Already, the laughter has begun. At the security gate, one of the guards lifts up a plastic bag from a nearby bin and instructs the passengers to present all their liquids like so. The bag he holds contains two slim tubes of lip gloss and belongs to a mousy middle-aged man in front of us. The guard looks back and forth from the make-up to the man. The corners of his mouth twitch: a stifled smile. I swear the man’s ears turn faintly red as he mumbles something and shuffles forward in the queue. Tess and I suppress our own giggles, with limited success.

On the other side of the body scanner, an old man comes bounding over to me. “Can I give your hat an extra scan?” he asks me. “Knock yourself out,” I say. He is excited and puffed full of importance. “I spotted you a mile away and I said to myself, ‘I want to do that hat!’” He shrugs his shoulders unapologetically. “We’ve got to do something to amuse ourselves with this job.” Meanwhile, Tess is getting patted down by a female security guard. It is a thorough body search, a mild and well-intentioned groping. “This is more action than I’ve gotten in a while!” Tess blurts out.

We clear security and eventually head for our departure gate. En route, a flustered old lady—half jogging, half hobbling, and wheezing like a horse—trips over a small child in her haste to catch her flight.

Laughter, laughter, all around.

On the plane, I am exactly where I want to be. In a pressurized cabin, inexplicably suspended in the sky. I have that coarse airborne feeling about me, as if I’m made of wood and in need of sanding. Unfinished, but with the promise of finishing; halfway between unmade and made. I want to pick the tiny towns below as one picks seeds from the crevices of one’s teeth. They seem so easy to dislodge from the land. And I could do it, for I am all-powerful up here. I churn the clouds like clotted cream and send tears of rain to awaken the grass.

***

We arrive in Cyprus in the dark. I detect the hulking husks of palm trees, desiccated banana leaves, and the silver sheen of ocean beyond. Alongside the highway, tacky hotels and restaurants are lit up in neon script, a language of cheap thrills. Even the local hospital, advertised in wacky blue font, seems like a place for fun. I find the seaside strips to be mesmerizing and unsettling all at once; I am glad to glide by in my uncle’s clean car and head for the hills.

Aagot and Sheetal live in what they call “the wilderness.” In the darkness, there truly is a kind of wild, austere beauty about it, surrounded as it is by dusty paths and knobby shrubbery. It is the dry season; much of the land lies exposed. The back terrace overlooks the lights of Paphos, and then there is only open ocean after that. We eat dinner and a bowl of strawberries and ice cream, then stand outside beneath a blinding, almost-full moon, shaking our heads in disbelief of our good fortune. We dip our toes into the warm pool and recline in the black wicker lounge chairs. Tonight, the view is but a shadow, outlined by small slivers of moon. We know that when we wake up, something grand will await us. It feels a bit like Christmas in Cyprus.