fitting into a certain dress size."

Amélie took a sip of her wine and nodded. "Ah, yes. The eternal struggle. But I’ve always believed in balance. A little indulgence here, a little discipline there. It’s all about finding what makes you feel good, n’est-ce pas?"

Claire smiled. "Exactly. Though I think Alessandra might be winning the argument for indulgence tonight."

Alessandra laughed, "I’m just making sure we all remember to enjoy the good things in life."

The conversation continued, weaving through topics of food, fashion, and the joy of good company. The women shared stories and laughed together, their voices mingling with the ambient sounds of the bar.

Finally, Isobel entered her bright green dress and auburn hair, immediately catching the eye. She joined the group with what sounded like a signature lively greeting: "Evening, ladies! I hope you’ve saved some fun for me."

Isobel was an Irish woman who was fond of bold statements. She wore a bright green dress that stood out against her fair skin and auburn hair. Isobel’s style was playful yet daring, with chunky heels that added a few inches to her height. Her makeup was more pronounced, with a pop of red on her lips and a flick of eyeliner that emphasised her green eyes. She carried a quirky handbag shaped like a cat, a nod to her playful personality. Isobel ordered a neat whiskey and joined the group with a lively greeting, her laughter filling the room as she sat.

"Isobel!" Claire exclaimed, "We were just saying how we’re all about balance tonight—indulgence and a bit of discipline."

"Ah, discipline," Isobel said with a wink, raising her glass. "Well, I’m here to throw that out the window. Life’s too short for too much restraint, don’t you think?"

Amélie smiled. "You’re just in time for the real fun, Isobel. We discussed how Sophia Loren enjoyed life fully without worrying too much about fitting into a size 0."

Isobel grinned, taking a sip of her whiskey. "Sophia Loren is a legend for a reason. And besides, who needs to be a size 0 when you can enjoy delicious food, tasty drinks, and good company?"

The women laughed together, the camaraderie building as the evening progressed. The bar was buzzing with energy, and the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a soft, dusky glow.

The conversation naturally flowed toward drinks as they began comparing their preferences and favourite cocktails. It wasn’t long before the discussion turned to the classic Pink Lady, with each woman sharing her thoughts on the drink’s merits and history. This led them into the lively debate and spirited exchanges that would define the rest of their evening.

“I'd rather eat pasta and drink wine than be a size 10,” Sophia Loren once said when the size 0 was called so,” declared Alessandra, the curvy Italian woman with a love for life and all things indulgent.

“That’s such a refreshing statement from a beautiful woman,” replied Ingrid, the voluptuous German woman with curves that didn’t always sit as well as Loren’s but who took pride in her fuller figure. "All you see, I owe to pasta," Loren also said, and I can definitely relate!"

“Notice it's pasta and wine, not three cheeseburgers and double milkshakes,” chimed in Emma, the fit and slender Englishwoman, eyeing Ingrid with a teasing grin. Emma was the type who often dieted and regularly took on "dry" weeks.

“What about those of us who would rather maintain a size zero than indulge in pasta?” queried Sophie, the slim Frenchwoman who prided herself on her discipline. She was laughing but with a touch of seriousness, putting some intrigue to the discussion.

“That’s fine, and it’s a free world. Do as you want. As long as you're physically healthy, nobody gives a damn,” remarked Yvonne, a stylish and confident Greek woman who believed in balance.

“You have to wait until someone cares enough about your size to quote you, I guess,” Sophie laughed, the sound light and melodic.

“Then your quote should be: 'Nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels,'” Emma suggested, jumping into the conversation with a smirk.

“Stop being such a tease, you’re fat-shaming me!” Ingrid shot back, though the gleam in her eye showed she wasn’t truly offended, adding a playful twist to the conversation.

“Was there a size 0 in 1956 when they filmed ‘Boy on a Dolphin’?” asked Alexandra, the resident history buff of the group, steering the conversation back to its origins.

“No, back then, it was called a size 10, but regardless, she never actually said that. The magazines made it up,” retorted Ingrid, refusing to back down.

“I think you’re wrong there. I’ve read that she did say that and owed her figure to pasta and wine,” insisted Sophie, pursing her lips thoughtfully.

“Anyhow, notice how her waist is still smaller than her hips,” mused Yvonne, her mind lost in the idealised image of Sophia Loren.

“I entirely support this sentiment—on the condition that we’re pragmatic. Do you value being drunk more than being attractive? Most people do to some extent, and that’s fine. But we need to acknowledge that this is what’s happening: You ARE becoming less attractive, and you’re getting drunk and eating tasty things as a reward. There’s nothing wrong with this in moderation,” said Marlene, the sharp-witted Greek woman with a penchant for deep analysis.

“It’s just that, in my experience, people like to take this to mean, 'I’m no less attractive when I have more fat on my body.' This is naive and self-deceptive. This is a bad message,” Marlene added, sucking in her belly with a dramatic gesture.

“I mean, it shows,” noted Emma, ever the realist.

“The difference between plus-sized models and plus-sized normal women is where they hold the weight. Plus-sized models have 'attractive weight.' It’s in their hips, thighs, ass, upper chest. Normal non-model women don’t get that lucky. It goes to legs, arms, face, tummy,” Alessandra pointed out, her tone a mix of acceptance and mild frustration.

“Muscles and fat don’t always fall in the same spots for different people,” Sophie mused, observing the conversation with her characteristic calm.

“It’s true; many people are surprised at how much I weigh because I accumulate it all over, except my calves, of course,” laughed Ingrid, ever ready to inject humour into the discussion.

“Damn. This is my body type. She makes me feel wonderful about myself. She’s so lovely,” added Sophie, offering a compliment.

“What a lot of bullshit. Being overweight is bad for you—cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes etc., etc. Get fit or die young,” Emma remarked sternly, turning to Ingrid with a pointed look.

“If she lost five or six kilos, she’d be HOT!” said Faye, a vibrant and unapologetically gay Greek woman who had joined. “Even I, a gay, admit she looks fucking amazing.”

"I'd rather eat McDonald's and drink Coke than be a size 15," retorted Ingrid, rolling her eyes. “That’s what modern empowered females living with diabetes say.”

”And yet, she’s so far lived to 89 on that diet and still has everything in the right place,” Yvonne pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“Strong effort!” added Marlene, clearly impressed.

“Can I air an unpopular opinion?” Bridget, slightly nervous but thoughtful, interjected. “Modern beauty standards are not too high. Americans are fucking overweight, including myself. If standards were high, we wouldn’t be the most obese nation in the world. That being said, 1965 was a different time, and what she said was relevant to her time. She’s beautiful. Also, realise she’s Italian.”

“There’s a difference between being fat and having some fat, a little bit overweight. No one’s perfect. But I hate when fat people think they’re beautiful because they’re big. You’re not curvy; you’re dying,” Yvonne declared, eliciting a pained look from Ingrid.

“When you’re a woman with a pretty face, nice hair, a 91-97 cm chest, 66-71 cm waist, and 97-102 cm hips, you can say what you want about your diet because you look good and you eat and are active in reasonable amounts,” commented Bridget, adding fuel to the fiery conversation.

“I’d rather have an increased risk of heart disease and alcoholism than be a size 0. Just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?” said Marlene, though she subtly sucked in her stomach.

“Sure, if I could drink wine, eat pasta, and look like that, why not?” Sophie agreed with a shrug.

“Me too, Sophia Loren, me too,” echoed Ingrid, her voice warm with affection for the iconic star.

As the conversation naturally drifted from food to alcohol, Bridget raised a glass. “Well, let’s talk about the real joys in life—alcohol. It’s not just wine, after all!”

“Definitely,” laughed Yvonne. “We’re talking shots, strong drinks, and the classic cocktails. Who hasn’t seen pink elephants after a few too many?”

“Shots are fun, but I’m all about the cocktails,” said Marlene, winking. “A strong drink with a bit of a kick, but not too sweet.”

“But sometimes, I just need a Smirnoff Ice,” Ingrid said, unapologetic. “It’s honest and gets the job done.”

“Ever tried a Pink Lady?” Bridget asked, her eyes lighting up. “It’s classic, but it has quite the story.”

“According to the Café Royal Cocktail Book of 1937, it’s made with a glass of gin, a tablespoon of grenadine, and the white of one egg, shaken and strained into a glass,” she explained.

“Often, lemon juice is added to the basic form. Another creamier version of the Pink Lady that has been around at least since the 1920s adds sweet cream to the basic form. In New Orleans, this version was also known as the Pink Shimmy,” added Yvonne, clearly enjoying the historical aspect of the conversation.

“The exact origin of the Pink Lady isn’t known for sure. Some say it was invented by the interior architect and society figure Elsie de Wolfe, but her recipe differs from the common one. The name might also come from the 1911 Broadway musical by Ivan Caryll or in honour of its star Hazel Dawn, known as ‘The Pink Lady,’” said Marlene, the ever-knowledgeable.

“The popularity of the Pink Lady during Prohibition might be because it masked the taste of bad gin,” Bridget chimed in.

“By the 1930s, it became known as a ‘girly’ drink, thanks to its name and sweet, creamy flavour. Jayne Mansfield used to drink a Pink Lady before meals. But eventually, it ended up on Esquire’s list of the ten worst cocktails,” Yvonne noted, with a hint of a smile.

“It’s the colour I like,” Ingrid said, returning to her love of pink.

“Sophia Loren has her cocktail too. Well, at least there’s one named after her,” Sophie mentioned.

“How do you mix it?” Bridget asked, curious.

“6 cl Aperol, 3 cl lemon juice, 1.5 cl bourbon, and four dashes of rhubarb bitters. At least, that’s how I remember it,” Marlene replied.

“I still prefer a simple Smirnoff Ice. It’s more straightforward,” Ingrid said, grinning.

As the laughter and cheering continued, the conversation circled back to where it all began—living life to the fullest, regardless of size, with good food, great drinks, and even better company.

Ingrid, ever the one to have the last word, raised her glass one final time. “To pasta, wine, and Pink Ladies—may we all have the courage to drink, eat, and live as we please!”

Sophie, never one to be outdone, added with a smirk, “And to seeing pink elephants, may they always remind us of a life well-lived.”

And with that, the women laughed, clinked their glasses again, and continued their lively debate, knowing that, in the end, it’s all about balance, laughter, and a little indulgence.