Vouliagmeni

On Friday, I was in his neighbourhood. It happens to be one of my favourite places in Athens. While it is only a ten minute drive  from my flat I haven’t been able to return since he broke it off. In fact, the last time I was there was over seven month ago when I was  accidentally leaving behind a pair of earrings. Last night, I sat in the passenger seat and as the driver weaved through the curvy mountain road and we passed landmarks that remind me of him, my mind went back to the summer I spent in Vouliagmeni.

The air is different there. I’ve always felt it. In the middle of winter or in the hopeful stirrings of spring or even on suffocating nights of summer, the breeze there feels brand new. The people are different too; a little less neurotic than the average Athenian. It must help that the Med is only an inhale and an exhale away. Life pauses there, even with cars whizzing by at unjustifiable speeds on the sea road.

I remembered our third date (or was it our fourth?) We had spent the entire day in the sun. Then we spent all evening in the dusk. Then we spent all night in the dark. I remember my burnt cheeks and his red eyes. I remembered those few slow minutes between dusk and dark when I had randomly blurted,

‘Five’

‘Five?’ he had asked.

‘Five times’ I had clarified.

‘Five times what?’

I remembered the way I smiled and kinda dropped my eyes because I was nervous. Sometimes I do that. Sometimes I say things without thinking the entire conversation through. He needed an explanation for the spontaneous number calling and I didn’t want to have to spell it out. So I had just kinda repeated the sentiment,

‘I’ve been counting. And. I’m. At. Five. Times. That. I. Want. You. To…’ I had hoped my eyes would help him finish my sentence. His grin told me he had.

‘Only? I’m at like fifty-five’.

I don’t know the reason we didn’t kiss right then and there. But I remembered that later after our first, our second, our fiftieth kiss, I would throw out numbers at him; especially when he would go off on one of his geeky rants of how news anchors were ruining the English language.

‘Three’ I would say.

He would come back to me with a higher number–until the day he didn’t come back with a number at all. I suppose a smarter woman would have seen those numberless nights as an obvious sign of his wavering interest. But that damn breeze in Vouliagmeni must have gone and blown all the red flags out of my view.

On Friday, I returned to Vouliagmeni. I was scared that the disappointment of another failed romance would have changed my perception of that palm tree haven. I was scared that it wouldn’t be the same inspiring place it once was for me. I was scared that when I looked into the sky I wouldn’t see endless possibility. Instead I would just see never-ending loss. There are countless of other places in this city that have been ruined for me by heartbreak of all kinds. I didn’t want this to become one of those places.  As I stood on the edge of the marina–watching the pristine, white yachts bopping up and down–the breeze came up from behind me and greeted me in a muted whistle.

I felt such sweet relief.  It hadn’t  changed at all.

It still feels brand new.