Like in Antalya, where George spent the night waiting for her flight to arrive, and, in the morning, finding her and saying hi.

The drive to Kemer reminded him of now Santa Monica, now Redondo Beach, now La Jolla, but with the sea on the other side. The other side of the car, the road, the other side of her. The sunrise side.

Palm trees and cargo ships. Past Kemer, over the hill and down into Çamyuva where a week of days and nights awaited him, her, them.

Days later, the excursion farther south along the Med. She said some millennia ago, Alexander the Great and his army camped right here. She would know. George just saw trees, rocks, sea. He saw her. Over the pass, down along the large, low greenhouses growing tomatoes. Finike. Over more mountains.

A boat launch in Kaş took them out to the submerged Greek ruins in Plexiglass-bottomed boats. They shared a snack on a tiny island in the half-shelter of a half-ruined closet-sized temple.

On the way back, they stopped in Demre for St. Nicholas church (under extensive remodel) where she prayed (for George’s soul, also under extensive remodel), and then they ate the best meal of the trip in an open-air cafeteria, set up to feed many bus loads of tourists daily.

Back in Antalya at the end of the week, awaiting clearance for takeoff, George looked out his passenger window and watched her flight climb high into the blue sky until it was just a speck. And then nothing.

George closed his eyes and remembered holding hands at the center of the Roman amphitheater in Myra. Her hair wisping in the wind. Her eyes glinting with the setting sun. Her luscious lips parting as she breathed the word, “No.”

Originally published November 24, 2024