चापter १

Awake at 5 a.m., vision blurred from a few hours of sleep, I immediately summoned my internal list of “things-that-shouldn’t-be-forgotten-before-you-leave-the-country” which included an alarm clock, my yellow plastic wristwatch and my lunch …

(I slapped together a PB&J with Grandma Pulskamp’s homemade strawberry jelly and extra peanut butter. I’ve been cautioned peanut butter is a tough find outside the U.S.A., but I decided not to pack a jar. If I’m leaving the country, my taste buds are coming with me)

It was definitely September. Driving towards Hibbing, the sun was a foggy, red strip between the horizon and a swath of heavy, grey clouds.

Oh but there was my plane!

A tin-can shaking lonesome on the runway, it would carry me safely to Minneapolis and my connecting flight to Philadelphia, PA (not Seattle, like mom kept insisting), where I would buy a turkey sandwich and munch happily at terminal 13A while I waited for my boarding call.

And like most good things, it came.

Only thirty-six hours into my voyage, and I’ve already held two memorable conversations. A mid-aged woman, sitting next to me between Hibbing and Minneapolis introduced herself as Candy. She was traveling with her husband to Washington D.C., where her son lives with his girlfriend (from Barcelona, Spain) and their nine-day old daughter.

I pulled out my Greek travel guide and showed her a picture of Paros. Pushing my finger against a black and white map, the tiny island felt mythical, even unattainable, but I confirmed it’s existence saying confidently “I’ll be living there for three months.” After she jotted down her address, I promised to send a postcard when I get settled, then she wished me a safe journey and made me promise I would be careful.

I met a forty-year old Irish/Italian man from Providence Rhode Island named John Paul D’nato on my second flight. He commented on my PB&J as I was sitting down and we didn’t stop talking until the plane landed in Pennsylvania. Mr. D’nato works for a roofing contract company, lives by himself, goes to church every Sunday and confessed to being “a bit of a punk” before growing up. He was very kind. Whether or not he was being flirtatious, he told me he could see ambition and success in my eyes, said my parents must be proud and wondered if there was a lucky husband or boyfriend waiting at home? I laughed and showed him a picture of John. “Lucky man, lucky man,” he said.

He gave me his business card, and told me to let him know if I ever needed anything. I promised to send another postcard.

Waiting in the crowded terminal before I crossed the pond, I scanned the crowd curiously for anyone else my age. Were they going the same place as me?

I woke up Saturday morning to find a blueberry muffin on my tray and a stewardess offering me orange juice or coffee. Before I knew it, we were twenty minutes from Athens. I clutched my cup tightly and grinned.

And then we were there.

From our Boeing 747 we rode buses to our luggage claim. I was drowning in the Greek language: it’s murky and rolling, clipping along rapidly, ancient and foreign to my American ears. Everything was blue and white, the buildings, the car, the sky, the mountains in the morning sun.

This is an old place, like a sleepy man covered with busy ants on cell phones.

I think I might stay for a while.