Tom’s feet landed on the white shower towel on the carpet next to the bed laid by a handmaiden the night before. Along with an evening ritual performed by housekeeping staff came the offerings of an Italian bottle of sparkling water, a spray bottle of bed mist, a plate of assorted fruit and Swiss milk chocolate. Before slumber, Tom skipped the bed mist but ate the chocolate.
He sat at the bedside with straightened arms leaning on the duvet coming to his senses. He stretched and began pressing buttons affixed to the wall that the headboard stood perpendicularly against. Fumbling with options, one button ushered the drapes open on the adjacent wall in the capacious room at The Hazleton Hotel. If it wasn’t for the nascent thralls of a Canadian-winter, natural light would have porously illuminated the chamber; another button turned on the lights.
His feet, one and then the other, stepped onto to the washroom’s floor. The marble tiles warmed each foot from heel to toes, the floor’s heating system still cozy from the night before. In the glass pane shower he picked up the hotel’s cleansing products arranged on the carved-out cubby situated four feet above the ground. With appreciation, he returned the offerings, bent down and picked up the bottle of Korres that he had brought with him, a shampoo and body soap he discovered showering in a home along the pier in the Village of Vathy on the Island of Ithaca. Since the discovery, all the way from one of Greece’s most fulcrum mythical islands, a dear friend would mail and keep Tom replete with bottles of the Natural Aloe and Dittany and the Citrus types – his favourites from the flock.
The scents of the soap enveloping his body each morning, would without fail, port him imaginatively back to the island. Like an enthralled lover experiencing simulacrum throughout the day, the soaps’ lucid scents reminded him vivaciously of Ithaca. He knew his work on the island wasn’t done and yearned for his return.
Yorkville, known for its affluent shopping, prodigal condominiums and exquisite dining is a fairly two-by-four block district located in downtown Toronto. This morning Tom was there to relax, experience the surroundings and write.
Tom buttoned a freshly steamed blue-collared dress shirt, pulled up blue jeans, buckled a black leather belt, tied up blue running shoes, tossed on a blue baseball cap and put on a black Moose Knuckles jacket. He kept the dress shirt tucked out.
The elevator made its way from the third floor to the ground. Entering the hallway with towering ceilings, Tom made it a point to inhale the eucalyptus oil scent permeating the corridor and started following the black rectangular mats from the batch of elevators through the lobby into the vestibule and greeted two formally dressed concierge staff manning the entrance doors: their duties to perpetually open the doors and salute guests coming and going all day.
The downtowns of many Canadian cities in December are sporadically spirited with Christmas decorations; Toronto no different. Yorkville Avenue is a quiet one-way street and this morning at sunrise there were no more than two vehicles in motion within sight.
Tom reached the district’s landmark alleyway, its vocation to connect Yorkville Avenue to its counterpart to the south, Cumberland Street. Eclipsing the alley on its western wall was a sequence of outdoor advertisements, about a dozen framed posters in total, each trying to position a brand as regal in the eye of the beholder. On the eastern side were freshly cleansed windows of a couple restaurants and a few contemporary boutiques selling opulent female clothing, fragrances and handbags sourced from foreign lands.
Crossing Cumberland—the desolation of vehicles comparable to Yorkville Avenue—Tom entered the agora of Yorkville, a concrete pavilion, an acre’s worth, that serves as a seating and walking area for locals and tourists alike. There was a variety of motifs planted symmetrically across the landscape – there were the evergreen trees fortified by half-round, two-foot tall, concrete pieces moating their bases. There was a monolithic hill in the centre of the pavilion comprised of superimposed stratified rock inclining to reach twelve feet in height; the hill would attract adults to loiter and children to meander on when the weather more simmer. There were dozens of kindred plastic objects resembling stars, hung with Christmas lights, burrowed into the ground.
Tom walked down a brick-paved aisle flanked by the stars, followed the walkway winding east, paced another 30 meters and entered a Starbucks at the southern side of the pavilion.
The Starbucks was small. Tom couldn’t remember a tinier Starbucks—even in his travels through Europe—than this one. But given the district’s serene milieu this morning, it served his purpose of reading and writing moderately. All the tables in the Starbucks, only four in total, were high top in size. He situated in the one closest to the entrance door. Shortly after, he began reading and sipping an Americano that was prepared with long espresso shots.
Tom turned his head to the right taking a break from his reading and locked eyes with a Caucasian woman approaching the Starbucks from the agora. A beautiful woman she was: possessing a clear and slender face, black hair, slightly above average in height and was wearing a parka and black pants. She liked Tom when she saw him. And not long-ago Tom would have greeted her and perhaps if he was travelling further away than Toronto, he would have this time, but Tom didn’t approach her – there was no conjoining of their destinies, and for the time being was absorbed in his craft. She met a girlfriend inside the Starbucks who was waiting for her arrival. The woman that liked Tom would talk extra loudly and laugh frequently with her friend in lobbing distance to Tom, enough that he could hear her. And though tempting, Tom still didn’t approach her and felt content with such.
Tom would continue to read and write moderately. In peace he was, somewhat in a zone, flowing and focused. He continued to sit at the table next to the front doors absorbing the surroundings and performing his craft.
After another while, in his periphery, the contours of two people approached the entrance. Tom looked up and it was a man and woman, the woman leading. Tom looked into the eyes of the woman now less than five meters away; she gazed back at him presently, peacefully and with a sense of curiosity.
The woman had fare, slightly tanned skin, was average in height, petite, and a face that was soft, natural and real. Her eyes communicated happiness, not jubilation, but certainly happiness. The depths of her eyes revealed a soul that was loving, feminine and bright. She wore a Canadian Goose parka, a scarf, black well-fitted nylon pants and running shoes.
The woman and man entered the Starbucks, the woman broke her gaze with Tom upon entrance as if her entrance was the perforation of a different microcosm. The two walked around the sparse assortment of tables, following the path to the counter and commenced ordering drinks.
Tom continued with his craft without much addenda figuring the two were a couple. Worked away Tom did on his computer, continuing to perform his craft. A moment later he overheard the two order their drinks and pay separately. The man then abruptly left the building to make a phone call from the pavilion.
“May I get your name for the cup?” The ordering server asked the woman with the bright soul.
“Maria,” replied the woman, her accent Spanish.
And like a riveting jolt Tom’s back straightened, his head perked, and his senses squared, as if millions of loose particles floating aimlessly simultaneously calcified into one object in the matter of milliseconds.
For some time, perhaps by premonition, and paradoxically, Tom saw himself marrying either a woman from Indian or Spanish descent. And he was fond of the name Maria. He once met a Portuguese/Swiss woman named Maria in the most random of ways: in a desolate bar in the wee early morning hours on a Wednesday in a small village in Switzerland. He would spend some time with Swiss Maria. His heart yearned for her but his mind did not – he knew she wouldn’t be a good wife and mother. She enjoyed cocaine too much. And Tom knew such a vice would create a number of foreseeable and unforeseeable problems. For instance, how do you tell a future daughter not to do hard drugs if Mommy did so at a similar age, he would wonder to himself. Since that trip in the Swiss Alps he has searched for a woman where his heart and mind could nod at the choice to marry. Too many people wed when their heart or mind assent; uncommon is a couple who has received the blessings of both.
Sitting in this Starbucks in Yorkville, Toronto, on a December morning, Tom wondered if fate knocked.
And if so, so what?
He chose to act.
“But this woman is with a man,” Tom said to himself, resisting the decree, hesitating, juggling the ethics of what his heart was urging him to do.
“It doesn’t matter – go and explore what’s there,” His heart retorted, committed to getting his mind on board with the act. “You owe it to yourself to act. And you perhaps even owe it to this woman with a bright soul.”
He scrambled to type down a separate thought he was in the midst of conjuring on his laptop before fate chose to arrive and fumbled saving the file on the computer; enough to call it a hesitation.
His plan was to order a drink and if fate continued to mingle, he would wait for the drink at the drink tray counter at the same time the woman would be still waiting for hers.
Finally saving the file, Tom rose from his seat and two other men entered the Starbucks and by a mere second wedged in between Maria and him in line. Tom harangued himself for fumbling or either bothering to save the file he was working on.
The man that Maria was with was still outside on his phone.
The first wedging man ordered his drink, swiped his mobile app and onward he went.
Tom thought to himself at this speed he’ll be to the drink tray counter in no time, and yes, he would greet this Maria with a bright soul.
The second wedging man ordered his drink with precise speed, swiped his mobile app, and onward he walked to the drink tray counter.
Tom began approaching the ordering counter.
“Sir,” The ordering server said to the last wedging man. “You’re short of money on your card. The transaction didn’t go through.”
Tom stepped back and the last wedging man returned to the counter.
The wedging man pulled out his wallet, searched for a credit card, kept the card in one hand, lifted his mobile phone with the other, pressed a button to awaken the phone juggling it in one hand and his credit card and wallet in the other, with a pinky finger entered the six-digit password into the phone, the biometrics feature clearly dormant, waited a moment for the phone to reach the main screen, located the correct mobile application icon, pressed it, waited for the application to load, waited for the application to pass through the introduction screen, visually sought around the application’s main screen for the order button, pressed it, stretched the phone outward, scanned the phone’s application barcode against the application scanner, waited ten seconds for the server to load the desired deposit via the Point of Service terminal, accepted direction from the server to insert the credit card into the Point of Service device, waited a few seconds for instructions to appear on the terminal, pressed Enter, inserted the 4-digit passcode for his credit card with an index finger, pressed Enter, pressed the screen of his phone to awaken still juggling the phone, credit card and wallet amidst two hands, swiped the phone’s application barcode again against the application scanner, received an offer from the server to acquire a receipt for the order, confirmed the offer with a “Sure,” and nod, then waited, waited, waited some more and then received a receipt from the server.
How easy physical money would have been.
Off the second wedging man went.
Tom reached the counter, ordered a Green Tea, Grande in size, one bag in, no room. His phone’s application had funds.
By this point the two wedging men who ordered simple drinks left the café; the only person standing at the drink tray counter was Maria still waiting for her order.
“Are you from Spain?” Tom asked her, walking up to the table.
Maria turned around, smiled at Tom as if she knew already him and said, “No, Columbia. How did you know I wasn’t from here?” She asked inquisitively.
“Your accent,” He smiled, mischievousness in his eyes.
She giggled, her face glowed, her eyes sparkled.
By this point the man Maria was with had returned from his phone call and had situated himself at one of the four high top tables.
Tom let things be at this point, said no more, Maria picked up her drink from the tray, gazed at Tom as she walked by, smiled, and returned to sit down with the man she had entered the café with.
Tom went back to his computer, Green Tea in hand, and went back to his craft.
The two, the man and Maria, would converse, not knowing each other that well. Then suddenly the man stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” He said.
“Okay,” Maria replied.
The man walked to the washroom.
For the second time in this act Maria was alone, this time sitting at a table six feet away from Tom. The energy between the two of them palpable.
“So are you two in a relationship?”
This was the question in this heated and opaque moment in this Starbucks in this district in this city in this country that Tom should have asked.
This was the question that would have yielded the response from Maria, “No.”
And like a sequence of dominos falling that occur when simply the initial domino is flicked this obvious response would naturally have yielded to another, “Would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” In which Maria’s response, creating the beautiful artistic, symmetrical experience that cascading dominos create as one descends after another, would have been, “Yes.”
Tom would then acquire her number, go back to his craft and Maria would leave shortly after with the man to complete the outing she had promised, out of respect. Her soul was bright and with it came compassion for others. But after the outing she would wait for a time soon that she would be on an outing with Tom.
But Tom didn’t ask that first question: the first domino was never flicked. His mind won the disputation.
The moment passed. Tom could feel the moment pass, like the ending of an epoch. Moments occur. Questions asked at different times, even by mere seconds, can produce dramatically different results and sometimes dramatically change life itself.
“So are you living in Columbia?” This was the question Tom did ask as Maria sat silent at the table.
The question was rinsed-down, a consolation at best, more to quell Tom’s anxiety of acquiescing in the previous moment.
Slight tension showed on Maria’s face to the query. She was now a Canadian and wanted people to see her as such. But she liked Tom so eased her face almost fast enough to hide her subtle annoyance to the question, warmed her face again and smiled. She paused before responding, glanced at the man who was now a couple feet from returning to the table, turned back to Tom and responded, “No, I live in Canada.”
Tom nodded, giving a smile. She smiled warmly back.
“Well, are you ready to go?” The man asked Maria, anxious at this point to escape the venue with her. “We’re going to have fun today.” He reassured her.
“Sure,” Maria responded smiling at the man.
After a few more words, the two stood up, clasped their cups, the man hurriedly left the building, Maria trailed.
Tom lifted his head from the computer as she passed. Maria was looking at him. She had been for a moment already.
“Cya,” she said.
“Take care,” Tom replied. Maria smiled, put her head down and continued the cortege out the Starbucks.
The next morning Tom wept. It was short but a good weep. It was the mourning of a future that wasn’t to be and therefore a weep was well-earned.
“What leads to a truer life,” Tom pondered. “Man-made or natural ethics?” Tom would learn the answer.
Maria would think of Tom many times since that day wondering who the man was wearing a blue ball cap that greeted her in the tiniest of Starbucks in the District of Yorkville in the City of Toronto in the Country of Canada, four-thousand kilometres from her provenance.
Little did Tom know, nor could he have known at the time, that the day’s happenstance was the impetus that would inexorably lead him back to the Island of Ithaca only five months later.
A nostos was nearing.
He would return home.
The hero image is of Yorkville Avenue in Yorkville, Toronto, taken the morning of January 1st, 2020.
He knew the flood was coming. No one else in the village did. Ran he ran down the streets of the village yelling at people, informing them of what was to come. The collection of possessions, children and a procession began. More people he informed, running he ran. And on the eastern side of the bay he saw her on a street’s corner. Standing alone she stood, eyes shut, perpendicular. Sleeping she was, while standing. Commotion ensuing and people being informed. He knew this woman. It was the only woman he knew in the village. He’s known her for a long time. He didn’t understand how she was here across the globe nor did he understand how she was nocturnal while standing. The two had an incomplete past and it was easy not to wake her. He had already forgotten her but there she was. More people joined the commotion and the village began its exodus for the mountains; chaotic but timely it was. Time was running out. He knew he had time and she did not. Sleeping she was. Easy it was to leave her behind. Moments left, the decision replete with unrest. A flood ensuing. And bolted he ran up the eastern side of the bay, north, grabbed her shoulders and shook. A man and a woman on a street’s corner, a village emptying, a flood coming. One shake is all it took: A jolt of a shake. Standing she stood. Her eyes opened, consciousness flooded her face, eye lids flickered, pupils dilating when she recognized his, lips curling, released she felt, her arms stretched out and fell she did, onto him, into him, her arms wrapped around him, her entire body limp with trust, hugging him so. The flood was coming.
“Want me to take the picture?”
The family of three—husband, wife and daughter—were going to take each other’s photos in pairs; the plan was: first the mother and daughter and following, the father and daughter.
Tom knew the plan because he heard the three conversing while passing the trio; the daughter initiated the idea as they walked eastward along the southern part of Vathi’s bay.
The husband, in his late forties looked at Tom for an extended moment before responding.
“Yes, thank you.” He smiled graciously.
Tom reached out and the man handed him his mobile phone.
The three were pleasant in demeanour and clearly enjoying the day. The mother was similar in age as her spouse, wearing a light tank-top shirt, worn khaki shorts, black sandals and a modest silver-toned watch; the daughter—around 24 years of age—a younger spitting image of the two, wore a long flowing dress with flowers imprinted on it and a bracelet on her wrist; and the man wore a worn grey t-shirt, dark grey shorts, black sandals and nothing around his wrists.
Tom made sure to take several photos, both portrait and landscape in posture. He also started taking the photos early, before the three put on their smiley-faces, because sometimes, you get the best photo of people that way.
“Thank you,” the husband said, receiving the phone back.
“Where are you from?” the wife asked.
“I was in London a year ago, March, in Soho” Tom said. “But never left London. Except for the airport. How do you like this island?”
The three nodded.
“An incredible island,” The man looked over at his wife. “The two of us visited this island 25 years ago.”
“Oh wow, that’s a long time ago.” Tom chuckled.
“Yes, it was 1994,” The man recited the year on demand like it wasn’t the first time he had done so on the trip.
“Is it much different?”
“Cephalonia is much different. Ithaca not so much.”
“You mean places like Sami have developed a lot more?”
“Exactly,” The fellow said. “Although Ithaca clearly is getting some interesting tourists these days, like that yacht over there.” He turned and pointed to the prodigal yacht, 150-feet in length, parked on the western side of the bay and chuckled, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
Tom noticed the yacht, too, last night when he arrived on the island. It was the largest yacht he had ever seen. It was parked south of a row of a dozen sailboats predominantly from the U.K., one from France.
“You should come for dinner sometime!” The man proclaimed with a chuckle.
“You bet,” Tom played along. “Two years ago, I visited Ithaca.”
“Really?” The wife and husband both said almost simultaneously.
The daughter stood still listening intently, keeping very quiet.
“See the mountain over there?” Tom pointed north across the centre of the bay up at Mount Nirito in the distance. “When I arrived in Ithaca, I went into the souvlaki shop at the corner,” He motioned his hand to the west along the southern part of the bay to its southwest corner. All three nodded their heads in understanding. “I asked a Greek woman standing in line, ‘Can the mountain be hiked and how long?’ She said, ‘Yes, two and a half hours up.’ So I thought to myself, two and a half hours up, two and a half hours back, throw a baguette in the knapsack, a bottle of water, maybe an orange, leave at 8 be back by 1pm!”
The three laughed, following along.
“I spent five days in Vathy and was going to do the hike on the sixth and last day. It was the coldest winter Greece had had in 16 years. The day I woke up to do the hike, it was raining outside and gosh was it cold!”
“Oh no!” The husband exclaimed all three sinking deeper into the story.
“Yes, and when I started to make my way up the mountain there was plenty of snow! My left foot was starting to freeze as I walked. It was getting dangerous.”
The three continued listening, becoming more intent.
“Near the top of the mountain I entered a café in the Village of Anogi. The owner of the café knew I wasn’t in good shape, grabbed my arm when I entered, pulled and sat me down on a wooden chair in front of a portable coal fireplace to warm up and laid out nuts and crackers to eat. And when I tried to offer her money for them upon leaving, she refused to accept it.”
The three continued to listen, their attention seized.
“As I was getting ready to leave she went behind a counter and lifted up a woman’s winter jacket, and said, ‘Put this on,’ I said, ‘No, I’m not taking your jacket.’ She said, ‘Don’t worry, you’re going back to Vathi, right? My brother works in the coffee shop in the square. Give it to him in the morning.”
“What did you do next?” The husband asked emphatically.
“I put the woman’s winter jacket on, of course! And proceeded to walked four and a half hours back down the mountain! It was 10pm by the time I returned that night to Vathi. And when I got back into the village, I went back to that same souvlaki shop and had a big plate of souvlaki! And when standing up thirty minutes later, I’ve never felt so much pain in my thighs before!”
“Oh wow!” The daughter and mother spurted out almost simultaneously, all three laughing, a mixture of shock and awe.
“The two-and-a-half hour hike one way and back turned out to be five and a half one way, four and a half the other way. It ended up being 34 kilometres in total!”
“Wow!” The husband spurted.
“And if I had known it was going to be 34 kilometres, you bet I wouldn’t have done it in the first place. I wasn’t in shape for it!” All three continued laughing at the thought of it all.
“So where do you live in England?” Tom asked.
“A place called Thornbury, a beautiful country. It’s in the southwest, about 40 minutes from Bristol and the ocean.
“Aye mate, it really is,” The husband said.
“Well, have a wonderful rest of your trip all,” Tom said. “What a pleasure this has been.” Tom placed his right hand, open, in front of his heart.
The three smiled warmly and said their good byes to Tom.
“See you in another 20 years,” the husband quipped jovially as Tom walked away.
The three walked back to their 150-foot yacht named Elysium.
The hero image is of the Village of Vathy on the Island of Ithaca, Greece, taken from the northwestern shore. Many sailboats anchored; the centre islet is that of Lazereto, which hosted the island’s jail until the 1950s and today a chapel.
Tom walked around a cobblestoned corner in Centro en Málaga, not far the museo picasso malaga, and halted at the patio of a café, six tables, all empty. The Centro was rambunctious in much whereabouts, but this evening, this café was not — disadvantaged with a dead-end, making the street more of an alleyway than a street. Tom sat down, ordered a Chervazas Victoria that was accompanied with a glass that was more of a shot glass than a beer glass if it wasn’t for its girth, sipped the beer and smoked a Montecristo. Tom’s arrival was most fortunate for the restaurant operator and the operator knew it. Soon four tables were full, alive with chatter. Like many businesses—especially one in a Centro—a customer leads to another. The café operator returned the favour by telling Tom, in Spanish, where the best paella in all of Málaga lay.
The hero image is of the Alcazaba in Málaga, a fortification built in the 11th century by the Hammudid dynasty, a former Islamic empire that ruled several parts of southern Spain.
Father and mother in front, young daughter and son in rear, the family, Galician-descent, walk enthusiastically along the Paseo del Parque in Málaga. The girl, shorter and smaller than her older brother turns towards him, takes her right hand, palm-open, and slaps his right-forearm, five-fingers and all, so riveting any passerby could hear. The boy yelps with all he could muster, looks to the parents who don’t turn around—enjoying their conversation—takes his left hand and performs an in-kind gesture. The sister yelps, looks to the parents who don’t look back, enjoying their conversation some more. The four would enjoy themselves very much that day in the Centro. The boy and girl grew up playing much football: the girl a professional, the boy almost so. The girl always took much initiative.
The hero image is of the east-entrance of the Paseo del Parque in Málaga, Spain. The Paseo del Parque is uniquely positioned in the middle of several attractions in the city: southeast of the Centro, north of the sea, northwest of the Plaza de Toros (a former bullfighting stadium) and southwest of Alcazaba. This photo was taken on the steps leading up to the Alcazaba.
I love walking around a city the day after arrival. The first day I’m lost in La-La Land. The second day I’m still in La-La Land but don’t feel as lost. By the fourteenth day, I yearn again for La-La Land.
The hero image is of boats on shore at a beach village only largely known to the Spanish named Cabo de Gata.
And there was the Port of Aetos.
The ferry docked by way of a cleat hitch around a horn cleat, helped by a worker of the port.
Tom disembarked the ferry and set his feet on the Island of Ithaca; he had returned.
Port Aetos was deserted if it weren’t for the travellers, the vehicles waiting for the travellers, the ferry itself, a pop-stand operated by an old woman and a few construction workers laying cement in a twenty by thirty rectangular box that lay on the dock pressed up against the sea.
Tom accessed a map software on his phone to check the distance he was to walk. He was staying in Vathy tonight and chose not to risk imposition by asking his host for a ride from the port.
Seven kilometers, the software read.
Tom snapped shut the upper belt of his rucksack around his neck, inverted the tinier knapsack around his chest—four straps covered his shoulders in total—and began the trek up the hill towards Vathy, leaving the port.
Halfway up the tall and winding road, he turned back to the port and took a few photos of the ferry departing. The vessel was on its voyage back to Patras to complete another summer’s day of work when a Datsun sedan, red, pulled up, its windows down, being driven by a middle-aged woman, tanned, brown slightly curly long hair leaning partly out of the driver door’s window.
“Want a ride?”
“I’m going to Vathy,” Tom said. “That alright?”
“I’m going to the north. ‘Can drop you off halfway.” Her English was clear.
Tom unbuckled the two straps of his sacks, opened one of the Datsun’s back doors, tossed both onto the backseat and hopped into the vehicle.
“Where you from?” Tom asked.
“Why are you here?”
“My family is from the northern island.”
“There’s another island in the north?”
“No, same island. But the northern part.”
“Ahh. Greek background?”
“Aye. In the fifties there was an earthquake on the island; a devastating one. Many people lost their homes. The countries of South Africa and Australia were welcoming to those effected. Thousands migrated and many of the families return here in the summer months. Ithaca will always be home.”
The car was up over the hill, winding, bend after bend.
The two made small talk and it wasn’t long until the vehicle entered a cove, a mountain in the distance, an isle in the centre-right and a fork in the road. “Here is your stop. You go right, I go left.” “Ahh, thank you for your generosity.” Tom hopped out of the car, opened the backdoor and grabbed his two sacks from the seat. As the door slowly began to shut, the Australian-Greek staying seated, turned to Tom and quickly stretched her right arm out, palm-up holding two small dark-red objects. “You dropped these,” she said. “Oh, the elephant and the turtle!” Tom exclaimed with relief. “A man with a kind soul from Senegal came up to me in Athens. His cousin makes them; the material is from the ocean. The Senagelese man said that they bring very good luck to those who hold them.” She gave them back to Tom with indifference, smiled, Tom shut the door and she drove away.
Good luck was on her way and she didn’t even know it.
The red Datsun drove west and then north around the cove, up the west side of Mount Nirito through the centre of the isthmus and disappeared into the north.
Tom walked to Vathy.
The hero image is of the sun setting on the Ionian Sea on July 16, 2019. To the left, the Island of Cephalonia; to the right and bottom-centre, the Island of Ithaca.
It rained today in Lefki, said Tom to the Ithacan-born, South African in a British school raised, Fort Lauderdale resident, who spent the last thirty summers in Vathi. The grey-bearded Ithacan perked one side of his lip wryly and wittingly responded, We have a different God in the south.
The hero image is of the Isle of Σκαρτσουμπονήσι. Tale has it that Poseidon when learning that Odysseus first returned to this cove in eastern Ithaca cast a menacing spell that transformed his ship into this stone-bed isle.
He sat in the stone-laid alleyway directly west of Vathi’s square on the café-patio, the occasional local stopping or walking by. He tasted the second piece of cake, petite in size, that accompanied his last coffee that was now complete. He preferred biscuits but it was cake that was served. Tom stood up and walked fifteen meters west to the counter at the entrance of the café that was lit only by natural light. The server turned to him as did two customers—one seated, the other standing—inside, both becoming silent. The server smiled at Tom. “Another.” The server’s smile turned mischievous. “Allo! Another!” The server maintained his mischievous smile. “Eísai kalá? Are you okay?” Tom volleyed his own smile, in-kind, “Aye!” He turned and walked slowly back to the table that had full plates of cake if it weren’t for the two bites and would soon finish his third cup of Greek coffee.
The front of the café sat the heavier set man, sunken shoulders, unshaven face, almost a near-completed balding scalp, and opaquely tinted sunglass that were worn four centimeters from the tip of his nose. The hostess was friendly and would talk to Tom. She was a Greek who went to a university in Albania. Gýrna xaná sti douleiá! The owner would yell at her when she talked too much with Tom. The owner tolerated a little bit of talk, not too much, but a little bit that first night because Tom ordered a crêpe. The man lacked the breadth of crêpe ingredients of a grandiose crêpe café, didn’t know what Oreos were, but loved to make crêpes for the tourists. His face lit up when two more orders came in following Tom’s. Grinning cheek-to-cheek in front of the two blackly painted crêpe makers, he exclaimed to Tom, Two more! The next day the girl smiled at Tom as he walked by, Tom paused, and they conversed again. It was University of New York that had a campus in Albania. And she found the United States, Very nice. And the same with London, U.K. Gýrna xaná sti douleiá! The store owner yelled again, having smiled at Tom only moments before when he walked outside. Tom wasn’t in the mood for another crêpe. Good bye, she said to Tom forcing a smile, Good bye.