Reid & Robie

More isn’t always better, Linus. Sometimes it’s just more.

– Sabrina

Many full-time travelers move every month. They arrive in a new city, find a grocery store and one or two restaurants, stroll the streets near their apartment, see the sites, take a daytrip, then leave.

They don’t stay long enough to make friends with servers in the local taverna, don’t linger over a morning coffee to watch the bustle in town or spend the afternoon enjoying the view over a glass of wine. Busy planning their next move, they miss the sights, smells and sounds of where they are. And the moment they feel settled, they pick up and move.

When Robie and I started meeting people who followed this monthly migration pattern, I wondered if our plan to stay in one place for a season was the wrong way to go about a roving retirement. But when we met an Australian couple who were taking it slow like us, I realized it was always other Americans who were looking to see more, do more, move more. Forever more.

Like every choice, there are ups and downs to this slower style. We still spend a fair amount of time figuring out where to go next, where to stay and how to get there, but in between are days filled with spontaneous afternoon strolls along the promenade and evening outings for ice cream. While some days are packed with sightseeing, others are absorbed in a good book or whiling away the hours at a café. There are sunny days in the park and rainy days inside tiny apartments. And there’s plenty of the mundane amid the occasional unexpected moment.

But staying longer isn’t always easy, as noted in the following passage that I wrote in my journal the morning we left Ikaria:

So, this is the nomadic life. We arrive; we stay awhile. Then we pick up and move.

It’s harder than I thought.

Though our adventure started in Liverpool, Robie and I considered the UK a stopover, a safe place where we spoke the language, had access to familiar goods and were only a short hop from home. And when we left England, we were happy to escape the rain and falling temperatures for a winter in the warm Mediterranean sunshine. Because Greece was where Robie and I felt our vagabond journey would begin.

But after three months on Ikaria, I’m not ready to leave.

With no new renters scheduled for a few months, Robie and I have a few things to take care of around the apartment before we go. But after shaking out the rugs and emptying the trash, I can’t close the shutters on this stunning view. Despite the foul weather that’s had me stuck at this kitchen table for weeks, I still marvel at the scene outside our window.

After Christmas Therma turned into a ghost town. The municipal baths remained closed, and once Stamatis packed up the remaining food supplies from Avra Restaurant, he hasn’t been back. While I loved being one of Therma’s only winter tourists, with so few social opportunities, Robie and I needed someone else to talk to and so turned to the few full-time residents in town – the clowder of strays in the square.

Like everyone on the island, the cats have excessive discharge from their eyes due to the sand and swirling meltemi winds, but when little Ruckus crawled on my lap one morning, he let me clean his face and stroke his head while he slept. Then for two months we met on that park bench soaking up the sun and enjoying each other’s company. While the other strays rubbed my legs or sidled up next to me, Ruckus knew my lap was his spot, and his alone. And soon the shy, underfed, kitten with watery eyes blossomed.

Over the holidays the cat stayed in our apartment. While the little guy slept in a bed, played with rolled-up paper balls and ate to his heart’s content, it was Ruckus who was our Christmas present letting me and Robie pretend we had another furry family member – if only for a while.

Now I will miss him.

Thanks to a little affection, he’s a tubby, healthy, clean cat with renewed spunk and energy, a good start for the two months until tourists return to Therma. While people will always come and go in his life, Robie and I tried to show Ruckus that short-term love is just as wonderful and powerful as the forever kind. In March, I’ll follow up with my friend in Paris to see if she’s coming back and willing to send updates. Because when Gilou’s in Ikaria she usually hangs around Therma with an elderly stray she calls Poupette.

I’m having a hard time getting out of these thoughts.

In a few hours Robie and I will board the ferry back to Athens, the same one we took to Mykonos last month. On that journey we ran around the deck admiring the rugged coastline of Ikaria. But when the ship sails this afternoon, I’ll be tracing the hilly coastal road to town, straining for one final view of the promenade and saying farewell to a place we loved.

Before coming to Ikaria, Robie and I considered Santorini our Greek island. Now we have two.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.