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The next few days were a whirlwind of activity and adventure as we explored the Greek Islands. Our first stop was Corfu, also called Kerkira, Greece. Our guide was Mika, a pretty young woman with long black hair and dark eyes, five months pregnant and radiant. She took us to a monastery with breathtaking views of the Ionian Sea.
Grapevines hanging on trellises created shade as we followed the granite pathways—polished by age—down to the lower level monk’s quarters. Here, men gave their lives for the sole purpose of transcribing ancient texts, a pursuit I found fascinating and horrifying all at once. The thought of spending an entire lifetime translating and writing someone else’s story in perfect brush strokes with no erasers seemed like torture, but I was completely in awe of their dedication and skill. The walkways were lined with gardens of basil—known as the royal herb, according to Mika—and jasmine—the combination fragrant and slightly medicinal. The smell of the ancient parchment took over once we entered the museum filled with centuries-old books. The atmosphere gave the sense we’d been transported back in time.
Later, as we traveled by bus through the historic town, Venetian style buildings marked the Italian influence of year’s past, with airy balconies, wrought iron railings, and especially ornate window grilles. We stopped to visit the city square where the wide granite streets, smoothed from hundreds of years of wear, provided an open air feel to the village, and narrow limestone side streets were lined with boutiques and restaurants. Maddie insisted we stop in and spread some more cash to help the local economy.
Lunch of Spanakopita, hummus, and falafel clarified that we were indeed in Greece and made me commit to finding authentic Greek restaurants back in Connecticut. Nutty, earthy herbs, and tangy sauces infused the food. As I vowed to introduce Mom and Mitch to my newfound taste for Greek cuisine, I thought of all I’d left behind. The ache of homesickness sank a little deeper.
I had anticipated missing my friends, but the sense of helplessness I felt when I thought of Mom struck me as foreign. I’d only been away for two weeks, but knowing she was in a hospital, all messed up about Amanda and thinking I was a lost cause, made my insides hurt. I had been so self-absorbed in my own grief—unable to face the depth of anyone else’s pain—that I had missed how close to the edge she’d been. I’d screwed up big time, made things worse for her, and I had no idea how to fix it—or even if I could.
∞∞∞
The next day we landed at Katacolon, home of ancient Olympia and origin of the Olympic Games. Massive ruins melted one into another and the full day of walking, listening to our guide, and taking more pictures than we could possibly ever look at, took its toll on Maddie. She sat on a bench in the shade of an olive tree while Ethan and I ran the length of the Olympic field. Dust rose up around us, and I imagined the buzz of cicadas resembled the cheering crowd that once observed from the stone bleachers forming a stadium around us. Ethan gave in and finished a few feet behind me, the two of us breathless and laughing as we rejoined Maddie.
“I wish I still had your energy,” she said, smiling. She fanned her face with her hat, her cheeks rosy. “We’d better get back to the bus.”
Other tourists lingered and I saw Marcos, our guide for the day, still talking to our group not far off. Apparently we had plenty of time, but I didn’t argue. With each passing day, I’d noticed Maddie grew more apprehensive about being separated from the tour guides and left behind, an insecurity which seemed out of character for the usually self-assured steam-roller of a woman I’d come to know and respect.
By the third day in the Greek Islands, Maddie decided to stay behind to rest up for the upcoming tour of Ephesus, which would require a long walk up the hill to the house of the apostle John, who supposedly kept Jesus’ mother Mary protected from persecution in the final years of her life—a ‘must see’ according to Maddie’s plan for my education in European history.
Maddie encouraged Ethan and me to join the tour of the island of Thira, called Santorini, on our own. Glad to be free of my grandmother’s eagle eye of surveillance, and her disapproving tone every time Ethan and I got too close, a new lightness rested on my heart.
Ethan took my hand as we exited the tour bus in the little village of Oia. Pronounced EE ya, according to Nikko, our guide for the day. With eyes blue-green like the sea, light hair against olive skin, and muscles pressing against a tight white button-down shirt, Nikko drew everyone’s attention. Through a thick accent and a wide grin, he addressed the group. “Here, you are free for the day. You may wander the streets of Oia and take in the shops and museum. If you would like to see our lovely beaches and harbor, you may take the cable car, ride a donkey, or walk the three hundred steps down to the beach. Enjoy yourself in one of our many outdoor cafés.”
He dismissed the group with an agreed upon time to meet later in the day and then there we were—Ethan and I alone and on our own for an entire day on a beautiful Greek Island. It seemed surreal...and romantic. I squeezed Ethan’s hand and walked by his side through the idyllic little town, feeling more excited than I had in far too long.
We made our way up the main street past jewelry shops, art galleries, and clothing boutiques, and soon found ourselves in a small connecting alleyway with smooth white steps leading between the buildings. Ethan led the way.
“C’mon. You’ve got to check out this view.” He tugged me along, smiling and laughing at my resistance.
“Where are you taking me?” I giggled.
“You’re going to love it. Trust me.”
We came out of the maze of square white buildings, and my breath caught in my throat. It was like every picture I’d ever seen of Greece. The cerulean blue sea stretched out before us, a small group of islands not far off. Water taxis ferried passengers in between. Blue domes on box shaped foundations marked the Cycladic architecture the region was known for. I’d read up on it in the magazine I’d snagged from the plane I’d first arrived on—and read again a dozen times on the long flight to Europe—which now seemed a lifetime ago.
“This is fantastic!” I drew in a deep breath as the warm breeze off the sea tossed my hair around my face. “I’ve never seen anything so pretty.”
“Awesome, isn’t it?” said Ethan, his voice soft.
I turned to see him staring at me and my heart jumped as heat rose to my cheeks under the hot sun and Ethan’s equally fiery gaze. His fingers wove between mine and he pulled me closer.
“I can’t imagine sharing this with anyone else,” I admitted. Our noses touched as we slipped into an easy embrace. Before I could say more, Ethan dipped and captured my parted lips. I melted into the kiss—no hesitation, and no thought for anyone seeing us. We probably looked like any other young couple, caught up in the magic of the place, unable to resist falling in love.
The word filled me. It exploded as if on a loudspeaker in my head, drowning out any voice of reason that said it wasn’t possible to feel so helplessly connected to someone in such a short amount of time. My heart beat against my ribs, reaching out to match Ethan’s, whose own heart was pounding at a furious rate against my palm.
I slowly broke away, and the words slipped out before I could take them back. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” I whispered loud enough to be heard above the wind and sea.
Ethan’s eyes widened, his dark lashes standing at attention. He opened his mouth as if to respond, but nothing came out. He looked as if he was drowning, his mouth opening and closing and no air getting in or out. Pulse pounding in my ears, I had two choices. Die in the silence between us, or rescue us both.
I pulled him into a kiss, parted his lips with my tongue, and dove in as if attempting to give him a life-saving breath or cut off any further messages to his brain. As for me...it was too late. I was already lost, and there was no turning back.