I was attempting to reach the Greek island of Paros from the Aegean coast of Tukey, a task I did not for see to be with as difficult or time consuming as it turned out to be. I had been sleeping in my hammock for about a week before I spent many sleepless nights on varies ferries that went to islands that were not at all my final destination. I had made a plan with one of my older brothers almost a month beforehand. Neither of us had a phone, or Internet, nor had we been in contact with each other at all. We had made a plan to meet on a certain date at the ferry station on the island of Paros. I was already three days late before I even arrived in Athens.
Athens was not at all what I expected. I arrived at the Piraeus port at 6 am, after sleeping on the cold and windy deck of a ferry for the last 14 hours. In order to stretch my tight muscles and weary legs, I sat down on the e,pty side walk to do some yoga poses. That is when I met the man from Phraxos. I do not remember his name, and in my dreary haze I listened patiently as he introduced himself. He was in his late 70s and had a thick mop of grey hair. He carried with him a very large stomach and was dressed as if he were headed to the beach. The man from Phraxos invited me over to his house for lunch. As I didn't have to be on a ferry until late that night I thought I might as well.
In his apartment, the man from Phraxos proceeded to tell me his entire life story; his childhood on the remote island, his wife, his children, and his job before retirement working customs at the port. I wasn't interested so much as I was too tired to do anything else. Ruins were beginning to bore me, so acropolis seemed like more of a chore than a treat. I guess I had nothing better to do than to eat sandwiches and drink coffee with this old man from Phraxos.
But as the day progressed, I started to feel trapped; as if I were no longer a guest but a prisoner. I no longer wanted to listen to this old man tell me about his life. I wanted to go swimming. I wanted to find a shady place to set up my hammock and take a nap. I wanted to eat pistachio ice cream. I wanted to leave. I couldnt leave. I made some excuses, but the lure of free food kept me a little bit longer. (I was not used to living on the euro, and my budget was almost non existent). By now, I really did want to leave. He grabbed me by the wrist, pulled me to him. He offered to pay me for sex. How betrayed I felt. This man who I had felt to connected to, who had taken me into his home and fed me and told me stories of his childhood and of his wife, and now he wont let me go. More than I feel disgusted, I feel deeply wounded. Tricked. I run out of his front door, down his steps and begin to walk briskly down the street back towards the port. Oh shit. My suitcase. Of course I had left my suitcase in the trunk of his car. In my shame I knocked at his apartment door, I had somehow become dependent on this man. All of my worldy belongings were in his car: My clothes, my alchemical guidbook, my journal, juggling balls, hand blown glass marbles, calcite crystals from Montana, an amethyst crystal from Cappadocia, my fire dancing equiptment. He had everything in the world that I cared about, locked up in the back of his truck.
It took me almost half way through reading The Magus before I realized what my connection to Nicholas's island was. The only man I have ever known from Phraxos was kind to me. He showed interest in my for no particular reason, and took me into his home to tell me the stories of his life and to feed me wonderful Greek food. But, he tricked me. He betrayed my trust. And that is the only man I have ever met from the island of Phraxos.
Here is a photo of me on the island if Paros (I did indeed make it there eventually), relatively close to the island of Phraxos where Nicholas resided.
