Leaving the Shore

Vivian followed the sweaty man and the donkey loaded with her belongings up the cobble stoned steps. They passed hanging geraniums on balconies along the path. As they reached the top, she stood in front of Tzekos Villas - her hotel for the next few weeks. After leading her into the lobby and before she could offer him a tip, the man and his companion disappeared through a long hallway. The hotel manager welcomed her in Greek, "Kalimera." Her reservation was already in order. The manager led her through a white washed alcove, down two flights of steps to room 137.

The man unlocked the door opening to a pleasant room - the single bed with crisp white sheets tucked low, a private shower, a pine dresser, and set of double glass doors opening to the balcony. He drew to each side the brown and blue striped curtains, then opened the doors. The cool morning air blew around her face lifting her hair in all directions. The manager handed her the key, then retreated into the hallway.

Vivian stepped onto the balcony and looked to the busy streets below - wagons stacked with seasonal fruit, women sweeping front steps, and shopkeepers arranging wire racks filled with patterned scarves, postcards, and travel books of nearby islands. Her room faced east. She looked ahead to tomorrow's sunrise.

Her last visit to Samos had been four years before. Vivian's spine twinged. Something unexpected always happened on this island. On her first trip here ten years before, she had wandered small towns with Zoi and Bryan, the couple from Romania. She recalled their political conversations, dinners in tavernas by the sea, and the glorious sunset shared on their final evening together.

Again, Vivian had come alone. She preferred it that way. She tried explaining it to friends and family back home, but they didn't get it. It didn't matter. It wasn't clear yet. It was something she just had to do.

Vivian turned back into the sunny room. She placed her small carry-on in the corner. There was no television. She decided to purchase the newspaper daily. With the U.S. at war in Iraq, she wanted to stay informed.

The flight from New York and the bumpy ride from Athens were beginning to show in her eyes. She knew from experience, it was best to keep going this first day. Her body would adjust to the seven-hour time difference. She didn't mind the fatigue as much as her hard swollen legs. Walking this morning, however, would remedy the problem.

Vivian changed into a light sleeveless top and cotton shorts. She unrolled her white straw hat, and concealed her passport pocket around her slim waist.

As she ascended the winding steps to the lobby, she followed voices and the smell of breakfast onto the balcony. She settled at a corner table near the edge. Here she viewed cruise ships spilling the day's tourists onto the island. Vivian's hunger pulled her toward the display at the buffet. She filled her plate with goat yogurt, sliced ham and cheese, yellow and red blushed peaches, and of course, Psomi, the crusty bread. The orange drink was the way she remembered it - flat and too sweet for her taste.

A man next to her table nodded in her direction, then turned back toward the sea. He wasn't particularly handsome. His face set with a square jaw had no visible facial hair. His brow hung like a low shelf above his eyes - eyes, the color of the sea. As he turned back in her direction, she bowed her head rearranging the food on her plate. Vivian wasn't ready yet. It was just too soon.

Vivian rose from the table and returned to her room. She assembled sunscreen, beach towel, large bottle of water, and Wallace Stegner's Crossing to Safety.

She left the hotel and walked down the winding steps past houses with open shutters. From inside, she heard Greek women scolding children, men arguing politics, and passed a woman scrubbing her front steps. The sudsy water drained into a shallow gutter. A gray cat licked its paws on a sunny windowsill, while others zigzagged through alleys between modest houses and pensions.

Leaving the shaded steps, she turned right and walked down the street. In front of her stood the Pythagorio Museum - not yet open for the day. She continued along the main street, stopping occasionally to read headlines in glass newsstands. The shop at the corner brimmed with sundresses whirling in the gentle breeze. After computing the exchange rate, she decided against any purchases.

Turning the corner, the sun met her unprotected eyes. She stumbled against the vine-covered wall. A woman walking toward her stopped to ask if she was all right. "You know, I remembered to pack everything except my sunglasses," Vivian responded. Recognizing the American accent, the woman smiled and replied," I forgot my sun hat on my first trip here ten years ago. The sunburn kept me in bed for the first two days." The woman's eyes roamed Vivian's face scooping up her look of surprise. Before long, the women were walking side by side sharing tidbits of their past lives.

The women stopped in front of a small caf�. Elizabeth invited Vivian in for coffee. The two nestled at a round table near the open door where Elizabeth told the story of how she had purchased the place on her first trip to the island. It wasn't something she had planned. She had moved from Boston after the death of her teenage son. She had never married his father, so there were no commitments. Elizabeth had taught at the university and was ready for a change. Vivian watched Elizabeth's lips while her thoughts raced in and out of the conversation. They talked until the sun rose overhead, and then arranged a dinner date for the next evening.

Parting on the sidewalk in front of the caf�, Vivian thanked Elizabeth, Efcharisto, then hurried toward the crowded beach. Squealing children and lines of sun beds occupied every space. She tiptoed across the hot sand to a protected spot against the black rocks. She felt relief knowing she had met someone to talk to on the island.

Vivian spread her towel, unhooked the top of her bikini, and lay on her back. The warmth moved up her stomach and brushed her chest. She hoped no one would stop to chat this time. Her back sank into the soft sand. In a few moments, the images and voices from the conversation with her new friend disappeared.