Hydra, where I climbed the steep stones, past the fragrance of jasmine and through lanes of donkey shit to an art exhibition in the old school house. Looking at pictures of prostitutes killed in Iran I was reminded, we should celebrate not only what is present but also what is lost. An exhibition on loss where my soul was imprinted by photographs of refugees climbing the Acropolis.
Hydra, where I drank cocktails through straws made of spaghetti at the famous Pirate Bar. Hydra, where my children leapt off rocks at midnight, their scraggled and sun-bleached bodies tumbling into the navy blue ocean.
Hydra, where I slept, without my usual creature comforts: the darkness of an eye mask, the warm arms of a husband. Instead I depended on the soporific hum of an air conditioner to fall asleep.
Hydra, where we encountered, every day, fascinating people from all over the world and even, some days, dull people. Hydra, where guests fed the stray kittens and locals shouted in what would seem aggressive language if it weren’t familiar.
Hydra, where I studied the toes of people during a yoga class in the old sponge factory and was relieved to find, whoever we are, from wherever we come, there is a profound universality to the ugliness of toes.
Hydra, where the bougainvillea is as renowned as the food. Hydra, where my heart came full circle and will return, turning and turning again.