We’d gone down too early.
Huddled in the lower deck of the ship, vibrations attacking from every angle, we stood waiting for the rope to move so the ramp could lower, so the chain could be opened so the people could push. We should have waited. It was too soon. What were we thinking? That Greece, a neighboring country, would be different? That there would be a line? That people might respect the rules? That there would be rules? A sense of order? A system???!!! I mean, what the hell is wrong with you people!!!
The ferries had changed little in 11 years. More coffee-dessert drinks. A non-smoking section. The same confusing blend of a public transportation attitude with white, Love Boat-like uniforms, railings and deck chairs. More spacious than a train, less bumpy than a bus, cinema-reminiscent food, a hotel-lobby-like air about the whole thing. The Aegean sea was blue and cold and prickly out our oval window, the mountains fake, like an old Elvis movie. Sleeping-dinosaur-like islands became smaller in our wake. We were mellow now. Michael on a high. Me prouder than ever.
I wandered around and chatted up a ferry worker to pass the time. Accustomed to grimacing faces and condescending comments about Bulgaria (one carpet seller in Tukey was going to tell my friend a joke, but when he found out we were living in Bulgaria, he said THAT was the joke) I was prepared. But this guy was full of pity.
He said it’s hard to get past all that oppression, that it takes generations to change, that Bulgaria and Greece are like cousins, the borders once much blurrier and Cyrillic simply an extension of the Greek alphabet. He claimed that the even Greeks only “think” they are free now. Sure, they can complain, but these comments are heard only by the walls that surround them.
But still, it’s important to speak up, I say.
But does it work? Are protests and rallies effective?
Yes, they make a difference, I said. They really do! And as I glanced to my right, a couple feet away was a mug on the counter that separated us. In blue, curly letters that mug said: Optimism.
But Nikolaus wanted to talk about Bush. Right now, I said, (it was November 9th) the Democrats might be taking over Congress. But he insisted that such a broad pendulum swing was seldom good news. After one duration of political extremity, a nation tends to veer too far in the other direction. He claimed it was dangerous. Michael said he was absolutely right.
Eventually, we did get off the BlueStar ferry, into the hands of apartment owners, winter rentals, all ready to reduce prices and make a dime in the offseason. Trying so hard to explain that it was now or never, that even with a business card, we would never find their place without help, because Mykonos is a maze, built specifically to confuse pirates and marauders who terrorized the Aegean sea throughout the centuries. There is one myth which tells of how the Tyrrhenian pirates once seized Dionysus, the god of wine and merriment, by mistake. He promptly changed them all into dolphins, sending each one splashing into the sea. Not such a terrible fate, I thought.
We’d been trained to ignore the port-pushers in Madagascar and Morocco. To go at our own pace, not be rushed into any decisions before unfolding the pavement of a new place with our own soles. We nodded as we walked, laminated photos across their arms. They were genuine. We were naïve. With Michael limping and me carrying twice the stuff I needed, this was the perfect time to let us be carried away, but at the top of the boat ramp, it was too late. They were all gone. A sunglassed woman with a ponytail and no brochure remained. This was Koula. She led us away.
The white was blinding. Like a field of cracked porcelain boxes against the furry foothills. Built to be reflective. To withstand the heat. This purity framed doors, staircases, shutters and deck tables—each a law-abiding shade of blue, creating the perfect circa 1965 photograph. Unlike the colorful, lion-mouthed-handled Georgian doors of Dublin, which were rebelliously and colorfully painted to end the mourning period for a lost queen, these doors were holding up tourism and beauty for its own sake. There was a connectedness, too, about Mykonos. because the white-washed walk flowed seamlessly into every wall. No creases for dirt collection. No change of materials. Like soft serve ice cream, everything melted together.
And what a comfort to waltz the walkways of a new land, feeling as if we were simply getting reacquainted with an old friend, one we’d seen on bathroom walls, coffee-table book covers and photography exhibits for years. This was Greece, just as we’d been promised. Even the tweed-coated, moustached men seemed to be posing for our pleasure.
We’d been warned that Mykonos was small and many shops would be closed now. A man at the Blue Star Ferry desk had suggested we spend a day here and then ferry to Santorini. But no, we liked the idea of settling in. Michael didn’t want to be on the move in his post-marathon state. We’d learned, too, that while locals could be helpful, they often saw their own life as boring, while we found it fascinating. In the same way, we theorized that although an American wouldn’t likely recommend, say, Kansas City, to a foreigner, this destination would be a perfect place to absorb the most typical American culture.
Our place was old and a little sticky, but nice enough, with a bedroom loft, full kitchen and large tiled living room. Framed needlepointed jockeys and women with cats hung a bit crooked. Those built-into-the-wall-coves where you might find a telephone and stack of take-out menus in an old campus apartment, held blankets and pillows for extra guests. The hum of the fridge was familiar and reminded me of a long time ago. The forks and spoons had history. I found lightbulbs and trays and plastic tablecloths in the drawers. Hangers hurriedly stuffed in a cupboard for future use. Mugs with company logos I’d never heard of. A half empty bottle of Campari above the cabinets. Olive oil, soy and vinegar in the counter corner. This concept has always allured me—ever since Eagle Ridge in the late 80s. Remember Mom? I am always looking for a story and perhaps these spaces with abandoned alcohol bottles and forgotten books were the best place to find one.
We spent a lot of time in the bedroom, partly because Michael couldn’t go up and down the stairs so easily. We read Stegner, Gladwell and Potts. Wrote about what was in front of us. There were baked beans and tuna and crackers for dinner and yogurt and hard-boiled eggs and tea for breakfast. I hadn’t eaten baked beans since some by-now-forgotten holiday. They were soft and salty and sweet in my mouth.
Last night we had a glory moment. Along the shore of Mykonos, facing tame, wing-spreading pelicans, rock-skipping little boys most often seen on Successories, church-bell-topped buildings and those primary-color painted boats, was a little restaurant with a couch. The shore was football-game-kind-of-cold, but this once-in-a-blue-moon Greek winter kept us in the moment, hearing and smelling the right now. Our dinner was laid out on a cherry-wood-door coffee table, previously a seafarer’s salt-dried entrance. My Mom was good like that, staining and stripping antiques in our Penny’s catalog-covered workshop at home, decades ago. I wish I knew how. There sat a tinny, spout-less carafe of cheap, yet tongue-popping wine. A red, green and white salad as exciting as Christmas. Kalamata olives all mashed up in tapenade. Salmon spread, gazpacho with cream, clams, crawfish and mussels, all soft and staring at our mouths. The sunset was coming. We were determining not what we should do in life, but what we wanted to do. .
We’re on our own balcony now. The sun has finally found our perch. Earlier, a donkey with burlap bags of flowers and fake-looking vegetables passed by below, his guide calling out in Greek. What is it about windows that open with a latch and no screen? What’s so bad about keeping out mosquitos, right? Because, somehow, a screen’s practicality is simply not associated with vacations. As usual, the sound of barking dogs is one to be relied on. Two potted yucca plants explode to my right. A cat appears from a nearby roof. Michael, my marathon-finishing, race-recovering husband is reading “Blink” in his Greek-blue zippie, Thailand trousers and argyle socks. I am writing this blog.
