As the ferry docked at the port of Piraeus, I awoke from a short night of sleep on the carpeted floor of the ferry and looked around; the days had merged. Had it been dark between departure and arrival at all? I shouldered my backpack, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and tried to get my bearings. Two phone numbers and “Korinthos”, the name of a railway station, were written on the little piece of paper that I held in my hand. After almost eight month of traveling, I’m an expert in asking for directions and finding trains. Even through the blistering midday heat, I succeeded in transferring to another train in an abandoned station. I arrived in Korinthos a little early and I found myself alone on the platform. A man appeared and asked me if I needed help. I declined and tried to explain him that I would be picked up immediately. He didn’t leave my side until I told him that it was my boyfriend who was on his way to pick me up. He disappeared from my view and I thought to myself that if he was still in the station, he must have been terribly confused when my ride became visible moments later. The man who emerged from a battered blue compact car and greeted me was about fifty years old. The hand he extended out to me as a welcome was cracked and dusty and he was wearing a baggy shirt with some holes in it and his pants were caked with earth. The man smiled warmly and introduced himself as Konstantin.