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.”