“But…” Now he looked crestfallen. “It’s the only way we’ll make it in time for your dad’s surprise,” Theo said. He was clearly starting to get tired of repeating this fact to me, but I wasn’t about to give in.
My last run with Dax flashed to mind and I shook my head. “I don’t run. Ask my boyfriend.” My voice broke a little on that last word, which was embarrassing and also kind of telling.
“Suit yourself. But trust me, it will be worth it.” Then, before I could decide if Theo was worthy of trust of any kind, he turned and ran for the maze of buildings. Not power walking, not a brisk jog—a dead sprint. The buildings immediately swallowed him up, and then it was just me in a dirt parking lot, with no luggage, a severe jet-lag-induced headache, and no clue where I was supposed to go.
I’m actually really fast when I want to be.
* * *
Oia managed to simultaneously look exactly like all the photos I’d seen online, and not like them at all, because photos couldn’t do it justice. The village felt grittier and prettier and smaller and somehow even more charming than still images could capture. Or at least, that’s the impression I was getting; I was mostly trying to keep my eyes on whatever scrap of Theo was still in my view, and that wasn’t easy.
At first Oia all looked the same. The buildings all had a similar theme—low, white, and angular—but as we ran through the narrow corridors, the buildings began to distinguish themselves. We passed a small church with blue candy-striped poles out front, and then a grocery store full of things that I vaguely remembered my dad buying from the shops in Chicago’s Greektown: soft nougat, canned octopus, sun-dried figs, sesame bars, and jars of Nutella. Tourist shops displayed their wares on open patios—everything from stuffed donkeys to original artwork. But most of all there was white. The buildings, churches, and walkways all glowed a stark white in the late-evening sunlight, broken up by the occasional bursts of fuchsia bougainvillea flowers and the bright blue of Greek flags. There were no cars in Oia, and that was a good thing, because where would they possibly fit?
Pedestrians—tourists, judging from their rapturous gazes—clogged up nearly every inch of walking room. Half of them were dressed stylishly in flowing dresses and summer suits, and the rest looked like they were straight off the beach. They moved in slow, dazed clumps, cameras in hand, stopping to take photos of small churches and charming doorways and stepping over all the shaggy lumps of dogs lounging inconveniently in the middle of the sidewalks. They were unbelievably annoying—the people, I mean; the dogs, I wanted to scoop up and carry to wherever we were going—but I would be taking photos and staring too, if I weren’t desperately trying not to get left behind.
Theo dodged down streets and careered up steps, while I ran behind him, my sandals slippery on the marble walkway, my backpack bouncing heavily. By now I wished I’d taken his hand; it would have made a lot more sense. Not even Dax could argue with that. Right at the moment when I felt like my heart might explode, Theo skidded to a halt. I attempted to stop, but my sandals were no match for the worn-down marble, and Theo caught me by the upper arm to keep me upright. I was a sweaty mess and breathing like I was making a jailbreak.
“Welcome to Atlantis,” Theo said.
“Atlantis?” I wheezed. I turned slowly, taking in this new set of surroundings. We’d run to what had to be the west side of the island and were now a stone’s throw away from the edge of the cliffs. The caldera—the bowl-shaped bay partially enclosed by the island—spread bold and glittery below us, a much smaller island bobbing in its center like a heavy rubber duck. To our left, the rest of Santorini curved around into a backward C, and to our right, the marble path extended a tad more, ending in what looked like the ruins of a castle. We were at the very top of Santorini, but it felt like we were on top of the world. No wonder this place was so crowded. Welcome to Atlantis.
I turned back to Theo. He didn’t seem at all out of breath; instead he was glowy and healthy looking. “You mean because Santorini is the origin of the Atlantis myth?” I asked, finally catching my breath.
“Myth?” He squinted at me. “No, welcome to Atlantis bookstore.”
He pointed, and suddenly I became aware of a spit of a building sitting right in front of all that spectacular view. Not just any building, but an entire inside-out bookstore. It was tiny, maybe about as wide as my bedroom back home, and looked like it had been carved into existing rock, its facade dominated by two whitewashed staircases, one leading up toward an open terrace overlooking the ocean and another leading down to an arched door painted shiny gold. Murals of Atlantis colored the external walls, and every possible nook and cranny had been fitted with wooden shelves that overflowed with books and quirky hand-lettered signs, all in English. I UNRELIABLE NARRATORS. And DINOSAURS DIDN’T READ AND NOW THEY’RE EXTINCT. COINCIDENCE? An excellent, excellent point.
The mishmash of color and images and writing gave the whole bookstore the appearance of a life-size collage. My fingers itched for my pencil and sketchbook. I didn’t know what I wanted to draw first, but I knew I wanted to capture everything.
And then I saw it. Above the door, painted in gold and in handwriting I would have recognized anywhere:
Welcome to the Lost Bookstore of Atlantis.
What was lost is now found.
(Open daily from first coffee to sunset)
The force of that handwriting knocked the breath out of me. Before I could stop myself, I hurried over and reached out to touch the letters, feeling the rough texture of the building under my fingertips. Underneath the words was a hand-painted map of Santorini—a shape I could have drawn in my sleep.
I looked up at the writing again, my breath catching in my throat. What was lost is now found. Was it really that easy?
“First impression?” Theo said, his voice muffled. I turned to see he had the camera out again, zoomed in way too close on me.
“Not again.” I attempted to dodge out of the camera’s view. If I had my back to the writing on the wall, then it didn’t hurt as much.
Theo kept the camera trained on me, entirely unfazed. “Does the shop remind you of anyone?”
“Are you really asking me that?” I asked, folding my arms self-consciously. With a camera on me, I had no idea where to put my hands or where to look. Besides, it was a question that obviously didn’t need answering. The bookstore was whimsical and weird and so charming it sucked the breath straight out of me. This was the brick-and-mortar version of my dad. And by that, I mean it was sending me into spirals of panic.
I wanted to demand that Theo stop filming me, but instead I pointed to the bookstore’s door. “Is he in there?”
“Yes. Give me a minute to prepare.” Theo set his camera on the ground, fiddled with it for a moment, then aimed it at me again. “Ready. I’ll stand here while you knock.”
He had to be joking. But when I turned to look at him, the camera’s RECORD light was on, and he gave me a thumbs-up over the top of it. “Ready,” he said.
“Theo, no. This is not happening.” I tried to dart away, but several tourists on the walkway had taken notice of the camera, and now a small congestion of people blocked my escape.
“What do you mean?”