Chris was in bed fighting an unknown sickness. I was on-board a ferry going to the Princes’ Islands.
Beside me was a group of very pretty girls. All of who were enrolled in a summer post-graduate program and enjoying a day-off before ensconcing themselves in front of laptops to finish their final papers.
Beside me was a group of very smart girls.
I mentioned my indecision about where I’d be going next. The disarmingly cute redhead remarked that, as I like the outdoors, I should consider Georgia. She even recommended a way to hookup with outdoorsy people there.
Not to be outdone, the other girls started talking up their own homes. Each one-upping the others with increasingly fantastic anecdotes. And all very unsubtly prodded on by yours truly in a blatant exercise of comparison shopping.
Finally, the curly brunette with glasses asked if I had heard of Montenegro? “Of course! James Bond!” I replied, like an idiot. She must have been caught up in the moment, and followed up asking if I knew for what Montenegro was famed?
“Beautiful women.”
“And we have a stereotype about black people there.” I steeled myself. “That they are very intelligent and attractive. And, if you visit, then I guarantee your social calendar will be full.”
The trump card had been pulled. Dismay set in for the others for not having drawn it in their own earlier arguments.
Later, the girl from Montenegro and I were alone, treading the warm water of the Sea of Marmara. Over the sound of the waves, I asked if the invitation to her fabled land flowing with milk and honey was legitimate. Her face filled with surprise as she considered the reality of a strange visitor from foreign lands.
“You’ll have to come after next Friday, since that’s when I fly home.”
That was how I met Mira. And, as we watched the sun set from the forecastle of the ferry home, my schedule danced in my mind. I had less than a week left in Istanbul.
