Somewhere Under Meteora

Day thirty-five, Greece. I have decided to leave the doubt behind and go the rest of the way on trust. Pogradec was a safe harbour. Today I set off for Greece.

This week two articles about the journey appear in the local paper back in Vlotho. Everything that comes back to me by phone and by message is kind, without exception, and it holds me up more than I would have guessed.

The border is easy. Greece looks swept and friendly and I feel safe the moment I am across. The roads are in good order. The closer I get to Kalambaka, the more the place seems to be radiating something. The town lies at the foot of the Meteora monasteries, which hold on to their sandstone pillars like fortresses that were never taken.

I stop at the roadside to buy fruit and vegetables from a woman with a stall. Next to it, people are drinking tea. They say hello.

And I notice that I am completely calm.

I have been so frightened these past weeks.

It is gone. Is that the place? The prayers said on these rocks for a thousand years by men who meant them? Or is it just that fear dissolves the moment you walk at it?

Possibly both are the same sentence.