The island where nothing is happening

We arrived on Syros at 2 in the morning and went straight to the hotel.

The desk clerk stayed up to meet us. The room was at the top of a spiral staircase and had a window that looked out over Ermoupolis.

I couldn't sleep at first, so I read the paperback version of The Odyssey that I'd bought on Patmos.

At daylight, the drilling began. The noise of jackhammers shook the little room. Dust rose through the morning light, we could see it coming through the window.

The desk clerk who'd stayed up for us was still on duty. She spoke a little English. We told her the room wasn't working out, that we had to move, needed to sleep. She was disappointed, but nice enough to let us out of the booking.

I got a cab to the other side of the island, a 30-minute drive. We looked at a couple of other places--a resort-style hotel, a motel, a boarding house that an Englishman said was pretty good. Nothing looked like it was for us, so we walked on.

At the corner of the crossroads of a little village whose name I've forgotten was a homemade sign, "Autos for Let." I rented a small white Ford from the lady who was sitting outside at a table under a Stella Artois umbrella. She didn't even ask to see my driver's licence, a credit card was fine.

We got in the car and rolled down the windows. The air was hot, dense, and it was only 11 a.m. We drove on the coast road looking for a place to stay.