Being there, Getting there

I left the island of Paros by ferry on February 21, 2010. That morning, my hosts, Mona and Yannis, insisted that I taste the bread from their favorite bakery before leaving, so we drove to the sweet little town of Marpissa. At 9 in the morning in the winter on the island of Paros, it was too early for bread. We waited for ten minutes before Mona remembered that the same bakery had a shop in Parakia. On the drive, we passed Lefkes, an inland city that was the original capital of Paros. The first inhabitants made it the capital because they wanted to be far from the shore because of pirates. Now Parakia, the port town, is the capital because of tourists. I bought my bread, we said goodbye, and then I wandered Parikia in the sun and walked barefoot along the sea.

The ferry didn't rock, but went gliding along like it was on ice skates, or a tram line, suspended. Because there is always an island--just there, out the window--I had this sense that I hadn't left land. 5 hours passed like 5 minutes. I re-entered the buzz of Athens, I felt familiar, I made my way by bus to Holargos, where Eleni's family lives. I had the wrong phone number written down, and no one was home, so I settled on the stair to wait and read. Cooking smells drifted out windows at me.

Behind the voices of neighbors--kitchen voices, people speak differently in kitchens--I thought I could hear the sound of water boiling. The black cat meowed and rubbed her head against my notebook, and I forgot, for a moment, where I was. It smelled, not specifically like Indian food, but like my aunt and uncle's apartment, which, partly had the smell of Indian food, and also something else entirely. My aunt's apartment collected cooking smells the way that espresso machines collect years of coffee flavors. They layered over one another, cumin and tumeric, black mustard seeds, potatos in oil. The cat tried to catch, and then eat, my pen. Then she sat still, watching and studying the pen. As I got colder, the smells increased, and I got warmer. The smell of the food was the food of my fire, the cold air was my yogurt. The cat rubbed her head on my notebook. I felt close.

I wandered Athens the next day, climbing up rocks in the park next to the Acropolis and buying trinkets in Monastiraki. I listened to street musicians play with all the skill of the pros and with love that only street musicians can muster. I sat across the street from a Pakistani duet (violin, accordion) for at least an hour, and before I left, paid them for the concert. I always wonder why we put a lower value on street musicians than we do on those in concert halls. I watched a mime doing his make-up in a public bathroom, yelling at himself in the mirror. It was warm; I ate ice cream in the sun, and thought, there are a lot of things Greeks do very well, but ice cream is not one of them. It was chalky. I got a haircut. I ate dinner with Eva and Dimitris in a little Greek restaurant and we talked about the trips we'd taken (Egypt, South Africa), and the ones we want to take (Alaska, Cuba, the American southwest). You have to travel like you'll never be in that place again. And you never will. Never in the same way. I slept on my stomach--and dreamed strong dreams--like the bed was all of Europe and I was hugging it goodbye.

The next day I began my (ultimately successful) attempt to leave Greece, amidst transportation strikes that deserve history books, and will probably get their due.