Languid sweeps of the ceiling fan stir the humid air over my chaise lounge as I put my bare feet up and recline with my book. On a side table, tiny rivulets of condensation slide down my lemonade tumbler onto the bamboo coaster. From the window of the balcony I can hear the ocean waves on the shingle shore—impact followed by slow, hissing withdrawal. I sip my icy drink, set down the glass, and take up my book.

I am about one third into Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain. Someone recommended it, and I thought it might be appropriate on my journey here to the shore of Greece. Twain’s travels to France, Spain and Italy chime in with my own experiences, especially his paean to the deep blue of the Mediterranean.

After a few pages, my eyelids fall and my limp hands allow the book to droop against my chest. I realize in a dream state that indeed Twain’s book was the perfect choice—to induce my afternoon nap.

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