Hydra, an island in the Aegean Sea, is magical. There are no cars. There are a handful of municipal vehicles, but everything else
moves by horse, mule, or electric hand cart. All you hear are hooves on cobblestones, church bells, and the sea. It is one of the quietest places I have ever been.
To make up for all that peace and quiet, they have horse flies.
I mean, HORSE FLIES. I finally understood the name. It isn’t because they bother horses, it’s because they are roughly the size of one. These things are huge, enormous, gigantic. They don’t buzz so much as idle. They may have to register as municipal vehicles.
By my third afternoon, I thought I had made my peace with them. I was on the terrace with a glass of wine and my Kindle, deep in a mystery, at the good part. The detective had gathered everyone in the library, the butler was perspiring. Then a horse fly landed on the right-hand side of my screen.
I froze. It froze. We stared at each other. Well, I stared at it, and it stared at me, the wine, the harbor, and the back of its own head, all at once.
Then it turned the page.