I turn around to see the hotel maid holding something out for me.
The pocket watch necklace, dangling like a silver sun in the morning light.
My heart feels a little shredded at the sight of it, like it always does, even though I’m relieved she found it.
“Oh, thank you,” I tell her, profusely, my hand at my heart to show gratitude. “Thank you so much.”
I take the necklace from her and start to fish out some Euros in a tip but she’s already turned around and is walking away.
I’ll leave it at the front desk.
I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder and tuck the necklace into the front pocket of my jean shorts.
I have a bad habit with that necklace. It’s like I’m subconsciously trying to lose it, or perhaps the necklace knows it doesn’t belong with me anymore, so it’s trying to find a new owner. I sleep with it under my pillow every night, the faint ticking sounding like a lullaby. I can’t sleep without it. And I keep it there during the day, because I don’t like to look at it, I don’t like what it reminds me of.
The loss.
But over the last two weeks that I’ve been bumming around Greece, trying to figure out how to start my life over again for the second time, I’ve forgotten it under many pillows. Most of the time I feel a tug when I’m not too far from the hotel, like a magnet, and I’ll come running back.
Other times the maid will find it.
I’m not sure how I’m going to feel if I end up losing it for good one day.
Maybe it will be a sign for me to finally move on.
Until then, I’m just as lost as they come.
I leave the tip with the young, eager front desk clerk, then I get my car and continue driving around with no place to go.
Today I’m on Crete. I’ve been here for a few days and it’s big enough that I don’t feel the need to island hop and the rental car, a fiat that looks like a squashed bug, is doing me just fine.
I haven’t made any reservations at hotels either, I’m just driving around and seeing where I end up, trying to soak up the sun, eat a lot of cheap spanokapitas, and pour ice cold retsina down my throat, preferably with an ocean view.
This is not how I usually travel. I always have a plan after I’ve carefully researched each hotel, by star rating and by reviews, making sure the hotels hit all the right notes for me (paper-thin walls are a no-no, I don’t like being on the ground floor, there must be a coffee maker in the room, a free welcome drink is always a bonus). I want it close to the action but not close to the noise. There’s a checklist I always follow.
But this time, this time I’m literally just checking in to a place that looks good when I feel tired. I don’t even have any luggage except for my duffel bag.
To put it another way, I’m not acting like myself at all. I just hope that if I keep doing this, maybe something will start to right itself. It doesn’t feel like life is happening for me anymore and I’m waiting for that to start, moving through it all like the mist through trees.
I’m sure most people would say I’m running away from my problems and I suppose that would be the truth. After I quit, after the shock that I actually quit wore off, I moved out of my apartment, put my extra stuff that I had accumulated into a storage facility in Madrid, and then hit the road, or an airplane as it was. Conscious of the money in my bank account, I decided to go somewhere cheap but safe, with lots of much needed January sunshine.
Greece it was.
But it’s not all been moping around beaches and drinking until I forget. I’ve been applying for jobs too. Going after all the teams, even the ones in North and South America. Hell, I’d go to Japan or Kazakhstan too. They have great teams and a thriving football culture.
But it’s an odd time of year and no one is hiring and who knows how many teams will be as progressive as Galaxy, United and Real have been.
Plus, what I had said about how therapists tend to keep their jobs for a long time and there’s very low turnover?