Santorini

In Greece, I lived as if I could fly.

In a narrow alleyway bar, where my soles stained the bar top, I clasp the railing with one hand. A manic laugh bubbles up my throat, loosened by liquor, and I arch over the railing. The streets of Santorini loom stories bellow as the screams of my minute-friends reach my ears. My phone slips but stays in the grasp of my palm as I right myself.  My head spins, the lights of the bar thump along to the pervasive beat of the song, and I come back down to the third floor. The girls shriek and yelp at me, chastising my lunge over the railing. I grin with teeth, eyes heavy and glossy. For half a second I felt like Icarus, with the wind running his fingers through my hair as the ground spins below me. The view of the marbled streets contorted and smiled up at me like an old friend. My pulse races with adrenaline, my nervous system catching up with my actions in a panic. A cool glass slides into my palm, a gift from a boy with a silly name who I will never see again. I smile at him, like the hungry marble street smiled at me. He hopes for more. I turn away.

It’s truly all Greek to me as we stumble through streets and hundreds of years of history in a solitary step. Alleyways beckon amongst the drunken laughter and hushed moans. In daylight, I walk with a purpose. I trace ruins with my eyes and the stories that have haunted me for years come to life. They overwhelm me, reaching down my throat and making a home for themselves in the corners of my mind. I watch as old plumes of smoke and rivers of lava score the earth in front of me and forever mar the ground. Under the sweltering Greek sun, the old stains my skin new. Perfectly cut marble nips at my fingers and giggles at my reverence. Greek coffee burns my throat and soothes my sore muscles. It’s entirely too much, and yet I could stay for years. It’s the past and it’s the present. Haunting and yearning, the cities hang precariously over cliff faces and the expansive sea below.