Day 6

My biggest fear is running out of books.

OK, I lie: my biggest fear is not being able to write. Not being able to write well. Going back to working 70 hours a week, 49 weeks a year so that I can have three weeks in the sunshine, and calling that my life. Then: the loneliness and the cold. I’m also really scared of cockroaches, but I’ve seen none so far, and I have bug spray.

But the thought of running out of books terrifies me. There is very little loneliness left over – not enough to send you running for the next ferry back to Athens – when you have books to read. And I came here armed with enough books to see me through the summer (and, thanks to George Eliot’s Middlemarch, which took me a whole month to get through, I still have two left) but I hadn’t planned on staying past the first week of September, and the books are running out. Just like my summer clothes are beginning to feel flimsy and inadequate. And as soon as the decision to stay was made, the fear arrived.

There are two bookstores in Sifnos; only one of them sells English books, and it will close on the 10^th of October. Amazon, presumably, will deliver, but my address would look something like:

Daphne Kapsali

c/o Fotini Xenaki

Eleimonas

(just past the church, on the left, next to Mrs. Pittou)

(grey gate, with a knocker in the shape of a bird)

Katavati

Sifnos

Cyclades

Greece

And I don’t really like my chances. Once the books run out, that’s it. Nothingness. Doom.

I have appealed to higher powers for a Kindle, direct from California, and am awaiting its delivery with hope in my heart. I have resisted getting one so far, despite its obvious benefits, because I love books. Having them, holding them, stacking them up next to my bed. Flicking through them, folding the pages down to mark my spot. Their feel; their smell. But beggars truly can’t be choosers. I have 94 days to get through. I have no books; I have wifi. Bring it. I’m begging.

But in the meantime, the fear has been temporarily assuaged, thanks to a wonderful exchange scheme run by the bookstore in town. Bring in three second hand books, get one for free. So I ransacked the shelves and lugged twenty of them down into town; Eleni brought three. And then, by some miracle of literary providence, the bookstore lady received our offerings, counted them, and told us we could choose eleven (11) books in return.

            ‘Really?’ I said, before I could stop myself. ‘That sounds like too much.’ Knowing full well that, according to the 3:1 ratio, we were only entitled to seven.

            The lady, however, shook her head. ‘Eleven,’ she repeated, looking bored.

            Eleni and I scampered round the corner to the second hand shelves.

            ‘But,’ I said.

            ‘Shut up,’ she hissed.

And I complied.

So I’ve just returned home with ten brand new, second hand books, which I lugged all around town for two hours as we browsed the shops for bargains (they’ll all about to close for winter) and then all the way back up the hill. And which are totally worth the pain in my shoulder.

Also, we got chocolates for free. There were only two left of the kind we wanted (candied slices of orange dipped in chocolate), and the man let us have them free of charge. And I met another kitten; we had a lovely chat. I said ‘Hello, who are you, then?’ and it said ‘Mew!’, several times.

I’m happy, and the future is bright: I have books, and the ability to talk to cats. There’ll be no loneliness left over at all.