In the morning, I had plans. I was going to stay here a while, and explore this beautiful, venerable town on the coast. Eat fish with bones in it, and feel like I was walking the streets of Kings. After all, I was. Orange rooftops, a calm sea, and a hint of saline in the breeze: it could be worse.
Three days turned into one day when I found myself drinking wine out of a teacup, wearing a cowboy hat, and rejecting a marriage proposal. The entire hostel was there. We made friends fast.
The city was silent and empty and beautiful. The bars had all long been closed, but we walked to the dock, outside the walls of this ancient, stone-lined city, and sat, passing around a cheap plastic fourty that someone had abandoned. A circle of strangers, sharing intimate stories, and listening to cat mafias making calls to their clans: mischievously planning to take over the town.
That's the last time I knew where I was going to sleep at night for a while. But I swear, in the morning, I had plans.