A couple of nights ago, I was watching a drippy and predictable romance on Netflix, the kind that make you lose interest because they're so painstakingly dumb and ooze thick, nauseating, Hollywood sentimentality. It was called "Opa." My apologies to anyone who watched and inexplicably loved this horrible movie, but *GAG.* Blech!
You're probably wondering why I would even own to spending 93 minutes of my life watching straight-to-DVD-bypassing-the-theater, "romantic comedy whatever" dribble.
Why?
Because it was set in Greece. And the water (oh the glittery, warm water, mmmm) was turquoise and green and clear. The sunshine was radiant and enveloping.
And for those 93 minutes of agonizingly poor screenwriting and equally appalling acting, I actually felt at peace with Mother Nature, under her blue sky, basking in the hot, yellow sun and swimming in the turquoise waters along the beaches of Greece.
Only too bad for me, because one glance out the window reminded me that we're still enduring a dry but miserably cold Northwest winter. Gray skies, blowing snow, skeleton trees and an unshakable chill that sunk in around October and won't dissipate until March. Or April.
And suddenly, I missed Greece.
Even though I've never actually been there.
