Plan Your Honeymoon on a Greek Island

We were supposed to go back to the hotel, shower and change, and then head out to the city center for dinner. Rasheed wanted to take Mazen and me to a café overlooking the water, a hole-in-the-wall with decent food. Mazen, however, sidetracked us. While waiting for Rasheed to finish with his group, Mazen walked around and chatted people up. I watched him approach a young couple who seemed to be, like him, promenading up and down the sloping road of Moria. They chatted, their voices turning livelier and livelier, as if they were old friends who had found each other after a long separation. The boy and girl were likely still teenagers, twenty at most, obviously in love, his hand not leaving hers. She was small and slight and talked with her head down, her sand-colored straight hair covering most of her face, like a poppy preparing to fold her petals as evening descended—nyctinasty in human form. They wore matching blue trench coats that somehow managed to look ill fitting on both.

Mazen called me over. I should meet the newlyweds. They’d gotten married less than four weeks earlier, he explained with no little excitement. This was their honeymoon. Instead of wedding gifts, the couple had asked all their relatives to chip in whatever they could and they’d use the cash to escape. They told the same stories of bombings, killings, and humiliations, of red tracers that would make the night blush, but their tales of woe sounded less horrifying since they seemed happy. They were together, they’d escaped, and they were safe for the time being. How could they not be joyful, they asked, even in the midst of sorrow. They seemed blissful, like two lucky teenagers who’d discovered sex for the first time, and that was probably because they were.

A honeymoon, Mazen said. This was their honeymoon. When he repeated himself like this, it usually meant that he wished to say something important, and I was missing what it was. This was no honeymoon, he said, not here. They were staying in the barracks with all the cots, all the other families.

“Oh, we’re grateful for that,” the boy said. He had brown eyes with green rings around irises that could not look away from his bride for more than two or three seconds, if that.

“These are the best beds we’ve slept on since we left home,” the girl said. “When we traveled by bus, I’d wake up from a night of interrupted sleep with the worst neck pain. This isn’t bad, and everyone in the barracks has been exceedingly kind.”

“Who cares?” Mazen said. “You can’t have a honeymoon with people sleeping in the same room with you. That’s like going to a vegan restaurant when you’re hungry. It won’t do. We’ll get you a hotel room.”

The boy and girl were flabbergasted. No, as much as they appreciated the offer, as much as they would love to have a room all to themselves, they couldn’t afford it, and they most certainly would not allow Mazen to pay for it, absolutely not. Back and forth the argument went, and it kept going for at least five minutes as each side pulled the fraying rope in their tug of war. No, he couldn’t, shouldn’t. Yes, he would, he must.

“We don’t have to pay for a room,” I finally interrupted, surprising myself. “We already have one. My brother will offer you his room for a couple of nights, and he’ll sleep with me. That wouldn’t cost anybody any extra money. It’s the least we can do. Please honor us by accepting our hospitality.”

I did not have to look at Mazen to know he was moved. I could feel him. I heard him gasp.

“Are you sure you’ll be comfortable sharing a room?” the girl asked. “Would we not be imposing on you?”

“My sister and I shared a bed when we were children,” Mazen said. “It’s been about fifty years, but you don’t forget how to share a bed with your sister. You never forget.” He paused, but only briefly. A crease of a smile flickered across his face. “I know how to kick her when she snores.”