the road through ikaria

I weep on the ferry as the mountains burst forth from the sea. It is only with the mountains in sight, after three days on planes, that I can attend to matters of the heart. Mostly, it is a release.

Amongst the Viginia Slims and plastic waterbottles and lip piercings, I finish Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin. It is the third book I’ve inhaled on the long and inefficient journey from Sydney (Yellowface by R. F. Kuang on the flight to South Korea, All About Love: New Visions by bell hooks to Paris, and then to Athens) and despite the jetlag and lack of appetite, I am happy to be here.

I question why I feel a need to romanticise my life. Why I need to take note of the details and thrust them into poignancy. My therapist tells me it has been a coping mechanism since childhood, to erase hardship and inject beauty into places in times when there was very little. I think that is partially true. The way my old journals speak of my erratic (“adventurous”) behaviour and promiscuity certainly shows me as much. But I think it is also a way of reminding myself that no matter the chaos or the pain, there are still tiny things to hold onto and say, as a matter of fact: this is beautiful, and this is worth living for.

I’ll take this self-indulgent romance over a detached pragmatism any day.

I rent a scooter when I arrive on the island of Ikaria. My apartment is two hours away and I learn upon arrival that there is limited (read: non-existent) public transport. When I’m travelling on my own, I rarely look into details like this. It doesn’t feel all that necessary. My optimism can be blinding and has led me into all sorts of trouble. Thankfully, not today.

The two-hour journey to my coastal accomodation takes me up and over the mountains, with roads wrapping around cliffs so sharp and with such little warning I can’t help but laugh. It reminds me of the days riding my old Yamaha SR250 over the Harbour Bridge at sunset, smoking darts and cradling a Bintang between my thighs in Bali, riding pillion and topping unthinkable speeds through Ku-ring-gai National Park. For some, it’s music that takes them back. For me, it’s the wind.

My apartment is on the beach above a restaurant. Street cats doze under the tables and nothing opens until late morning. I chose this particular island because it promised peace and an absence from the hoards of people that frequent Greece in the summer. It has kept its promise. You are often rewarded when you forgo the friction of inconvenience.

I fall asleep with the doors to the balcony open. I can hear the waves and the 35km winds across the bay. The washing machine is doing its final cycle and the floor is littered with the contents of my backpack. There are some things I’d like to do – find the ceramicists on the island, do some of the walks. But I’m not making any plans. I may have spent four days getting here, but I don’t feel the need to see anything at all. I live my life in lists, to the point of obsessive concern. I write one in the morning on paper, and then I digitise it. By the time 3pm hits I re-write the list of everything I haven’t done and I keep chipping away. At 5pm, I write my list for the following day. I do this five days a week, and then I write a list for the weekend too. If I am feeling especially out of control, or a little panicked, I will open my journal and write a 5-year plan. My journals are filled with such plans, and I am rarely attached to the outcome of them. I don’t want another list in Europe. I need to unshackle the crutch of order and lean into doing whatever the fuck I feel like doing right in this moment.

Today, it looks like finding some peaches.