It is raining in Paros. 
Saturday, one twenty in the afternoon. Church bells ringing slow and somber because someone has died. They sound bottomless and important. A nearby gong…then the echo… pause… gong… echo again… silence. In the distance the same sound only far away. It may be that I hear chanting too, I’m not sure. This goes on for five minutes, maybe more.The sound of the gentle rain drops falling through the Bougainvillea tree leaves outside my veranda and landing on the street below. Footsteps of people walking faster than usual to avoid getting wet. The sweet, soft music Christina plays in the courtyard of the hotel in the afternoons and evenings.
We have been expecting the rain. It is the first rain in five months. On the beaches a trench has been dug to pull the runoff from the streets into the sea. People have to think like that here or businesses will be destroyed.
A stone channel runs through the streets to move the water. When it rains very hard or very long the ditch does little to help. Every once in awhile rain comes and there is a lot of damage. Businesses, especially the cafes close down when it rains, they rely on the outdoor traffic. People take a day off; they invite friends over, have barbecues, make parties.
She’s wrong, it is something.
Yesterday, Peter offered me a lift.
"Let’s go for a ride, I’ll give you a tour."
We get on his motorbike. The one he bought the day before.
"I won’t go fast." Peter says.
"I’m not afraid." I tell him, tucking my short skirt under by ass so it does not fly up and reveal my behind on the ride.
"It’s not that. You can’t go fast in Paros."
We take off up the road towards Magaya Beach, Pounta, and points south.
Wind whipping my face feels good.
Earlier this week, I wrote in my journal that a ride on a motor bike around this island would be perfect.
I was sorry I had not gotten my international driver’s license after all.
Oh, well, too bad, probably better this way anyhow, I’d just get into trouble riding a bike out here.
Later I will tell Peter: I wished for it, let it go and it happened anyway.
"Paros is built on a block of marble, so there is a lot of stability here." Peter yells back to me as we are driving.
I think of Santorini, built on top of a volcano, and understand why I felt out of sorts there.
Perhaps that’s why there are so many artists living here, and ex-patriots? Paros satisfies wanderlust while also providing safe ground to rest on.
I tell Peter that I feel very creative here.
There is a palpable sense of freedom. Maybe people feel creative in Paros because they have the stability underneath them, a strong foundation under their feet; while on top there is a vastness that frees them to play and be expressive.
It’s about safety again.
I do feel safe here. Safe and creative, grounded and free.
Open.
It is late in the afternoon at Magaya Beach, Peter is ready to go. We are driving in the opposite direction of Parikia. Maybe a shortcut? He drives down to the port in Pounta and right up onto the waiting ferry in the dock.
Later he will tell me that he knew if the ferry had not been there ready for us I would have given him a fight about going to Antiparos for dinner.
He was right, I would have.
"For what? You have something you have to do instead? And anyway, I wanted to go to Antiparos one more time before it closes down completely."
Peter connects people to each other; he introduces people and shows them who their friends might be. Peter seems happy, he understands joy, he knows about the things that matter.
"Koritsaki." He calls me. Little Girl. Some people I know back in The States would find that interesting, amusing. I like it.
Antiparos is a ten minute ferry ride from Paros. It is a tiny, magical island, distinct from Paros.
Much of Paros shuts down after the summer season, while almost the whole of Antiparos closes. Many of the bars and restaurants have already closed up for winter; some have only a few weeks left before they too will shut down until April. It’s quiet here, whispering silent, like a secret.
I am enveloped by the warmth of the island me as soon as we arrive. It is as if the breeze is made of long arms reaching out and pulling me in. It is just after siesta so the children are all out again running through the streets with renewed enthusiasm. Restaurants and shops are reopening. We are sitting in a café on the main street drinking wine; it is a pedestrian only walkway like so many in the Cyclades. No cars to be afraid of all the time, it makes a difference in how children play.
Peter overhears some people at the next table say in Greek, "Thetiki eneryia."
"It means, positive energy – that is Antiparos."
We reminisce about the day I first walked into the café. Peter says he liked me because I ordered a glass of red wine and then logged on to the computer to communicate with my people back home. Not rushing, relaxing.
He tells me he saw me smiling at the screen and thought that was good.
I think, sometimes people are watching out for us though we don’t know it.
