Tess and I decided one afternoon to walk into the village of Peyia. Aagot and Sheetal warned us that the roads are all very narrow and that Cypriot drivers are notoriously careless, but we were eager to stretch our legs after days of sun-soaked immobility. So, in the extreme heat of midday, we jammed hats onto our heads, rubbed lotion into the knobs of our shoulders, and took to the dusty streets.

Up we walked, into the hillside, with views of both mountain and sea around us. After about twenty minutes or so, the villas gave way to the little shops of Peyia. I saw an old man, surely a wizened native bred by the Mediterranean, shuffling toward us on the sidewalk with the help of a plain tan cane. His eyes were as cloudy as dishwater, and I felt there was something hiding in their soap-bubble depths. He was scowling, as ancients often do when time has chewed them up and spat them out again, abandoning them to the pointless aches of age. I wasn’t sure how he’d react to us—two youthful American girls, wearing the tourist’s uniform of straw hat and denim shorts—but as he passed, I flashed him a giant, genuine smile. Behind me, Tess did the same. Suddenly, the stiff folds of his face relaxed, the milky eyes met mine. He made a small revelatory sound: “oh!” and pulled his lips into a smile. “Good girls!” he told us with a voice like ocean pebbles.

To me, he was the essence of this island.

***

We are at the beach now, escorted by Goran, the friendly Swedish neighbor. My head aches from too much sun and too little water. Somewhere nearby, a boy plays innocuous melodies on an acoustic guitar. From my sunbed, beneath the shade of a straw umbrella, I am watching the waves glitter and leap. A few lone souls snorkel or float in a cove by the shore. Men in speedos, topless women: naked landscapes of dark, dark skin. I hear words in Greek, the clink of cutlery from the bar, and one incessant bird chirping wildly for attention. I need water. A whole ocean shimmers before me, and I have nothing to drink.