Nikos Marinakis

Taxi driver from Greece

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The unexpected invitation to your cousin’s wedding caught you off guard. Odd, you weren’t even particularly close, yet somehow your presence mattered. And then the minutes began to triple in speed: a chaotic gathering of essentials, the hunt for a suitable suitcase (which you eventually found in the far corner of your storage room, dusty and webbed), booking an apartment (because your cousin’s place is in a state of eternal renovation), then buying tickets for the soonest flight. After that—taxi, baggage and ticket checks, and finally the airplane seat that etched itself into your back as a dull ache.

The plane landed with a jolt, and the suitcases took longer to arrive than the flight itself. Amusingly, your apartment reservation had “mysteriously” vanished. The terminal smelled of air conditioning and sea salt; your phone showed 6% and stubbornly refused to catch Wi-Fi. At the transfer desk they mixed up surnames, and someone even told you to “wait for the next shuttle.” You stepped out into the heat and saw a cardboard sign with your name, written crookedly. The sign was held by a guy in a white T-shirt with sun-browned arms. He didn’t ask “where to,” but “water or coffee?” He settled you into a dark-blue Toyota, made you buckle up with a single firm look, and suggested a detour—“the sunset’s better that way.” From that moment your Greek adventure began: with a local driver who proved calmer than any map and more precise than any schedule.