The Last Ferry from Paros

I missed the last ferry from Paros because I was taking a photograph of a blue door.

That is the embarrassing truth. I had arrived at the port with twelve minutes to spare, saw late sunlight falling across a weathered house, and decided I had time for one picture. By the time I returned, the ferry was pulling away from the dock.

I was thirty-three, traveling alone for the first time, and immediately furious with myself.

"Running will only make the boat look slower,"

a woman beside me said.

She was tall, silver threaded through her dark hair, with a linen shirt rolled to her elbows. Later I learned that Helena was forty-eight and designed museums for a living.

"I have a hotel booked in Athens."

"Then Athens will enjoy your empty room."

I looked at her, unsure whether to laugh.

"I missed it too,"

she added.

"Mine was coffee, not architecture."

That made me laugh.

The ticket clerk directed us to a small guesthouse uphill from the port. Two rooms remained. The owner handed us old brass keys and recommended a family restaurant that stayed open late.

Helena and I walked there together because neither of us wanted to eat alone.

Over grilled fish and lemon potatoes, she asked why I had come to Greece.

"I turned thirty-three and realized I had been waiting for someone to travel with me since I was twenty-five."

"So you stopped waiting."