The Grand Delusion

"Good morning Handsome Man, what are you doing? Come and visit me," she texted with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered telecommunications.

"I am by the sea, visiting friends, back tomorrow," he replied.

"Ah, ok."

But wait—what did this mean? Clearly, this was a coded message! The Whole was speaking through him, suggesting she needed to explore new territories. They wanted her to choose her next destination, and Handsome Man had helpfully provided the coordinates: by the sea.

Obviously, she had to book a week's holiday wherever Handsome Man was. This was elementary detective work.

Monday morning, she departed early wearing her wide-brimmed hat—a masterpiece she'd paid a fortune for at 13's shop. "Hand-made," he had claimed with the solemn authority of someone selling artisanal air. She felt like a proper lady, riding high on her girlish wave with matching lipstick and jewelry that probably came from the same clearance bin but looked coordinated.

"Thank you Handsome, the place you suggested is very nice" she texted upon arrival, as if he had personally recommended this random seaside village rather than simply mentioned he was somewhere near water.

As soon as she disembarked in the little coastal town, she fled to the beach like a woman possessed. One hour of walking under the blazing sun in flip-flops that were clearly designed by someone who had never encountered actual human feet. By the time she reached her chosen roasting spot, her feet looked like they'd been through a medieval torture device.

After an hour of dedicated sun worship—because clearly her ghost-pale, laboratory-dwelling skin needed aggressive UV bombardment—she decided it was time to return. 'Walking' was no longer an option, given that her feet now resembled raw hamburger meat wrapped in decorative straps.

At the bus stop, already bored of waiting like a civilized person, she lifted her thumb to hitchhike.

Bang.

A police car passed by immediately.

Well, obviously this was The Whole speaking! Too dangerous to accept rides from strangers. Wait for the bus like a responsible adult who definitely wasn't having a public breakdown disguised as a seaside holiday.

When the bus finally arrived, she was the only passenger, and the driver—smiling at her as if they were old comrades from some forgotten war—said no ticket was necessary.

Right. They wanted to ensure she was safe all the way. The network of protection was clearly operational.

Happy with her day of successful beach-lounging and public transportation mysticism, she texted Handsome Man for dinner recommendations.

"There is a restaurant where you have to go, but tonight it's closed. Go there tomorrow. Tonight any restaurant is good."

Where you have to go. Not "where you might like to go" or "a nice place to try." No—this was clearly a mission-critical dining assignment.

She stopped at the first available establishment, sat down, ordered fish plates, and faced the evening's crucial decision: "Shall I drink a glass of wine?" She needed a co-conspirator for this momentous choice, having abstained from alcohol for months.

"Sure you can, it never hurt anybody a glass of wine," Handsome Man replied via text.

Permission granted. She was feeling free and obviously needed to celebrate this newfound liberation with fermented grape juice.

The following morning, she rented a bike from the shop he had "suggested"—though she was fairly certain their conversation had never actually included bicycle rental recommendations. Details, details.

She proceeded to the famous sandy beach, where she implemented her sophisticated recreational strategy: one hour of intensive roasting in Position A, relocate via bicycle, one hour of roasting in Position B, repeat until the full length of beach had been properly conquered.

This was clearly advanced leisure mathematics.

Riding back through fields and small bays, she felt like a child—free, reckless, and probably suffering from mild heat stroke. But what a glorious way to slowly cook one's brain!

Back at her accommodations, she prepared for the evening's main event by dressing entirely in gold from head to toe. Because nothing says "sophisticated seaside dining" like looking like a human trophy.

The restaurant was a tiny, dark place with communal tables—perfect for someone who had spent months in social isolation and clearly needed practice sitting near strangers.

"Here I am" she texted Handsome Man, documenting her arrival like a war correspondent.

"Good, do you like the place? The chef painted the painting on the wall."

"Nice, a bit of music in the background would be perfect," she replied.

Before she had even finished typing, music began playing.

Magic! Clearly, she was developing psychic restaurant-enhancement abilities.

"Say hello from HANDSOME MAN’s part" He instructed.

"Hi, what would you like to order?" the chef asked, appearing in person as if summoned by her golden presence.

"I think, since they are all small portions, I would like to try a bit of everything." Because obviously the correct approach to unfamiliar cuisine was maximum consumption. "And Handsome Man suggested this place," she added, name-dropping like a seaside socialite.

"Handsome Man, which one?"

Which one? How many handsome men could there possibly be? She panicked slightly and replied, "From the mountain."

"AH, HANDSOME MAN!" he exclaimed with sudden recognition.

Bingo! Though she made a mental note: never specify geographic origins. Clearly, this violated some unspoken protocol.

"I still have a lot to learn," she texted Handsome Man, confessing her navigational error.

She drank her wine, enjoyed every morsel of her culinary adventure, left what she hoped was an appropriate tip, and received a ceremonial farewell from the chef himself. Clearly, she had passed some sort of gastronomic initiation.

Walking back through the village streets, she felt ecstatic—belly in, chest out, beaming at every soul she encountered like a golden-clad ambassador of joy.

Back in her bed and breakfast, sitting on her narrow bed and preparing to text her evening's report, a song drifted up from the bar below. Customers were singing a serenade: "I care for you, haven't you understood, I care for you, leave the dress alone, I care for you, despite everything...”

That was clearly from Handsome Man! What a romantic gesture, orchestrating an entire bar full of strangers to serenade her through the floorboards!

"Me too" she texted back, and fell asleep wrapped in the warm glow of imagined courtship.

The following morning, she rented another bicycle—because clearly she was now a serious cycling enthusiast—and set off for an all-day adventure around a nearby island.

The landscape unfolded like something from a tourism brochure: rolling hills covered in wild herbs that released intoxicating scents with every pedal stroke, ancient olive groves twisted into sculptural shapes by centuries of Mediterranean wind, hidden coves where crystalline water lapped against limestone cliffs.

Uphill sections tested her questionable fitness level, leaving her gasping and sweating in the increasingly brutal sun. Downhill runs provided moments of pure exhilaration—wind streaming through her hair, the bicycle gaining momentum until she felt like she was flying rather than pedaling.

At a small clifftop bar, she stopped for water and shade, settling at a table that overlooked an impossibly blue expanse of sea. That's when her phone chimed: a text from Handsome Man asking about her day.

How did he always know exactly what I was doing? Clearly, they were developing some sort of psychic connection.

She collapsed into bed that evening without even bothering to document the day's adventures. Pure physical exhaustion had temporarily overwhelmed her need to analyze every experience for hidden meaning.

The following day, she decided it was time to expand her territorial exploration. She booked a room in another village and moved operations via bus—a journey that took half a day to cover what couldn't have been more than a few kilometers. But clearly, the circuitous route was part of the experience.

Once settled in this minuscule village, she began her essential reconnaissance: finding the perfect bar. After careful evaluation of the available options, she selected her headquarters, ordered coffee, and commenced intelligence gathering through strategic eavesdropping.

"Where have you gone?" Handsome Man texted, because apparently her movements were of international significance.

"In the nearby village," she replied, maintaining operational security through geographic vagueness.

Then—eureka! The bartender began telling customers about his past life in a little mountain village. Wait—the same mountains Handsome Man was from!

Message received. She had chosen correctly. This was clearly the designated bar for this phase of her mission.

She spent the next three days there when not conducting beach operations. The owner and waitress treated her like family, which obviously meant they had been briefed about her arrival and importance.

Her seaside investigations were spectacular. While snorkeling, she encountered an entire diplomatic corps of marine life: starfish arranged in what were clearly meaningful patterns, an octopus that observed her with obvious intelligence, and a moray eel that seemed to be guarding something significant in its rocky crevice.

Each creature acknowledged her presence with what she interpreted as respectful recognition. The underwater world was clearly another layer of the network, populated by agents who communicated through movement and positioning rather than words.

Floating in the warm, crystal-clear water, surrounded by these aquatic allies, she felt a profound sense of belonging. The sea creatures understood something about her that land-dwelling humans had missed.

"Yes Handsome Man, this is a place where I could live. Let's move here" she texted, because obviously their psychic connection meant he was invested in her residential decisions.

Her last day arrived with the inevitable sadness of concluded adventures. She packed her accumulated treasures—shells that had obviously chosen her, smooth stones that contained specific energies, a small piece of driftwood that resembled something meaningful she couldn't quite identify.

The journey home took twelve hours to cover 44 kilometers. Clearly, the universe was reluctant to release her from this magical coastal realm.

As the familiar mountains of her village came into view, she realized something profound: she had just spent a week in the exact place she had been trying to reach during that failed epic leak weeks ago, when she had attempted to walk to the piano competition.

Everything was connected. The network had simply rerouted her journey through madness and medication to bring her to the right destination at the right time.

Handsome Man wasn't just a friend—he was clearly her spiritual guide, orchestrating elaborate romantic adventures through restaurant recommendations and psychic restaurant music.

She was living in a love story, and she was finally beginning to understand the plot.