It is 1964. She has rented an apartment in a small town on the Argolis peninsula. She knows the local people wonder why she is in Greece alone, yet she plays off their curiosity, enjoying the attention as she walks by their coy stares. Every night she dines alone at a small restaurant overlooking the bay. She orders politely, exchanges glances with the shy waiter and leaves at the same time. Her routine doesn’t change. In the day she lays by the bay, she reads, and takes walks. One evening as the waiter fills her glass he leans down, his lips at her ear. ‘Fly me to the roses’ he whispers. It makes her smile. She says nothing as always.
