IT kicks in, harshly.
You can’t speak Greek, and the joy of getting your Greek telephone number is swamped by a terrible sadness — the person who asked you to get one — I can’t reach you when I want to, she says — but she doesn’t answer when you ring!
Not only that, you’re meant to be moving into a house tomorrow, in Eressos, and this person won’t confirm!
They can’t confirm, because they don’t answer their phone.
You’re left bewildered because you don’t know whether you must pack, to move from the hotel, the Kouitou Hotel.
Last night she points at the mark that her lipstick makes on a cute little glass. You can write about that, she says.
And squints her eyes at you.
You hate rejection, especially when you can’t understand it; especially when you’ve gone out of your way to get that fucking Greek number.
What’s the reason for cutting me off?
It’s horrible. And you wish you were at home.
The dogs would jump all over you, and love you. They know they can trust you. They know you’re theirs, and they’re yours.
The sun sets on your dreams tonight; even the swallows and swifts don’t sound happy tonight.
But you had a nice day, going with a German woman to Kalloni, to get a new computer cable.
You buy your Greek number in Mytiline, and Miss Moneybags gets an option for you at Vodafone: E6 a month.
She tells you it takes years in Greece to find these type deals, simply because you don’t speak Greek.
I paid E80 a month for years, she says.
We go to Thermi, the hot springs, just outside Mytiline.
39.5 deg C — heat from 2500 metres into the earth.
You float around in a pool where this earth water pours in; in torrents.
You put your back to the gargoyle spout and let the water massage your shoulders.
Then you go and lie on a bed at the edge of the sea water, metres from the pool.
You almost fall asleep.
Then it’s time to go.
You look forward to phoning Madame X. You tell her you’re still on the road.
She’s short with you, very short. You wonder why.
Last night she tells you she loves you!
It’s too awful. You don’t know what’s going on.
She shows you a house, yesterday, near hers. We can have our space and be near each other, she says.
You look forward to unpacking the work you’ve brought to do; to starting your mission to make a product of your work.You decide to have a dinner together, the first night in the house.
And now. You don’t know if you must pack. You don’t know what’s going on anymore.
Your papers are at her place, and so is the money you sent over.
Now there is silence. There is no way of knowing if you will ever get your house, your papers, or the money you put into her account.
You phone, and phone. You write on Facebook.
There is nothing. You concede, there is nothing you can do. You write, to try and make sense of it.
Tomorrow is a beautiful day.
Your heart beats. You love. You live.
You realise: hope is a boat for losers.