WELCOME from the fifty households on the island, written on a piece of cardboard held by a man called Steve. Might he carry my backpack? Together we walked the opposite way from the stream of tourists that were headed to the hotel. Was I excited, he asked, before getting started on a short story about his health.
And did I know we exist of eighty percent water. A bit less than that, I remembered: sixty. “Not on the island -ha. The sea wind blows more water into your pores.”
“You just wait,” he said “You’re going to feel fantastic. Water is healing!”
My house was built agains the dunes. It stood on wooden poles. First you had to go up the stairs, to the porch where a bunch of solid furniture stood, before entering though the big glass doors. I looked in, afraid of spotting ugly decor, but everything was fine and simple. A white couch, a rocking chair, a large, sturdy table.
Steve concluded our meeting by stating he would not invite himself in. The rest of the evening I didn’t see any other human being.
Around eight o’clock a dog ran across the shoreline.