happy hydra days
The flying cat departs from the port of Piraeus, where the Athenian fleet was based at the height of Ancient Greece. Now the port transfers Athenians to the Saronic Islands and overnight travelers to Crete. En route to Hydra, the catamaran passes through the narrow channel between the island of Poros and the Peloponnese mainland. Passengers exit ("exodus" in Greek) at Poros, and the flying cat continues onto Hydra.
At the port, we’re greeted by a donkey. We leave our bags on the ground, which are heaped onto the donkey to be carried and navigated through the narrow streets climbing the hills. On Hydra, there are no cars. The owner of the house has been on Hydra for decades, first arriving on a short trip with friends—a break from the wet and gray island in northern Europe where she went to school. Then it was a month a few years later. Marriage and children followed, and now Hydra is home. Her children, who went to school on the island, are now spread across Europe. Hydra has only six schools, she tells us. Hydra will always be here, but “go into the world first,” she tells her children. Now they’re spread out across Europe: Hydrian, Greek, European.
Stories appear like this across the island of Hydra—characters and avatars and prompts emerging.
At lunch in tavernas with the Peloponnese mainland across the strait, cats chew on the remains of shrimp. After we finish a white fish, the waiter takes the bones on a plate away from the tables where Danes, Australians, Poles, and Europeans have lunch. Twelve cats appear from under tables and behind walls to follow the fish, taking all the remaining salty meat from the bones. At another table, unaware of the trail of cats, a woman eating alone complains about how all the food is so salty. The Cretan salad (with feta) is too salty. The shrimp saganaki, a salty cheese, is too salty. The chef appears and tells her that of course feta is a salty cheese, as is saganaki. She picks at the shrimp and tosses the shells on the floor for cats to pick up and eat quickly. She pays the check for the salty meal, walks towards the salty sea, and dives straight in, floating in water so buoyant because of the salt.
At a beach the next day, Americans panic about another hurricane hurtling towards Florida. A woman trips over the corner of the wooden walkway laid out over the stones for visitors of the beach club. Her cup of cappuccino rolls off the walkway, spilling onto the beach. A young waiter comes with a bucket of water to wash away the incident. He offers her a new cappuccino. She asks if her husband can smoke a cigar—Habanos. It mixes with the salty air and drifts towards us on the loungers behind them, mingling with the scents of herbs on the cliffs. A young woman speaks to them. They stay in their sun loungers and turn their necks to have a conversation about their travels through Greece. She is French; her father is Greek. She’ll ask him about traveling in the Cyclades on a bike or motorbike. They speak in French. She uses the words “bike” and “motorbike” in English. She lives in London. They are Brazilian but live in Buenos Aires. She dives into the sea, and they continue smoking their Habanos.
At another bay, as the sun sets over the Peloponnese mainland, a lone man, toned with olive skin, sits on a towel. He must have spent the summer on beaches like this. His life on beaches like this? He wraps one arm around his knees, the other holding a cigarette. Behind his sunglasses, he stares beyond the headland towards Athens. Next to the towel and light pile of clothes are running shoes. It’s as if he came to Hydra quickly, in a hurry, with only running shoes. He never enters the water; he smokes and looks towards Athens, wondering why he left it behind.
The next day, towards the port of Hydra, where the flying cat will soon return to Athens, I notice a man at a bar bent down to light a cigarette. The position of the bar, near the end of the harbor, provides a clear view towards the headland of the Peloponnese across the water. Ferries and catamarans turn and pass the narrow strait near Poros. Behind is Athens. You can’t see the city, but you know it’s there, and on a clear day, you see the mountains east and south of the city. As the man sits up after lighting his cigarette, it is the man from the beach. This time, he is wearing the running shoes and sits down to look towards Athens. Is he ready to return? Run back—or run away?
A fan whirs above the bed, and I sleep with the doors open onto a balcony with Hydra behind and around the bedroom. The morning sounds of donkeys and roosters fill the air. It’s October, not summer. Across the valley, I faintly hear a school in the hills (one of the six on the island) and the hum of children playing in the yard. At night, as the sun sets, tortoises stamp over the aluminum roofing in the garden next door. But in the morning, the tortoises seek shade from the sun under trees. I move from under the light white sheets, throw on any clothes piled on the chair, and step out into the morning to buy Greek yogurt and bottles of water for my friends still sleeping in the other rooms.
The closest market to the house is the Four Corners Market. You walk past Leonard Cohen’s house to reach the market. It was his closest market too. Always turn right on the way to the market and left on the way back to the house. A notice on a gray door invites friends on Hydra to celebrate the life of someone who had called the island home for decades, since the 1960s. The invitation comes from his “companion.” This was in August; now it’s October. I imagine the companion, friends, and family in the heavy heat of August, gathered under a tree in the cemetery. Afterward, they share stories of how the island has changed since the bohemian 1960s—a cheap island for artists to hide—to now. Still, the island attracts writers and a crowd from across the world seeking a slower pace, creative spaces, small bays, and natural pools to cool in the waters before stopping for sweet cappuccino freddo or espresso freddo at bars, climbing Hydra’s streets with the mountains and crags rising behind the town.
