Saved on Sifnos - a travel story out of the Aegean Sea that includes little harbours, sleeping villages, several tavernas, a ferry onward, a Greek cultures festival and a room with a view, travelogue, trip, travel, Greece, Cyclades, Sifnos, Kythnos, ferry, island-hopping



Part 1: An open gate

I am the accidental tourist that stumbled into Savannah like a lost soul, searching for home, for comfort, for freedom. Freedom from complacency, routine, boredom. From snow. When time ran out on the place where I had been living for several years, and the familiar faces I had known were strangers to me even more than before, I found myself catapulting through the sky, on a journey of bravery, a leap of faith, a sprig of luck and a prayer for deliverance.

I landed, with a thud, in the middle of a city smaller than the one I had left behind, but bigger by far in the way it conducted itself. The trees were bigger, great looming leviathans of endless branches with Spanish moss for hair, leaning over the city, holding on to its secrets, hushing your questions.

For you don't ask questions in Savannah, I learned right away. They tell you what you need to know, but you're not to ask. They don't come right out and say it, but you know that's the way it is.

There was no place waiting for me like I had arranged. It disappeared with the morning haze, a haze that clings to the air and drapes you with dew the minute you step outside. They say the heat is unbearable, but only if you are not willing to ignore it. Or adapt. No amount of stripping down will make it any more comfortable, for here, the heat is in that moisture, and it sticks to you, smothers you and dares you to complain.

Then night falls, and the other difference from the north to the south arrives. In droves if you look in the right places. They are Savannians too, the Palmetto Bugs. The live in the trees. They fly. They are everywhere. And they are big.

I think, dear God, how did I end up here? When can I leave? Why did I leave? There is nothing, only the hush and sway of the moss in the distant ocean breeze. I feel her call to me. I hear her in my heart, my mother, the Atlantic. She awaits my arrival.

Part 2: The heart of the ocean

this travelogue is part of the subside travelzine
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