The marble plaque stands out with its remarkable specificity. The Greek inscription, dating back to 2013, states: “On this beach, on 9 January one thousand years ago, Aphrodite stepped onto the shores of Pafos.” A notable rock formation designates the spot where the Greek goddess of love purportedly emerged from the sea off Cyprus, enveloped in a flurry of foam, depicted in Botticelli's 15th-century artwork atop a giant shell. This sun-drenched island, located at the far-eastern edge of the Mediterranean, has long been a site of reverence for her presence, with ancient temples at Palaipafos, Amathous, and Kition serving as historic sites of worship, which have now been reduced to bare-chested Aphrodite figurines found in souvenir shops. As the sun ascends lazily over distant hills, casting soft light on her mythical birthplace against a hazy gray horizon, I silently pose a challenge to this famously fickle deity: Can you assist me in rekindling my affection for the place I once called home?
I grew up in proximity to this location, in Cyprus's second-largest city, Lemesos, or Limassol. My English father and Kenyan Indian mother arrived on the island in the late 1970s and made it their permanent residence. Cyprus, a vast mass stretching 140 miles long and 62 miles wide, ranks as the third-largest island in the Mediterranean, following Sicily and Sardinia. By my mid-20s, however, the island began to feel constricted; I sensed an increasing disconnect. Though surrounded by the sea, I became restless and somewhat resentful, leading me to depart for Dubai, which in the context of migration appears as a mere footnote in a long history of movement.
The strategic location of Cyprus has drawn numerous unwelcome invaders throughout its storied history: Assyrians, Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Arabs, Byzantines, Crusaders, Venetians, Ottomans, and British have all traversed its land. The invasion by Türkiye in 1974, which continues to occupy 36% of the island, has resulted in Lefkosia, known globally as Nicosia, remaining one of the last divided capitals, fundamentally altering the Cypriot mentality. This has produced a multifaceted and fractured sense of identity. While Cyprus is a member of the EU, it does not fully embody the European ideal. It is predominantly Greek-speaking and oriented but is not officially part of Greece. Despite the various attempts to define it, its geographical proximity to Beirut or Amman lends it an unmistakable Middle Eastern essence.
Attempting to unravel my sense of identity in a locale that grapples with its own complexities may seem futile. Although I have visited Cyprus frequently since my departure 17 years ago, this trip is dedicated to a deeper exploration and reconnection. I commence my journey in the historical core of Lemesos, where enjoying breakfast in the square outside the Old Port Hotel offers a quintessential Cypriot view. Here, beneath the 16th-century Kebir Mosque—a remnant from a time when Greek and Turkish Cypriots coexisted—older gentlemen gather in a kafeneio, an old-fashioned coffee shop, savoring thick brews while the rhythmic click of backgammon pieces harmonizes with the gentle sound of prayer beads spun between idle fingers. This area was off-limits during my formative years—perceived as too rough and neglected—but revitalization efforts supported by the EU have rejuvenated the atmosphere, restoring charming British-accented neoclassical structures influenced by Venetian and Ottoman designs, and transforming the surroundings into pedestrian-friendly zones filled with lively restaurants, breweries, and cafés that spill onto the pavements like the city’s numerous stray cats. Amidst the modern establishments, traces of Lemesos's edginess endure, evidenced by sporadic boarded-up buildings revealing their decaying interiors and walls adorned with street art, including pro-Palestinian graffiti labeled “Eiba” that seemingly appears overnight.
Venturing through a narrow passageway off Agiou Andreou Street—where shopping has been a tradition since the early 20th century—I come across Cypriot chef Christoforos Tofaridis and his business partner, Christos Yiallouros, on the cusp of welcoming their first patrons at Alley. Tofaridis honed his culinary skills in London’s esteemed kitchens, including the Michelin-starred Sketch, and Ottolenghi’s Nopi, ultimately returning to Cyprus post-Brexit with no ambition to establish a restaurant. However, Yiallouros's vision for the neglected venue—once a derelict kafeneio turned refuge for illicit activities—transformed it into a cozy eatery featuring white chairs, tables, lush greenery enclosing a stone perimeter, and twinkling fairy lights, compelling Tofaridis to reconsider.
Reflecting on childhood visits to farmers' markets with his father, Tofaridis adopted a food philosophy centered on simple, honest cuisine that emphasizes locally sourced, seasonal ingredients—a refreshing approach on an island where agricultural biodiversity often pales in comparison to that of Italy or Greece. As he discusses the challenges of ingredient sourcing, I relish a dish of roasted cauliflower drizzled with almond sauce and a serving of charcoal-cooked sea bass accompanied by a salsa verde crafted from local capers, parsley, lemon juice, and chile. The menu at Alley strikes a harmonious balance between innovation and a nod to tradition.
Traditionally, tourists flock to Cyprus for its stunning beaches, such as the crystal-clear bays of Ayia Napa and Protaras in the east, or the rugged coves of Pafos in the west. On the volcanic slate-gray sands of Lemesos's Dasoudi beach, sunbeds and towels compete for space like pieces in a life-sized game of Tetris, while further along the coast, the beach bar and restaurant Malindi pulls in a vibrant lunchtime crowd that lingers even after the sun has dipped below the horizon. My preferences, however, gravitate towards the western pebbly shores of Pissouri Bay and Cape Aspro.
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