The sole diner at an outdoor cafe, I slowly eat a tomato, filled with rice and herbs. I sip red wine.

The server is called Petros. He explains, “call me Peh-tros in Greek, and Paaaaaaaytros in English. But I prefer Greek.”

Abruptly, Petros yells at two women for bumping into a nearby table. “They were stealing silverware,” he explains, as I turn toward their retreating figures.

After lunch, I meander through the windy, narrow maze-like streets, running my hands along the white walled buildings. The walls are cool to the touch.

I learn that the paths were devised to confuse pirates back in the day, a thought that sends my mind reeling. I inevitably find myself turned around, somewhere unintended, white wall to white wall.  I lean and rest.

Window shopping, I peruse the handmade leather sandals, the varieties of olive oil, the jewelry of silver and detail. Yet, all I buy is water. A lot of it. The blue Greek sky and blinding light from shore has me thirsting for drink.

When there is enough sand in my shoes, I lay proverbial good wishes under a stone, where sand meets the gray stony path. Goodbye, Mykonos, it was nice to see you again. Goodbye, Mykonos, I will see you again.

Here, when it is time to leave, you turn and head for the sea.