Santorini, Greece: Watching After Madelina (cont.)

“You mean like an archaeologist?” I asked her. 

“Yes, yes, an archaeologist.”  Madelina pointed to a boy on the rocks and told me that he liked her. 

“Do you like him too?” I asked. 

“Oh, no, no, I am much too young, and he annoys me.” 

She asked me what I learned in school, what my bedroom looked like, how old I was when I had my first boyfriend, and what were the names of my friends.  She nodded frequently when I spoke and replied, “Oh, yes, that is very nice” to almost everything I said.  She offered to take me shopping—I asked if she wanted to play soccer the following night, and her face glowed.

The rest of my days revolved around my activities with Madelina.  We began spending time in her family’s home, a small sub-ground studio apartment with one queen-sized bed and an efficiency kitchen.  The air was musty, and Madelina frequentally apologized for it. She would clean before I came over and have food neatly layed out on the counter, which she insisted I eat: honeydew fresh from a fruit stand, chocolate-filled croissants, Fanta; the entire contents of their micro-fridge. 

We watched “Desperate Housewives” every night at 10:15 on the only English channel, painted our toenails pink and silver, and played disco with her Barbies.  She taught me phrases in Romanian and giggled when I mispronounced them.  One night we had an impromptu dance party to the song “Gasolina,” laughing out of control, Madelina exclaimed, her eyes bright, “The American can dance!  The American can dance!” 

I would stay until her parents returned from work.  Madelina would cook chicken and have it ready when he came home.  Sometimes we would run errands for her parents, a loaf of bread or a six-pack of Beer Mythos from the market.  I enjoyed these walks to the market and the conversations that accompanied them.  The two of us became a recognizable pair, strolling past the same restaurants each night, greeting the same waiters, the blonde who spoke only English with the dark-haired little girl, a foot shorter than her, bouncing along, barely pausing from talking to catch her breath.  Madelina never complained about our errands, and I realized that to her they weren’t chores.  Her parents spoiled her, but not in the way in which I was accustomed.  Her mother kissed her on the lips every time she saw her.  Her father would shake his head, grinning at the things she said.  At first, I remember feeling sorry that all three of them had to sleep in the same bed and guilty accepting the food Madelina offered me, but I later realized that these things didn’t matter to them, and I was foolish for feeling that way.

I would wait for Anton at the end of his shift after spending hours with Madelina. I would usually recount the day’s events exuberantly. 

“You will miss her when you leave,” he told me.
           
Each night Madelina begged me to stay at her house a little longer.  She urged me to change my flight and stay for the rest of the summer.  She asked that I write down my phone number so we could keep in touch. 

The night I said goodbye to her I found her on the promenade with one of her friends. It was a typical Santorini night; the sea was black glass and the sailboats anchored a few hundred yards out were motionless in the calm water.

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