The English woman, who also enjoys crossword puzzles, calls this part of the trip, "The usual mayhem."The ferry boat docks and the people race off/race on with their bags and children, motorcycles, cars and trucks all using the same entrance to board and deboard the ship.
"It’s a wonder there aren’t more casualties," she giggles up the ramp next to me.
We are entering the giant hole where we all stack our suitcases on a completely insecure stretch of floor. You couldn’t get away with this in America.
"I prefer order," I tell her; I know she will understand, she is English after all.
"Yes, I do too. I suppose you just have to give it all up here," she advices.
She is right, of course.
This ferry is an hour late taking off from Naxos to Syros. I have been waiting again. Waiting in a grander way than for a delayed ferry; I have been waiting for something bigger. This is dangerous. Waiting and Doing do not co-exist peacefully in my world. I must choose one or the other at any time, every time.
There is much waiting when one travels from island to island in Greece. Waiting for ferries (sometimes for days), waiting for busses (sometimes for hours), waiting to eat and waiting for shops to open up again after the afternoon siesta. I am pretty good with waiting. Several years of martial arts training taught me patience and endurance, I learned about discipline in other places; the combination is a winning formula for successful waiting.
Prior to leaving on this journey I had been working on an end to waiting and the trip itself was a breakaway. Now it feels like a bit of a set back to admit to this old stuff creeping in as I wait for Syros and pass the time looking out at the few tiny islands in the seemingly endless sea.
How strange that during a conscious move out of a waiting place I would next find myself in a world where there is so much waiting around.
What is it they say about resistance again?
Ferry travel in Greece varies dramatically from trip to trip. Indoor, outdoor, sleeping sections, some have cabins. Some ferries have lots of seating, others have little as on this one now from Naxos to Syros. I am sitting on the floor on the shaded side of the boat eating apricots and roasted almonds. I am going to Syros on a hunch; the Australians I met on Milos recommended it and I liked them very much.
Or maybe I was remembering the way those three handsome English gents told me lovely stories of their stay in Paros. Whatever the reason, in a great leap of faith and departure from my plan I am out in the streets of Paros and I don’t know why.
I think of my darling M reminding me that,
"Why is unimportant."
I am moving away from the port, serpentining through the streets, down the narrow tunneled roads of Parikia.
I have taken to finding my own room at night, no longer relying on the portside hawkers who sleazily attack at first sight.
"Can I help you." He is tall and his eyes are unfriendly. Even though I have said no he calls after me. "But, I want to help you." Drawing out the word, want, so that it seems to linger forever even after I turn the corner and am well beyond his view. I think he is following me but he is not.
Parikia is not overrun with domatia and rooms-to-let like Milos and Naxos. Long winding streets run back into themselves. I know I have seen the tiny square with the fountain at one end before, and I have passed the internet café next to the dress shop at least three times going around and around.
I am following small signs for "Angie’s Studios" because it gives me some direction. It is five in the evening and the streets are empty, like everywhere in Greece at this hour, this town is resting and silent. The rumble of my suitcase along the pavement sounds like thunder.
He hardly speaks any English at all but he has a very kind way about him when he tells me the rooms are all booked. He is thinking of other options for me, he seems to be contemplating a long time and then surprisingly he tells me to come back at seven and he will give me a room. He wants me to leave my bag and go look at the beach.
It’s not that I don’t have choices, I suppose I do, but I am happy with the vibe here and make myself scarce for a couple of hours.
When I return, Soula and her husband are waiting for me. They open the door to the small room on the side of the house and tell me that this is their daughter’s room she is back in Thessoloniki. The room is not usually for rent, Soula tells me, but her husband said I had a nice face and looked very tired so he wanted to help. 
Angie’s is an oasis. Blooming bougainvillea trees hang over the walled garden, this is the first real grass I have seen in weeks.
I was headed to Syros on a hunch and made this stop in Paros on a hunch as well, and I am happy I did.
