We left the little house in Antifiotica and headed for Piraeus on the bus, never having it in mind that we would not be returning again.

Fresh air and sunlight were what was really needed. We had arrived in Athens in late October and it was still warm and lovely late in the season. We were told that winters were very mild here, and one could easily stay on. There was no real youth hostel in Athens. A lovely English girl in Saloniki gave us the address of 'Bellas'. Once there, it was just by chance that we were able to gain employment. My friend found a teaching position, and I became a folk singing guitar player. My repitoir consisted of an Album of Joan Baez favorites. It was exciteing and the bar was frequented by many (US) servicemen. They were a big part of the clientel and liked finding American girls there to talk to.

I could not wait to visit the Acropolis. My friend was dissapointed that I did not wait for her to go with me. I wanted to go there first by myself. Often, durring my stay in Athens, I went there to meditate. When I was there I had a hard time believing that I was actually sitting on the steps of the Parthenon. When I gazed out to sea I saw a fleet of ships. They were the ancient trireme.

I was singing for my supper four nights a week. All went well until I developed larengytis. My friend had a Dr. friend and I had to go to a clinic for tratment. It was shortly after this that the little house fell into my hands. How long it had been there? I wonder is it still there today? Now it all seems very much like a dream.

Petros the Pelican his beak can hold more than his belly can. Large and pink he minded his own business. A solitary bird, there never seemed to be any others of his own kind. One could always find him on the street near the harbor. In the mornings the smell of fresh baked bread from the bakery wafted through the air. Everything seemed bright and blue and the windmills were turning in the breeze high on a bluff that had once been the acropolis of Myconos in ancient times.

We were heading toward the Sacred Island of Delos. I had never heard of this place. Someone told us this was the Agean Pompeii. A small fishing boat took us across the water. It could not have taken more than twenty minutes. Here was a ghost town. There had been no natural disaster. It had been abandoned, and then pilaged. This had happened thousands of years befor. Once it had been a sacred center of wealth and trade. It was considered sacred to many gods and many different civilizations met here and exchanged goods, and knowledge.

We were not the only visitors to the island that day. Passenger ships stopped there and other tourists disembarked to see the sights. Yet it was like we had the entire place to ourselves. Who walked these steets in ancient times I wondered? What was life like back in those days?

Passing the remains of what had once been well appointed homes in durring the time of Pericles, I became fascinated by the mosaics still left on the floor. Paved streets and temples, homes that belonged to individuals, yet for the most part, I had no idea what these buildings were, even though there were some signs to read.

We climed a hill and found what we thought had been the birthplace of Apollo. We gathered the wildflowers from the surrounding rocky hillside, yellow poppies, feverfew, chicory, and filled the cave. All was quiet, and only the many geckos slithering over the rocks aknowledged our visit. All in all, I think I visited the island on three occasions.

Over ther years I have returned to Delos many times, but it has always been, 'in my dreams'.