13 Little Blue Envelopes(56)



Hippo was still awake when they came stumbling in. He was playing Risk at one of the tables with two very intent-looking guys.

“See?” he said with a smile. “The one with the pretzels. I told you she was trouble.”

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#11



#11

Dear Ginny,

I’ve never had a good memory for quotes. I’ve

always tried to remember them, but it never works

out. Like recently, I saw a quote by the Zen master

Lao-tzu. It goes: “A footprint is made by a shoe, but

it is not the shoe itself.”

Fourteen words. You’d think I could remember

something like that. I tried. It lasted for about

four minutes, and pretty soon it was, “No shoe

should be judged by its footprint, for the foot has

a print of its own.”

That’s how it stuck in my head. And that, I

thought, has no meaning. At all.

Except in your case, Gin. It may actually work

for you. Because what I’ve done to you (or what

you’ve chosen to do—you are your own woman) is

follow in my footsteps on this insane journey I

took. You’re in my shoes, but the feet are yours. I

don’t know where they’ll lead you.

Does that make any sense? It did when I thought

of it. I thought you’d think I was really smart.

I ask because what I want you to do next is

retrace a journey I took when I left Copenhagen. I

left because the festival was over, and I had no

idea what to do with myself.



Sometimes, Gin, life leaves you without

directions, without guideposts or signs. When this

happens, you just have to pick a direction and run

like hell. Since you can’t get much more north than

Scandinavia, I decided to go south. And I just kept

going.

I went by train to the coast in a misty fog, then

got on a train in Germany and rode down. Down

through the mountains, down into the Black Forest.

I got off in several cities, but each time I

couldn’t get any farther than the station door, and

I would just turn around and get on another

southbound train. Then I hit Italy and turned

toward the sea. I had a bright idea—I thought,

I’ll go to Venice and drown my sorrows. But there

was a garbagemen’s strike in Venice, so it smelled

like stinky fish—and it was raining. So I went to

the water’s edge and thought, What now? Do I turn

left and go through Slovenia, maybe escape to

Hungary and eat Hungarian pastries until I

explode?

But then I saw the boat, and I just got on.

There’s nothing quite like a long, slow boat ride

to clear your thoughts, Gin. A good, slow ferry

that takes its time and leaves you baking in the

sun off the coast of Italy. I was on that boat for



twenty-four hours, sitting by myself in a sticky

deck chair, thinking about all that I’d done in the

last few months. And around the twenty-third hour,

as we were coming through the Greek isles, it all

broke open for me, Gin. I saw it all clearly. I saw

it as clearly as the island of Corfu, which was

looming in front of us. I saw that I’d seen my

destination a while back, and I’d forgotten to stop.

My future was behind me.

So try it yourself, Gin. Leave now. And I mean,

now. As soon as you get this letter. Go right to the

train. Go south relentlessly. Follow the yellow

brick road all the way to Greece, to the warm

waters, to the birthplace of art, philosophy, and

yogurt.

When you get on the boat, give me a shout.

Love,

Your Runaway Aunt

P.S. Oh. Go to the grocery store first. Pack snacks.

This is a good rule to follow in all aspects of life.





The Blue Envelope Gang

It was noon the next day, and they were all recovering on Hippo’s beach. Ginny sat in the cold, shallow sand and felt the wooden boards that supported the beach just under her fingertips. The sky was mostly gray, and the buildings around them were Danish canal houses and seven-hundred-year-old countinghouses, but everyone was acting like it was spring break in Palm Beach.

People were sleeping on the sand in bathing suits and a large group was playing volleyball.

She scooped up some of the sand in the empty eleventh

envelope, slid the letter back in, and absently folded the flap closed.

Ginny turned to her companions and said, “I’ve got to go to Greece. Someplace called Corfu. And I have to go right now.”

Emmett looked over.

“Why do you have to go to Greece?” he asked. “And why now?”

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It was a reasonable enough question, and the asking had attracted the attention of the others.

“I have these letters,” she said, holding up the sand-filled envelope. “They’re from my aunt. It’s kind of a game. She sent me here. The letters tell me where I have to go and what I have to do, and when I’m done, I can open the next one.”

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