Where Have You Been?!

Before we crashed on the evening of the 7th, we had attempted to call our hotel, Kavos Bay, on the unreachable island of Aegina, with no success. No matter how many times the phone rang, there was no answer.

The next morning, we awoke early (as had become, by this time, our custom) and on the way to the port we stopped and acquired 15 tiny baklava-esque honey pastries and two large cheese-filled something-or-others.

Then we dashed to the port and purchased tickets on a Hellas Flying Dolphin Hydrofoil scheduled to depart at 7AM for the island of Aegina.

We were the last two people to board the craft, and quickly found seats in the back of the main compartment. There we enjoyed our honey pastries and cheese-thing while accelerating to the point where the entire vehicle rose out of the water. The rising effect starts with the front foils, giving one the deceptive feeling of an angle commonly associated with takeoff in a plane, and making the ride feel that much more like a trip through the air, rather than across the water.

When we arrived at Aegina, it was barely 7:45, and the sleepy seaside finishing village which shares the islands name was just waking up. Fisherman tended to nets in the multi-colored boats along the shore, and bakers were still in the throes of their daily routine, heat billowing from the ovens as they pulled forth the day's allotments of breads.

We asked directions to the bus stop in a local shop, and soon found ourselves joining the last few middle-school children boarding the islands only bus. It seems that the regular commuter bus doubles as the children's transportation each morning, and we stood out sharply with our packs among the pre-teen children eyeing us with inquisitive stares.

On the other side of the town of Aegina, the children all left the bus together, making it transition from so-full-I-was-forced-to-stand, to completely empty sans three people, in one stop. By 8:15 we were rumbling our way up the hillsides of Aegina, cutting a sharp line across the island for its opposite side, the tiny village of Agia Marina, where we hoped to locate our hotel, Kavos Bay.

When the bus finally stopped in the three-street downtown, we got out and immediately headed for the water. We have a photograph of the hotel which showed it's location from the coast, and with the curve of the bay we knew we should be able to estimate it's location then head back up and find it on the roads of the town.

Within one block we had been adopted by a large local dog (apparently we looked pathetic enough for him), who cheerfully followed us for the next two miles of our wanderings, peeing on each new interesting landmark we encountered. 80 began to express doubts as to his ability to maintain this lifestyle, but I countered with the knowledge born of years of dog ownership: male dog bladders are liquid containment facilities the likes of which have never been duplicated elsewhere. They can carry enough liquid to mark every important (or even moderately interesting) item for several square miles.

After a few false starts and wrong turns, we found ourselves on a long, unmarked road that looked like, at our best estimation, it had to head directly to our hotel. We passed Dancing Club Leo, a completely quiet building that wouldn't even begin to see activity until the following month, when tourist season actually began.

We began to doubt our choice just as we were passing the Hotel Apollo, the only sign of life for 300 meters, when a small and dusty red hatchback with a striking resemblance to a Yugo puttered up next to us and the driver leaned his head out. "You are going to Kavos bay?"

"Yes! We were supposed to arrive last night."

"Ah, yes. Go straight on this road. It will curve. Keep going. And there to the right it is the hotel." And with that he was off, clattering towards town on some errand.

We shrugged and continued in our current direction, and the road soon wound around a hillside and we found ourselves looking out across the bay at our adorable little white and blue building. "That's it." 80 said.

Our hearts and footsteps lighter now, we toiled through the roads curves with our absurd adopted dog by our side. As we approached the hotel, we spied our new host, possibly the oldest Greek man ever, at work tinkering on a small vehicle in the driveway of the hotel. The owner's tiny black dog (who we later discovered they called 'Blackie' for their English speaking guests) began to bark. Our adoptee didn't slow, and I shouted apologetically "It isn't ours!" I looked sidelong at our lanky third wheel "Scram, will you? We found where we're staying. You can go." But he seemed determined that something up ahead was probably interesting and therefore worth peeing on and that was an opportunity he didn't intend to miss.

Blackie, however, was a bit more adamant than I was, and as we walked up to our host, he suddenly accelerated like a miniature black missile and we witnessed the entertaining sight of our large adoptee sprinting tail-tucked down the hill with a tiny yapping mass of fury at his heels.

Our owner laughed as we watched this show, and then turned to us. "You are here for hotel?" he said, in very thickly accented and broken English.

"Yes." I began to explain, "We were supposed to arrive yesterday, but we missed . . .the. . .ferry."

My words became more drawn out as the face of our ancient host lit up with joy and he clasped his hands and shook them as if saying a fervent prayer of thanks to the heavens for saving his two guests. I think he feared we had been swallowed by the ocean and now, Poseidon, in his kindness, was restoring us to him. He hugged us both and appeared to nearly quiver with happiness that we had survived the journey to his hotel.

It was a bit surprising but very sweet and we couldn't help but smile. He gestured towards the open doors of the screened-in veranda. "You English? Come. He speak English. My son!"

We followed our animated and wrinkled host into the shady veranda and where there met with another greeting as enthusiastic as the first. Our new friend's son was in his late 40s and covered in dust and paint from the renovations they were preparing on the back of the hotel. He was hurrying in just as we walked through the door and his eyes lit up with a smile and he exclaimed "Where have you been?!" with a level of feeling that we normally associate with overly-worried aunts when it is extremely stormy and you're late to dinner and don't call.

"We missed the ferry!" we explained, again. By now feeling that we should feel as guilty for not being here as they were relieved that we had arrived. "We tried to call but there was no answer."

The son nodded. "Hmm. I am working outside and so sometimes I do not hear the phone."

At this point our ancient host hopped into the conversation. "You want Cafe?" He asked, with a twinkle in his eye, offering us the traditional Greek breakfast of coffee so thick you can grow plants in it. We blinked, owl like, at him and his son, still exhausted from the previous two days travels, and said "Actually, may we just see the room now? We need to sleep."

The son bobbed his head and said. "Ah, yes. My mother has prepared one of the rooms for you.

He bid us follow him and led us back out the other side of the veranda and across a perfectly beautiful terrace full of stone and marble and under a few trees to the other side of the line of hotel rooms. There he found our room and gave us the key. "If you need anything, more blankets, or anything, come and find me." he told us, and left.

We collapsed into bed, and slept until mid-day.