By Spencer Spencers

“Take me to Mykonos,” the drunk young man said to no one as I walked by. He was slouched in a chair outside a taverna, the exterior of which was drowning in bougainvillea. It was very early to be that drunk—but who was I to judge: I’d had three beers on the ferry. I kept walking. Was he the only other tourist I’d seen?

I didn’t know the name of this island, but I was certain it wasn’t Mykonos. The chora had enchanted me from the ferry deck. The town spilled down from the rocky hills like some cyclopean toddler had dumped a bucket of white-washed houses from on high.

Disembarking, I dragged my uncooperative suitcase through clouds of diesel exhaust in the harbor. I checked in at the first hotel I saw and rid myself of the hateful bag. Then I set off to find the town’s highest point, hoping for an inspiring vista. The narrow streets twisted erratically, suddenly turning to stairs as they rose. The sun and those three beers weighed me down as I climbed.

At the city’s pinnacle, I found an austere church, typical in the Cyclades. Churches seemed to erupt spontaneously on rocky hilltops in Greece. I wanted to step inside the dark, dust-shrouded interior but couldn’t do it. I didn’t belong there. Where did I belong anymore?

Islands, like drowning mountains, rose from the sea at all corners of the horizon. North of town, I could see tiny people basking on a beach. I squinted, unable to tell if they were clothed. I recalled commenting to my ex-wife and son: the type of people who went to nudist beaches weren’t the people you wanted to see naked. My son laughed. My ex-wife… well…

Feeling like a discarded skin flake, I started back to my hotel.

“Take me to Mykonos,” the drunk said as I passed him again on my way down. He looked at me directly this time, almost pleading.

A middle-aged woman had joined him at the table. She looked to be about my age. Perhaps the drunk boy was her son? She raised her glass of ouzo to me in salute.

Was she married? Maybe divorced? Coward that I was, I waved instead and kept walking.

However, despite my best attempts, the streets led me up and back down the hill again.

“Take me to Mykonos,” the drunk said when I passed once more. The woman smiled at me. This time, I oriented myself toward the water and walked on.

Narrow, white-washed streets vibrated with the force of the sunshine. Above me, octopi hung on wires, tenderizing in the heat. I sympathized. Ignoring my hunger, I pressed on to my destination: the sea—

—but somehow found myself at the flower-choked taverna again.

“Come join us!” the woman called to me in a German accent.

“I’m a bit lost,” I admitted.

“Take a rest. Eat something,” she said. “The food won’t disappoint.”

I sat. Her name was Erika with a K. She’d been living here ten years, arriving after her divorce. I must’ve smelled the separation on her.

“That’s Olly,” she said, gesturing to the drunk young man. “He’s English. I look after him.”

“Take me to Mykonos,” Olly mumbled.

Erika spoke to the waiter in fluid Greek. Soon, a glass and a diminutive bottle of ouzo arrived followed by a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes, a brick of feta cheese balancing on top.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m divorced, too.”

“What else would you be?”

My shoulders relaxed. Maybe it was the food, maybe it was the ouzo, maybe it was Erika, but I didn’t care so much about finding my hotel now.

“Couldn’t find your way back?” Erika asked.

“No. Got any directions?”

She half-smiled. “Would I be here ten years if I did?”

I laughed.

“Same with Olly there. I’ve learned Greek, but the locals only speak in riddles. Their directions make no sense.” Erika’s half-smile twitched.

I didn’t get the joke. I felt like human dandruff again.

“They built these towns as labyrinths,” Erika continued, “to disorient attacking pirates. The townspeople would then ambush the lost invaders.”

“I think I’ve got to go,” I said. I hurriedly plunked down an unknown amount of euros to pay for my food.

“Of course,” Erika said to me. “See you shortly.”

“Take me to Mykonos,” Olly slurred.

***

The sun was falling below the horizon, setting the sea on fire. I asked several townspeople the way to my hotel. They responded in perfect English, but none of their directions led me out of the maze of streets. I tried following locals, but they walked in circles, too, before suddenly disappearing around corners and locked doorways.

“No luck?” Erika said as I returned. “Have a tomatokeftede. No need to panic.”

“Take me to Mykonos,” Olly hummed.

A grilled octopus tentacle lay on a plate waiting for me together with some enticing fried blobs. I took a bite of croquette.

An orchestra of herbs and oil played in my mouth. “Wow, that’s good,” I said despite myself.

Erika swirled a glass of white wine. “It’s hard on Olly. He was left here when he was young, his whole life ahead of him.”

Olly looked up from his beer. He did not speak this time. I tried some octopus.

“Me, I gave up escaping long ago,” Erika said. “You won’t find a lovelier prison to die in. And the locals are so hospitable, even though they can’t seem to understand our predicament.”

The octopus melted in my mouth, unlike the tire-rubber calamari back in Chicago. But…

“I need to get home,” I managed between bites.

“Why?” Erika said. “What, you want to go home to another suffocating marriage, another job? Just different cages with worse food.”

I kept eating, hoping to fill the pit in my stomach.

“I’ll find my way out in the morning,” I said definitively.

“Sure,” Erika said. “I’ll be waiting here when you get tired.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Spencer Spencers grew up in Kansas and dreamed of living in the mountains. He lives currently in Mount Prospect, IL. Not exactly what he was envisioning, but it’s really pleasant. He has a PhD in geology but now works as an industrial forensic scientist. Again, he’s not sure how that happened. He cares and is cared for in turn by his wife, child, and dogs.

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