Do you know Morfoula’s guesthouse?

Heavy eyelids, dry mouth and body parts about to fall apart – the aftermath of hours’ waiting and flying. I tried harder but the whooshing of the wind disintegrated every word I said. Silhouetted in the sickly yellow mirror light, the driver’s face creased with confusion. The taxis outside the airport looked out of place at this inconvenient hour, lining up unaffected against the dramatic weather.

Or maybe not. Nothing dramatic about this, maybe it was my sentimentality again as a whirlpool of thoughts dizzied my head. Waiting for clarification, the driver gave me a dull stare as if waking to a white ceiling. I repeated unsurely the name of the guesthouse with a well stretched neck into the car, one hand searching aimlessly in the backpack for the business card the host handed me days ago when I first checked in.

On the way to Morfoula, through the rain-washed window, with the indigo rolling on the horizon, I strained to see where the sky and the sea began to devour each other. As the taxi pulled in at the bottom of the hill that led to the guesthouse, the driver said, not without sympathy: It’s not the best time to come to Mykonos, you know. The voice carried with it an immense calmness that made me ponder if he suggested now, ungodly 5:47 a.m., or this season, early April – windy, intermittent or incessant rain.

Under the rain, clambering up the hill I told myself again to see the weather more lightly and I slowed down. The prick of raindrops on my face, the taxi’s faint yellow gleam disappearing into the constantly-repainted indigo of the far, and the white of the Mediterranean houses dotted by the port, like a mass of froth – when I paused and turned to have a glace from the hill, Mykonos was melting.

My room was cold. The housekeeper had opened the bathroom window, let the wind in and moved my stuff here and there to make it look tidy. I thought of him for a flash of a moment. Maybe it was he who opened the window when taking a shower in that afternoon three days ago and it had since been left open, unnoticed.

My room was another indigo, yet slightly darker than outside. A quick comparison was made as I came to shut the window and stole another glimpse of where the wind came from. In the indigo of the room, I saw that the washed-out, scrunched-up floral pattern on the bedspread had grown back into a neat patch of garden in the now nicely made bed. Bed, window. Window, bed. I thought of him again but I was tired and my room was cold.

Harsh weather and a cold room. I had not expected this. Unworn flip-flops and beach shorts never drenched. The wind keeping the sea wild and the sea keeping everything at bay. An uncovered sun had turned out to be a rarity and later I forgot I came here for that. But lying in bed, the flowers getting balled up again, now I didn’t want the sun anymore.
No, not anymore.

Let me enjoy this indigo, slowly sliding into the unchartered territory between dreaming and being awake, I thought. If I was dreaming, it wasn’t a dream that would later reveal itself as a dream. If I was awake, it was as if I was awake to a dream. And I still could not tell if it was night or morning, this shade of indigo had confused me.

In the unchartered territory between dreaming and being awake, I saw him sit across the table by the window, picking at grilled pork skewers. It was our third dinner after we had met. Hidden far from the main street this restaurant had held our expectation high – a treasure hunted by an afternoon of exploring another untrodden path and getting lost – while later we realised wine was the only thing satisfying. Glasses had been taken and served one after another, placed with care between plates of unfinished food.
So, he said, this is our last night.

I asked him if he would miss me before finishing another glass of wine. Warmth had climbed up under my chin and itched slightly. Searching in my backpack I told him I had actually bought a ferry ticket to Santorini next morning, the same as his but round- trip. So, we’ll be going together, I said, I can spend a few more days with you and come back to Mykonos to catch the flight back home. With the ticket held in one hand and the other hand scratching my neck, I looked at him, waiting. “I said I’ll miss you but,” his gaze moved from the ticket to meet my eyes, “after two or three days we’ll be fine.”
We laughed. Later I tried in vain to understand what we were laughing for.

Let me enjoy this indigo, in the unchartered territory between dreaming and being awake I thought. I then thought of the evening that just went by, I was left with no choice but to book a last-minute flight ticket from Santorini back to Mykonos, as the roaring sea let no ferries approach and time no longer had room for spontaneity. I had to be back here. So in Santorini, really, it was a good-bye.

Another ferry will take him to another island when the sea becomes calmer, I thought in bed, by then I will have gone back to where I came from and he will continue his trip and be embraced by another indigo of Greece.

In the unchartered territory between dreaming and being awake I kept dreading the idea of the sun – how seriously I willed against it as if there stood a chance – because I knew too well that when the sun rose the sky would turn pale. And, after a long and disorienting night, this indigo would only get diluted into another normal day damp with the morning rain. Just like the day I arrived in Mykonos and met him. I knew when the sun rose I would have to take another taxi to the airport, the flight back to London would be waiting. The city would not have not noticed my disappearance for a few days and another day would pass just like any other. But I knew I would be counting. After a day I would have to count another one day or two. And then, I shall be fine, just like he said.

So in the unchartered territory between dreaming and being awake I thought —

Let me enjoy this indigo.

About Chia-Chan Mo

Chia-Chan Mo has an MA in Writing. He is from Taiwan and lives in London. Glasgow and Dungeness are so far his favourites in the UK. His works have been featured in Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones, Coldnoon Travel Poetics, Tantamount, amongst others. He can be found on Tumblr at save a little, out of those little things

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Mykonos travel writing