An Accidental Odyssey

by kc dyer

  “You sit here.” I point at the end of the log where wind and water have worn the wood smooth as glass. “Tell me about this girl.”

  Instead of perching where I direct him, he sinks down into the sand beside the log and leans back against it. As he does, the breast pocket of his shirt lights up briefly, and I realize his phone is not lost in the Mediterranean after all. But when I reach for it, he captures my hand and clasps it flat against his chest and closes his eyes.

  For a moment, I think I can feel his heart beating against my fingertips, but exasperation is starting to push back my own fuzziness, and I snatch my hand away.

  “The girl?”

  He sighs, eyes still tightly closed. “On the way home from dinner last night, Taki and I go in the magazi. We buy eggs and milk and bread inside, but they have no mushrooms.”

  His glasses slide down to the very tip of his nose, and behind them, his eyes flutter open again. “I’m not worried. We have feta. But then Taki forgets his grappa and goes back inside, and I see this girl. She is standing just around the corner, and she’s holding two little plastic bags with fresh mushrooms. I buy only one small bag because they were expensive. But delicious, don’t you think?”

  I’m not even sure where to begin. I slump down into the sand and lean on the log beside him.

  I mean, yes, my dad was a child of the sixties, but if you could have heard his antidrug diatribes aimed at teenaged Gia? OMG. Drugs were the Antichrist. Drugs of any stripe—including weed—were the root of everything that was wrong with the world. They were the scourge of society. The bathroom stalls of corporate America were awash in the white powder of their own destruction, and there’s no way a daughter of his was . . .

  Well, you get the picture. Of course, double standards abounded, and in fact, my dad took me to Sardi’s for my “first drink”—his words—when I turned twenty-one. I got to order whatever I wanted, so I ordered a double Manhattan. Manhattans happened to be the specialty of the house at the Rusty Nail, the little corner pub which was a favorite with my journalism class. Unbeknownst to my father, of course. The Nail was conveniently located just around the corner from Cooper Square, home to the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute, and from second year onward, my friends and I were regulars. Gillian, the bartender, specialized in sixties-era drinks and schooled us well.

  Still, that Sardi’s Manhattan was pretty special.

  In any case, my dad’s institutional blindness toward the evils of alcohol aside, he didn’t toke, snort, or huff his way through graduate school, and he fully expected his daughter to keep to the same straight-and-narrow standard.

  Which, apart from a one-night foray into Ecstasy-fueled dancing during my extremely short-lived ska phase, I did. It doesn’t hurt that I can’t stand the smell of weed. The variety of choice of my high school compatriots was particularly skunky—likely a reflection of quality directly resulting from limited student finances, which made it worse. So, apart from the odd Sidecar—another specialty at the Rusty Nail—Gianna Kostas was, and continues to be, one clean-living human.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  My dad’s phone lights up again, forcing me to focus. I lean forward and point to his pocket.

  “Pops, someone is texting you. And we need to call Taki to come get us, okay?”

  My dad ignores this completely and stares down at his wet chinos. “All this comes from crossing the River Styx. But it was worth it, koritsi. For now I know the truth. I saw the light. I know the light. Koritsi—I am the light. And so are you.”

  And he beams his gentle madman’s smile at me again.

  I give up asking and snatch the phone out of his pocket. He minds this not at all and, instead, leans his head back against the log and begins to hum quietly.

  His phone screen has darkened again, and when I ask him for his password, his humming only gets a little louder and a little more recognizably Greek. I think I catch a snippet of a Nana Mouskouri song that I remember from childhood. In desperation, I punch 1234 into the phone, and it opens right up. I don’t have the brain power to wonder why his phone is working so far away from any Wi-Fi. Instead, breathing a word of thanks to the Goddess Nana, I open his text message app.

  There are seventeen unanswered texts from Taki. I scroll through them quickly. The only one I bother to read all the way through is the last one, which was apparently sent from the village police station. The text is a mixture of Greek and English words, and almost incoherent with panic. It seems he’s been trying to organize a search party, but the local police will not agree to participate until twenty-four hours have passed.

  I take a deep breath and try to focus my scattered thoughts.

  Opening Google Maps, I take a screenshot of our blue location dot hovering somewhere on the southern shoreline of Crete and then start typing.

  Taki, this is Gia. My dad and I are on the beach. We’re okay but lost. Somewhere walking distance from our villa—see attached map. Can you help?

  I hit reply and then hurriedly add a second message.

  Do NOT bring the police. Will explain all when you get here.

  And then I lean back beside my still humming father and watch the stars winking to life, one by one, each piercing the perfect indigo sky.

  chapter twenty-one

  SATURDAY

  Maccu

  Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Catania, Sicily

  A change of scene from one gorgeous island to another may bring the similarities of the locales to mind, but make no mistake—the cuisines can vary wildly. A case in point is this brilliant Sicilian soup, which plumbs the depths of the Mediterranean for its ingredients but has a flavor so unique . . .

  Twelve hours later, and I think I can safely say that everyone—in our little touring party, at least—is no longer stoned. Mind you, my vision is still a little wonky, the periphery inclined to sparkle if I move my head too quickly. Other than that, I seem to be not too physically damaged, at least, by my journey into hell. I’m not sure if it’s the early morning or the fact that we are departing his home country or even just a carry-over from yesterday’s spaciness, but my dad is strangely quiet.

  We are leaving Greece at an ungodly hour today for a sojourn to Italy. It’s too early for breakfast, so I hastily wrap the last of Taki’s kalitsounia—tiny cheese pastries—in a paper napkin for later. When we step outside the guesthouse, Taki and Herman are waiting in a car he has borrowed to drive us to the airport. As he climbs out of the car to help load our bags in the trunk, Taki looks hungover. He is unshaven with red eyes, and even his mustache looks rumpled in the first light of dawn.

  Herman, on the other hand, is full of beans and, in the absence of conversation, decides to fill the vehicle with his own voice. He is literally singing an aria as I slide into the back seat of the car. I admit to feeling grateful to be avoiding another ride in the Cretan hillbilly truck, but the price we pay in cockatoo caroling is pretty high at six thirty in the morning. Worse, as I hunt for my seat belt, Herman snaps the napkin-wrapped kalitsounia off my lap and lustily gobbles it in a shower of crumbs as we pull away from the curb. I’m still brushing the pastry flakes off my dress when he flutters from his perch on the back of the front seat and alights between me and the window. Nestling right up beside me, he opens his mouth and lets out what sounds like a rolling belch directly into my ear.

  This causes Taki to laugh so hard he almost loses control of the car.

  “Hermie show how much he like you,” Taki insists. “Birds not really burp. Until now, this he do only for me.”

  “Chairíte,” Herman says, and then, “Kalimera.”

  When no one responds, he continues to alternate the two words, unceasingly, several dozen times.

  Since everyone else in the car appears to be comatose, I finally whisper, “Kalimera,” back at Herman, which makes him bob several times in his sp
ot on the seat behind the driver but also mercifully shuts him up.

  Taki and Herman are not accompanying us on this leg of the journey, as we will, apparently, be doing more sailing than driving to get to the next few stops. Besides, Taki has another gig lined up on Crete before he rejoins us back in Athens. After unloading my dad’s bag from the back, Taki, his eyes swimming, kisses my father on both cheeks and then does the same to me.

  “Is true honor to accompany you and your papa,” he whispers to me, the alcohol content of his breath verging on the flammable. “He is great man—strong belief in his work. In searching for truth.”

  I finally manage to escape his embrace but still feel a pang of regret as I watch him drive off, Herman’s beak pressed to the back window. One less person to help me wrangle my dad, perhaps? And one less bird.

  Today’s journey isn’t too arduous, but it does cross a border, thus the early morning visit to the airport. Still, the lineup through security isn’t long, and the access to decent airport Wi-Fi is a huge relief after the spotty airwaves of our little villa in Crete.

  I have a quick e-mail exchange with Charlotte that makes me happy—her delight at what is really little more than a sketched outline of our upcoming destinations is very sustaining. More thrilling still is her response to my latest submission.

  Before deadline and exactly on word count. And your description of the journey makes my mouth water even more than the food. People are starved for stories about distant shores at the moment. Reader feedback has been fantastic. More of this, please!

  On reading this, I can’t suppress a sigh of relief. It’s got to be a sign. We are leaving Crete, and I’m convinced that all the chaotic and strange experiences of this journey must now be behind us.

  These positive thoughts carry me all the way onto the tarmac, where I stop in disbelief.

  I should have known something was up when we were ushered away from the main departure hall.

  Wordlessly, I grab my dad’s arm.

  “Yes, darling?” He still looks pretty spacey behind his glasses, but I don’t have time to worry about that now.

  “What the hell? Can we both even fit inside that plane?”

  On the tarmac in front of us stands a tiny Cessna, blue and red, with a propeller on the nose. As we approach, the door swings open, and a set of stairs unfolds from the inside. There is literally a man standing beside the plane pumping gas into it with what looks like the hose you use for a car.

  My dad smiles vaguely. “None of the major airlines fly direct, koritsi. This will have us there by noon, instead of losing nine hours to a layover.” He pats his briefcase. “Our Teresa, she thinks of everything.”

  When I follow my dad inside, I can see right away that the plane is not only tiny but also decently ancient. The carpet on the floor is worn away in places, and the seats are upholstered in a kind of prehistoric blue Naugahyde that reminds me of movies set in the sixties. There are only five passenger seats, and as I buckle myself into the second row, anxiety flows through me. My dad is still acting uncharacteristically silent, and I don’t even have Taki and Herman to look to for distraction. By the time a lone other passenger climbs in behind my dad and me, and the pilot reaches across to hoist up the steps and slam the door closed, my heart is pounding so loud, I’m sure they all can hear it.

  I’ve never been in a plane with an open cockpit before, and the sight of dozens of switches and dials does nothing to calm my nerves. When my dad reaches over to pat my hand from his seat across the aisle, I nearly jump out of my skin.

  Worse, I let out a tiny shriek, which is loud enough to make the captain turn around. For the first time, I notice she is a woman. She flashes me a broad smile and, reaching an arm behind the empty seat beside her, beckons me forward.

  I look over at my dad, but he’s ignoring me, staring blankly out the tiny porthole, so I flip my belt buckle open and walk up the aisle. To be clear, this aisle is made up of the space between the two seats in the row in front of ours, so my walk takes all of three strides. I’m five foot five, but I still have to hunch over, as the ceiling is so low.

  The captain grins up at me. Her smile is brilliant white in a very tanned face, and her short dark hair is even curlier than my own.

  “Why don’t you sit up here?” she asks, patting the seat beside her. “It’ll give you a better view, yes?”

  “Isn’t that—isn’t that the copilot’s seat?” I cast another quick glance over my shoulder at Ari.

  Still staring out the window. I doubt he’s even noticed I’m up here, dammit.

  She widens her eyes at me. “Not at all. God is my copilot, you know, and he doesn’t need a seat.”

  Her expression of wide-eyed innocence crumbles at my look of horror, and her laugh comes quick and throaty. “I’m kidding you. Really. Sit here with me. It’s the best spot for anxious flyers in these little planes. You see more; you feel more in control.”

  She pats the seat again and then hastily moves her captain’s hat, hooking it with her suit jacket on the far side of her seat.

  Reluctantly, I sit down, sliding my legs carefully away from the dashboard and under the steering wheel.

  That’s right. My seat has a steering wheel.

  I swallow hard, as beside me, the captain flips a switch causing the propeller on the nose of the plane to spin. As I reach for my seat belt, she stretches a gloved hand over to me.

  “Delia Uccello,” she says, enclosing my hand in her warm grip.

  “Gia Kostas.” I can barely get this out, my mouth is so dry.

  “Nice to meet you, Gia,” she says, and gives a single firm shake before releasing my hand.

  In the sleepy, distant past of this morning, I had fully planned to spend this flight toiling over my next piece for Charlotte, but with a steering wheel between my knees, my plans will have to change.

  Captain Delia slips on a pair of sunglasses—aviators, of course—and suddenly, she is a no-nonsense professional. A man appears on the tarmac in front of us, waving a pair of orange flashlights, and we lurch backward for a moment before beginning our taxi onto the runway. I clutch the wheel in front of me as the plane shudders, and without missing a beat, Captain Delia reaches across and pats my knee.

  “Probably a good idea to keep your hands off the wheel, at least until we get into the air,” she yells over the roar of the engine.

  I yank my hands backward, horrified, which makes her laugh again.

  “There’s a handle right there on the door if you need something to hold on to.”

  I reach out and clutch the worn-looking handle on the door that she indicates, only to have the rubber casing come off in my hand. By this time, we’ve bumped away from the terminal and onto a runway, the old plane rattling and shaking around us. The propeller on the nose of the plane has vanished into the faintest blur, and my head is forced back as the tiny machine accelerates.

  Before I have a chance to give more than a single thought to my own mortality, we are unexpectedly airborne, and everything changes.

  My stomach makes the leap back into my body a second or so after the wheels leave the ground, but weirdly enough, it doesn’t bother me at all. The ground disappears entirely for a moment as we soar upward, and all I can see is the endless blue of a Grecian sky, dusted only distantly by the faintest wraith of white cloud. For a moment, the edges of the sky take on the unmistakable indigo of twilight. I’m not sure if this is a trick of the windscreen or not, because the effect disappears instantly as we level out over the rippled surface of the Mediterranean Sea.

  I am filled with a sense of total exhilaration that I cannot remember ever feeling before. Certainly even my recent experience with mushrooms cannot possibly compare. It’s no wonder drug addicts talk about getting high—being literally high in the front seat of this tiny, ancient plane is the most thrilling experience of my life.

 
I feel a nudge and turn to see Delia grinning at me. “What did I tell you?” she yells. Then she reaches under her seat and pulls out an enormous set of headphones that look even larger than the ones she is wearing.

  I slide them over my ears, and the creaks and rattles of the plane magically disappear. Delia points from the cable dangling from my headset to an input on the dash in front of me. As I plug in, her voice appears in my head.

  “Does this help?” she asks, and when I nod, she grins again and then turns her attention back to the plane. “There is no mic on your headset,” she says, one hand draped casually on her steering wheel. “I can’t hear you—sorry. Better than nothing, yes? And saves me from shouting too.”

  Still grinning, she leans forward to flip a switch on the console. I stare out through the pale blur of the propeller in front of us and drink in the view. From this height, the water looks gently ribbed like blue corduroy—with maybe a bit of lint here and there when the occasional white cap rises up.

  The flight passes in what feels like a few minutes, punctuated only infrequently by a remark or two from the patient captain. “To the starboard, there is the island of Capsali,” she says shortly after we have leveled out. “And now we fly over the Ionian Sea,” she adds somewhat later.

  But apart from these few interjections, I am alone with my thoughts. And for the first time on this entire journey, I don’t worry.

  I can’t somehow.

  I can’t worry about my dad’s health or my next article or even about all the wedding planning I’m missing out on. What I can do is marvel at how lucky I am. That I get to see the world from this angle, just once. That I get to share this adventure with my dad. And suddenly, more than anything, I want to tell Raj Malik all about it.

  Which is, of course, ridiculous. I should want to tell Anthony. But I can’t worry about that either, somehow.