I’m looking out the rain splattered window of the ferry that is now delaying its departure from Rafina port, on the east coast of Athens. Suddenly, four or five men run down the cement wharf to an area next to the us with sledge hammers and begin to pound on and upend chunks of cement with such vigor it was likely a pipe had burst and was spewing unsavory contents into the sea. Within minutes, a sizable hole had been dug and several of the men knelt down and peered inside while others stood back, in what looked to be a thoughtful, deep huddle. Then they ran back and forth to our side of the cement peer, to where the mouth of the pipe opened to the water. The woman opposite me, who earlier insisted I share her bag of chips and peanuts, soon gets word and explains to me that a dog fell into one of the pipes. The poor animal had no idea of how much attention it had drawn, as even a fisherman in a small fishing boat bobbing up and down by the exit point, held its course while he tried to coax the lost dog out into an even scarier sea. Soon a new orange vested official arrived on the scene with a life buoy and rope. All of them now held some kind of conference there in the rain, assessing the situation. By that time though, the ferry was pulling away from the dock and I was on my way to Andros.
Taxis are as ubiquitous and freely roaming as are the cats, both here and in Athens. But the cats may have a better life quality. They seem to be called to more by passersby, enjoy a good siesta (lounging on car hoods and curled by back doors) and by the looks of them maybe even better fed. But today I will feed a taxi driver. I do enjoy being delivered to my destination without having to keep an eye on direction, station name, or the reliability factor. So I hop in one to take me to the hotel where I’ll be on kitchen duty: setting up the breakfast buffet for the guests and cooking midday dinner for the owner and a few workers who are getting some remaining rooms freshly spackled over and painted.
I arrive to an empty lobby, around 7:30 in the evening. It’s a large, dark green marble floored reception with simply designed chairs and couches all in pastel blue. A few steps down leads to the breakfast room, and all of the walls facing the sea are windows and glass doors that lead to a terrace. I ding the bell, and wait. And wait. Finally, from the back, the owner pants his way in from the kitchen. “I’ve just been running,” he says. He is magnanimous in this moment, full of adrenaline joy and exuberance. We exchange hands and pleasantries, short introductory tales that have nothing to do with the hotel or job and more about hiking and biking. He gets me to my room and tells me another worker is expected, and he will see me in the morning, at which time he’ll show us both around the hotel. I lay my bed with sheets and blankets, open the doors to a private veranda, and catch a glimpse of the sea down the alley.
I meet Julia the next morning as I went out to the kitchen in search of coffee. Originally from Ukraine, she’s been in Greece for 15 years and works here as the cleaning maid. She is the only non English speaking person I have met in Greece, so we start speaking in charades. Blond haired, blue eyed, mid thirties I imagine, she buzzes around the place with quick choreographed movements. She unfurls the tablecloths draped over the trays and dispensers waiting for cold cuts and cereals. I gesture to help. “No, no, you sit, drink coffee.” A series of gestures follows to indicate her job and my job, and that D, “her boss” would “have her ass” (here, she points to her bottom and starts spanking it) if she were to relinquish her job to me. I’m not sure she knows exactly who I am, but to her my job requires me to relax and drink my coffee. “Breakfast at nine. Eleni sleep, Eleni drink kaffee.” (Here she places both palms together as if in prayer and lays the side of her face onto them.) I acquiesce, sit at one of the tables, and take mental notes. She plugs in the coffee machine which begins to gurgle and and drip while she takes sliced deli cheese and ham, tomatoes, red peppers, and feta cheese out from one of two refrigerators behind the swinging door. She grabs ice packs from a freezer and puts them under the serving trays. She goes back to the kitchen for the fun flavored corn-based cereal and granola, none looking extraordinarily healthy, with which she tops off the dispensers, then runs back to the kitchen to get the milk and orange flavored juice that looks more sugar than orange and pours those into canisters. Simple and cost effective for the mass of people that have yet to show up but are promised to. The bread selection would make a baker cry, but the few guests who show up later seem to love the stuff, layering ham and cheese between the precut white slices and smashing the whole thing between two hot griddles into a panini. Finally, though, on the other end: lemon jam, tahini, and honey selections sitting in mason jars next to a large dollop of Greek yogurt; next to them, a basket of apples, pears and bananas sit, waiting with the glum realization that they are probably a guest’s last choice and serve solely as decor. Feeling somewhat superfluous, I retreat to my room with my coffee.
I return around nine o’clock, already feeling like a good chunk of the morning is passing us by and that surely something must be needing doing. I pass a hooded man lost behind a computer screen, sunken behind the reception counter. Entering the dining room, I find the obvious duo by overhearing their conversation and go over to introduce myself. One is overtly gregarious, from Switzerland, and the other steadfastly laconic, from a small town in northeastern Greece right by the Bulgarian and Turkish borders. After the where froms and where beens and how longs have been shared, I inquire after D, who was to show us around the hotel this morning. I hadn’t seen him at all yet. “He’s over there, at the desk,” says Switzerland. It was the hooded man, who I hadn’t even recognized. He could have been one of those basement recluses, dug deep into a video game or dark web surf, but it is likely he was researching his next big adventure, as when the three of us go up to him to find out what he’d like us to do, he says bluntly: “Take the day off. We’ll start tomorrow. I’m going to Athens today, to a cave seminar.” True to his word, he hastened out the door shortly before 2:00 pm leaving us with minor instructions: enjoy the island.
There is a narrow sandy beach right at the small port here, a few fishing boats tied up. Along its simple one lane main road that winds onward south, tavernas line up one after the other. They are also waking to the idea of opening for the season: the Greeks are sanding, painting, adjusting this or that. A few are already open to offer something for the early tourists, mainly Germans and Dutch in hiking boots and wind breakers. Small coves of flat rock and sand reach the water in both directions, providing private little beaches. There is one main grocery store and two mini marts, an ice cream shop, a creperie, a scooter rental place, St. Philippos Church up the hill and a few alleys in stone steps heading up into the hills. And of course, cats. Every hour or so, large flat bed trucks enter town and from mega phones blare out a solicitation of some kind. One of them had cages of chickens in the back and the other a bunch of tangled, rusty metal and steel appliances. There is no bank. There are no tourist shops selling magnets or rugs. There is no pharmacy. Just the howl of the wind, the roosters and goats in the backyards, the Aegean lapping up on shore.
Write Down the Road 