This summer I have the chance to spend two weeks at a writers’ residency on the island of Thasos, in the Thracian Sea.  Holy crow! I’d never heard of Thasos before; I’m ignorant of Greek geography aside from what I learned reading a children’s version of the Odyssey over and over and over again aloud to my younger son.  A few years ago, when the first waves of refugees were landing on Greek islands, I was deeply interested in taking my sons to Lesbos to have an adventure and lend our hands.  I’d read an article about another family who had done so, and their experience sounded powerful, something I wanted for my own.  I was too worried about the cost to move forward, one of the reasons I am trying not to let cost prohibit me from this opportunity.

So what do I know about Thasos?  Almost nothing.  I have a sometimes unfortunate obsession with logistics, so I know you fly into Thessaloniki to get there by by ferry.  I had a friend in high school who moved to that city (her parents were academics and her father had a position at the American University there, I think ) and invited me to visit.  I can not remember why I didn’t; maybe my parents wouldn’t let me–   again, the cost.  How have I never been to Greece?  The Germans probably have a word for what I feel:  a sense of entitlement due to past thwart.

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