I spent a day by myself, on the island of Hydra, climbing the deserted cobblestone staircases, imagining that I would run into George Clooney.
But I did get to swim in the Aegean Sea with a fat man from Brazil named Henry.
On the boat ride back to Athens, I couldn't help but notice how an American father was ignoring his two morose sons, too busy talking on his cellphone, even on vacation, to notice them.
Against his will, without his knowing, I judged him.
Returning to Zenetta's apartment after dark, my mom opened the door. "Something's happened," she said. A volcano was erupting in Iceland, and all fights through Europe were cancelled. We sat squinting at CNN through the thick fuzz of Zenetta's television, the excitement of an unexpected turn of events, etched with the worry of how to get back home to the kids.
I lay in bed that night, thinking about the man I'd judged to be a bad father, desperately trying to find a way to get his boys back home for school, soccer practice, choir.