Write on, brother

From the dock, without the whiteness of the hillside filling the viewscape, I could see the activity at street level and was overwhelmed. Not that I’ve never seen quaint fishing villages all over the world before, but each one teems with its own local activities, never the same from country to country. Of course they all have a lot to do with fish. At this time of morning, mostly boats are getting ready to leave for the early fishing run of the day. Even from my perch at the rail, I catch a whiff of strong coffee and pipe smoke. I notice many people smoking pipes. Haven’t seen that too much in recent years, other than the occasional pot smoker at a rock concert. I see stem after stem poking out from the mostly oversize mustaches on faces I think I would like better if they were smiling. I’m sure I wouldn’t be smiling if I was going to work at dawn without the first cup of coffee in me. Nonetheless, those faces certainly don’t match my post card impressions of Greece. Maybe on the way back with the ship’s belly full of flounder and the crew’s belly full of falafel. Oh shucks. I knew this wouldn’t last. The crewman is waving at me to get on with it. I’m sure they can’t reload until they’ve cleared the vessel. So, without fully absorbing the scene before me, but excited about giving up my observer status for one of participant, I grab my just so rightly lightly packed bags and hit the gangplank.

As soon as I begin the walk up the dock, children are yelling at me. Their English is horrible, but I am clear they are trying to sell me cheap souvenirs they carry on trays strapped over their shoulders. There is a row of the very magnets I’ve been staring at for years in anticipation of this moment. At first I am irritated at having to navigate this gauntlet of urchins. Then, I remind myself that I am here to experience everything and this is part of that. I give myself a quick check up from the neck up and meet the gaze of the child most earnestly in my face, with a smile on my own. I can see that he is unkempt, with streaks of dirt across his cheek. I can see a world in his eyes and his expression that is at once sad, pleading and I must say, worldly and complex as if he’d really been around at his age, which couldn’t have been more than 12 or so. Whatever I imagined I could read in that expression, I knew I had no idea what his life was like. I wanted to reach out, but knew I couldn’t buy from him or even interact with this child without being assaulted by all the others. I promised myself I would find a way to show some support for these street kids during my visit. So, still smiling, I imagine they can read the goodness in my heart but I know nothing matters except them ending the exchange with more money in their pockets than they started, and I move on.