I had not noticed the man sitting next to me at Cyber Cookies Café until he got up and walked away. I had been writing in my journal and was not really looking out at anything in particular. At one point, I remember noticing the sun had set. And I recall sensing the smell of honey again; but that is normal. I do not know if he was there when I sat down at the third table or if he arrived later, but when he left I noticed the absence of him.I’ve taken to sitting at the third table each time I come here. I think I like it best because now the red canvas chair has molded to the shape of my butt and I feel comfortable.
The search for comfort and familiarity continues.
Cyber Cookies is located right the center in the sloping arc of Market Street and offers perfect, long views in both directions. It is an excellent observation spot. Sometimes in the evenings I sit in this seat and write and watch the people ramble along looking in the shop windows. There are no cars along Market Street, it is a narrow pedestrian thoroughfare open only to humans, stray dogs and cats, and the occasional after-hours motorcycle.
There are a few sounds are coming up frequently in Greece.
Church bells are particularly expressive at noon and six in the evening.
The sound of brooms sweeping stone in the morning.
Ferry horns. Music.
The sound of paper tickets being torn almost in half by the ticket takers on the bus.
Laughter and arguments which sometimes sound alike.
The fallen dark pink flowers of bougainvillea trees that have dried hard and are brushed along the street by the wind.
On Sunday mornings the sound of religious services echoes from the churches.
The squeaking sound of metal when waiters open the canvas awnings that hang over restaurant tables each evening at the end of Siesta. 
When Greek football is broadcast on the large screens set up in the cafes and restaurants the roar of the crowd can be heard over the play-by-play commentary.
I have grown fond of the unmistakable sound of Greek men playing with their colorful kompoloi; two rows of beads that have been strung together on a cord and bound with a tassel or charm. The men flip the cords back and forth over their hands and the beads clang together.
Frank is drinking a Cuba Libre.
He is an artist living in Paros in self-imposed exile from France. His hair is white and black and cut into different lengths, his eyebrows are jet black. He is smart and warm and very, very French. He has a big heart, you can just tell and everyone knows him.
Sometimes we sit together at the same table now because we have become familiar. Frank says the last table is his table. From it he drinks, holds court and watches out for inquiring visitors who wander into his gallery next door. It is twilight.
Frank’s artwork is deep and interesting. He uses photographs of faces and bodies with paint on canvas. The one woman has thrown back her head and her eyes are closed as if she is resting but the paint overlay is aggressive, dark colors and severe angles. I like his work because I see calm from depletion in the faces of the people mixed with a certain hostility and anger in the colors and lines of paint. His paintings are evocative and dreamy and seem to be a window into his thoughts which I think are probably quite depraved.
"You are lost in Paros." Frank says, he is certain. He says it as if it is as true as sunrise.
Frank is right, quite literally. The streets of Parikia twist and curl around so that you can easily wind up right back where you started if you are not paying attention (and even if you think you are). I get lost on my way somewhere every day. 
There are no street signs, you just have to remember landmarks, if you can. I tried to memorize my way back to the hotel several times but that was during the day. At night everything looks different, especially after a few glasses of wine.
"I agree, Frank, I am lost in Paros."
This conversation will come up again and again over the next couple of days. Frank will overhear his brother, Eddie say the same thing to me and he will nod and lift his drink in my direction and say something in French as if I have just been given more evidence of what he is sure is true.
"What do I do?" I ask him.
"There is nothing to do." Frank says, dripping his French accent all over me which makes it all seem perfectly wonderful to be lost.
I tell him how last night when I left the café at midnight I went in the wrong direction, up instead of down Market Street. It was a mess, I was all turned around. In the complete silence on the tiny little streets I dodged down paths I knew where wrong trying to find my way towards something recognizable.
I felt like a tight knot in the middle of a long length of string.
This town that is so charming began to look like a scene out of a really bad thriller movie. Every turn I made was a mistake.
Eventually I ran into a woman who was just leaving work at a restaurant, she was getting on her motorbike. In English I told her I was lost, as if she couldn’t figure that out for herself. In Greek I asked her if she knew where my hotel was, but she did not. The woman asked two kids who were also finishing up at the same restaurant, one of them knew the hotel.
I am not exactly sure what happened during the rest of their conversation but I have a feeling that the woman told the guy that he needed to walk me to the hotel. To which the young guy seemed to put up a little argument but then acquiesced. He was smiling, and I would like to believe he enjoyed being put out like that because even though it was late and he had other plans he wound up being a hero when he made sure I got back to my room safely.
He took me through a parking lot, around a bunch of corners and along streets I had never walked down before. He led me through a back way to the hotel. I would never have found it myself.
Frank shrugs when I finish my story, "You see," he says. "Completely lost."
I love the way our lives makes perfect sense to observers.
I am actually getting into this lost feeling now, it has bad connotations but when you give in to the experience of it there is a weightlessness that feels good.
Not a lot of expectation in the world of being lost, but there seems to be miles and miles of space.
Today I caught myself floating in the water at the beach and not worrying about sea monsters trying to get me from underneath. Just listening to the sound of the water in my ears and the easy breaths escaping from my mouth.
