My duffle bag and backpack are both slung over my shoulder, the fabric rubbing against each other and making the lamest scratching jangle of spurs imaginable. The straps are staining due to the the overstuffed weight. But it’s not entirely my fault. I’m traveling on an Economy Lite ticket which means I can’t check a bag. The first leg of my 25.5 hour, two connections flight scheduled to depart at 6:25 AM.
It’s 4 AM and the buses aren’t running yet. I need to get a taxi to go to the Larnaca Airport. Night rates apply and that means a flat rate of 15 euros. I walk to one of four 24-hour dispatch stands I’ve seen in the neighborhood. Giogrios dabs out is cigarette and grabs his half empty pack of Winstons and a lighter telling me his cab is just around the corner. But it’s 4 AM and he forgets his keys so hustles back to get them. He pops the trunk and I off-load my bags. He motions to the car and I sit up front next to him. I flash onto a discussion I had with some Aussie friends of mine – Aussies always sit up front with the driver; only Americans take the backseat.
I’m bleary eyed as I barely slept – maybe it was the lingering adrenaline from the run, or the heady cocktail of literal cocktails and cold medication trying to address my head cold producing the wrong mix of uppers and downers, or the yapping dog and the lame techno music wafting through the Cypriot night air. But whatever the case, I’ve gotten maybe two hours of sleep since the night before. I’m not entirely with it. And Giorgios wants to chat.
He asks me where I’m from and I tell him the United States. “Long way,” he says. “I’ve been to Galvaston,” he continues. “New York, Virginia, San Diego, went through Panama.” I tell him that’s quite a large swath of the coasts. He tells me he used to work on a cruise ship, a seaman. “I liked Baltimore best of all,” he smiles wistfully. “My wife and children are here now but back then, I had a girlfriend in Baltimore.” And like something out of a Kenny Rogers song, Girogios began to speak.
“She was crazy, that girl. Miki was her name. She would come visit me on the ship and she would stay. And the captain would say, ‘Giogios, what is this? She cannot be here! She can stay tonight but tomorrow she must go.’ And so the next morning I take Miki and we go off and spend 15 days together. I come back to the ship and Miki comes with me and the captain says, ‘Girogios, what is this? I tell you she cannot be here. Tomorrow she goes home.’ I say, ‘Ok, ok.’ So the next day we get off and we spend another 10 days together. I come back to the ship with Miki and the captain tells me, ‘Maybe your girlfriend stay on ship; I need you to work!’”
Giorgios laughs and I laugh, whether it’s a true story or not, it plays well at 4 AM as we careen around the narrow streets of Larnaca to get to the main road to the airport.
“I wish I had stayed in Baltimore. If not for my wife and kids, I would be there now,” Giogrios continues, quieter than before. “In 1985, visa issues were very difficult. Maybe it’s easier now… but then, no. No can stay.”
“Well,” I say, “Miki sounds amazing… but I’m sure so is your wife.” And he nods, agreeing but also remembering. Roads not taken, roadblocks enacted, dreams of long lasting and the reality of time.
“I always remember Miki… but I like Cyprus,” he says as we pull into the “departures” lane.
It was a 12-minute car ride and yet I felt like I understood Giorgious’s story… and maybe a lot of our stories.
***
It is 2:40 PM somewhere over the Atlantic. I’m on the second leg of my itinerary – Vienna to Dulles. The gentleman next to me wants to chat as I’ve clearly just finished my book. He asks me where I’m from. I tell him I’m from the United States. He tells me he’s a naturalized citizen but is from Albania, heading back to Virginia to visit his son and daughter. He asks me what I was doing and I told him I ran a marathon in Cyprus, opting to skip the Athenian segment of my travels. He asks me how long was it – 5, 10? I tell him 42k. “Oh!” he exclaims. “A real marathon!” This is a common discussion point – a lot of folks equate marathons with any possible running distance, the way I remember folks in North Carolina asking for a “Coke” and then having to specify “7-UP” or “Dr. Pepper” or “Regular Coke” because “coke” was just the term for a soda pop.
“My daughter runs 5, 10, 13,” he continues. “My wife though, she’s not a runner. She skydives.” I nearly spit-take my “coke” which is actually a Coke Zero. “They ask me why I don’t do anything, but it’s hard with work,” he says, before continuing: “But if you come to Albania, I’ll run with you!” It is something one says in passing conversation. “Ya never know,” I say. Because I’ve never been to Albania… and they DO have a marathon. And it might even be 42.195K.
***
I bang my arm walking into my house. That’s going to leave a mark.
It’s 10:37 PM. I got up 29 and a half hours ago. It’s been a long trip home.
Tomorrow I’ll need to go for a run. Tonight, I need to crash.