Greece unfolded through taste—of food, of pleasure, of the sweetness of friendship.

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Carol and I spent almost the entire month of September in the Greek islands, gorging ourselves on their compelling vistas and sapphire waters, not to mention the calamari, feta cheese, tzatziki, taramasalata and ever-flowing retsina. 
   On the boat from Ancona, Italy to Piraeus, Greece, we met two young, sweet Italian men, practically boys. Verbal communication was limited due to the language barrier, but our two new friends clung to us anyway. An acquaintance of theirs had given them the name of a centrally located, supposedly decent yet inexpensive Athens hotel. Carol and I decided to tag along and give it a try, as we did not have a clue about where else to go, and if we could avoid the usual hassle of the arrival search, we would be very happy.
   We hopped a bus to central Athens and were led to Omonia Square, which was clearly not the chicest part of the city, but was busy, noisy, and undeniably central, filled with cheap stores, fast food restaurants, and an urban energy that, somehow, felt safe to me. Several streets radiated out from the square like the rays in a child's drawing of the sun. The Paris Hotel was located on a slightly quieter side street off one of those rays. We were greeted by an attractive blonde woman behind the desk. Her name was Helen. She was very friendly, spoke fair, heavily accented English, and best of all, delivered the good news that she had two available double rooms. 
   Next to the lobby was a small area with a few tables and chairs where, we were told by Helen, our continental breakfast would be served. Beyond this “dining room” was a lounge with well-worn cushioned sofas and chairs, a few tables with worn old lace, and a small black and white television mounted high on the wall. This room, we found, was always occupied by a few old women, seemingly glued to their seats, necks craned toward the screen. They all wore babushkas and long dark dresses. We never learned who they were, but they appeared to be part of the décor, and we figured they were the requisite widows we had seen in Hollywood movies about Greece. 
   Our room had a small balcony overlooking rooftops and a quiet street. As soon as we settled in, I did some laundry in the sink and hung my clothes over the metal grating of the tiny terrace. Doing laundry when arriving at a new place had become a ritual for me that I've carried through my travels in Asia, the Middle East, and Central America. I suppose it makes me feel secure to have clean clothes, but more importantly, doing a domestic chore is a sort of christening act that creates a fleeting sense of home and grounds me in a new place.
   Carol and I changed our names for the Italian boys, as we frequently did in our travels. This practice started because many people struggled to pronounce “Carol,” the R and L getting stuck somewhere in their mouths, so she became “Stella.” I varied my alternate names, but on this particular occasion, I chose “Arielle,” which the Italians boys modified into “Ariella. They invited Stella and me, Ariella, to join them on their visits to the islands, but we graciously declined. They were mildly persistent, but remained youthfully appealing without becoming burdensome or melodramatic. We spent one evening in Athens with them, sharing a typical dinner of salad and scrumptious chicken souvlaki, at a modest restaurant. Stella and I conversed mostly with each other, and the boys mostly between themselves. 
   The next morning, we missed their departure, but Helen handed us a note they had left for us. It was written in broken English, saying goodbye and wishing us well…but the greeting I remember perfectly well: 
   “Dear Ariella and Stella bella…” 
   Just say out it loud a few times, in an Italian accent, it’s pure poetry.
   The Paris Hotel became our home base while in Greece. We were able to store belongings in a locked room, leaving behind what we didn’t need for the islands. On return visits to the Paris, we sampled a medley of rooms which overlooked a cramped, smelly alley, lined with trash cans, behind the noisy kitchen of a restaurant across the way. We began to wonder if our first, quiet room had been a figment of our imagination. 
   Our first wonderful island stop was on Skiathos, with its lovely harbor and hilly streets which, at the time, were lined here and there with many partially finished houses. Skiathos was on the verge of a booming tourist industry, yet seemed uncertain about how to build for it. 
   Upon arrival, we were swarmed by children, each eager to lead us to their family's guesthouse. The most aggressive little boy won, and we followed him up a long, steep, rutted, and pebble-strewn street, where I had more than one near ankle mishaps. The incline finally came around a bend to a two-story, ostensibly half-built structure, where we gratefully climbed the stairs, at our own risk, and collapsed onto the less than comfortable beds in our sparse, tiny room. 
   We got used to that hill from town, which really wasn't so bad without our backpacks, and actually provided the only real exercise we were getting during those lazy island days. 
   I tend to think of our time in Skiathos in two parts defined by the people we were hanging out with. 
   Part 1: 
   Each morning before boarding the bus to Banana Beach, Carol and I stopped at the market to assemble our lunch: dolmades (grape leaves stuffed with rice), yogurt (which in Greece is like eating crème fraîche at ten percent fat), pistachios, tomatoes, and butter cookies. The rate at which I was expanding was greater here than at any other time in my life. But it was from eating heavenly food out of sheer delight. Every person should have the opportunity to spend some days of total decadence in the Greek islands. 
   Banana Beach was named for its crescent shape, and what was so special about this island was that it was green, with trees behind the sand, unlike other isles in Greece, which tend to be dry and rocky. Most people alighting from the bus would head directly down the path to Banana Beach proper. But a small group, including Carol and me, would climb up a rocky hill and then descend down through the trees to the nude beach below. 
   It was on the final stretch of that walk that we met Eitan and Talia, a young couple from Israel. Eitan was up in one of the fig trees, picking the delicious ripe fruit. 
   “Do you want some figs?” he called down to us.
   We looked up to see an incredibly animated man with a mass of red hair, a full red beard, and wild eyes. Eitan possessed a delightfully eccentric sense of humor, while Talia was his antithesis, quiet, shy, and very pretty. With her pixie-cut black hair and large dark eyes framed by exceptionally long eyelashes, she reminded me of a girl in a Keene painting. We became fast friends, which is the way of travelers, and Eitan was openly delighted to be in the company of three nude women. 
   One day, we rented one of those pedal boats. We took turns, two pedaling two lazing atop the plastic canopy. Powered by eight energetic legs, we ventured quite far indeed, rounding numerous bends, and discovering hidden beaches. 
   Like Robinson Crusoe, we came upon one beach inhabited by hippie nudists from various countries, living in tents, and other makeshift dwellings. It was a bohemian paradise, a place that seemed to exist outside of time. Sometimes I think I may have imagined it. That day, spent in the nude, and among a population of nudists, was perhaps the only time that I have ever felt completely unselfconscious in my own skin. 
   We had met Eitan and Talia near the end of their holiday, so our time together was brief,  though lots of fun. But like the natural rhythm of a river ever bringing in something new as a carries away the familiar, we almost immediately met Sabine from Germany, with whom we connected instantly. Thus began… 
   Part 2: 
   Sabine’s warmth and social ease were infectious, though she claimed this vital aspect of her personality emerged almost exclusively while on holiday, in contrast to her more reserved demeanor as an interpreter in the conservative government city of Bonn. Sabine and I stayed friends for many years and I even had the opportunity to visit her five years following our initial encounter, when I stopped in Bonn on my way to Zürich. We were so genuinely happy to see each other, that our joyous emotions erased any need for forced politeness or uncomfortableness. It felt as though five days rather than five years had passed since we had last shared a bottle of retsina with our moussaka.
   Through Sabine, we met Martine, a French woman who had traveled extensively while speaking only her native tongue, which I found impressive. Martine was staying at a guesthouse that was both more centrally located and less expensive than ours. Carol and I checked it out right away, only to happily discover that not only was there an available room, but it was larger and brighter than the one we had been occupying. 
   Our move was accomplished without too much effort, since this time we had to carry our packs downhill. The proprietor, or manager, or whatever, was a young man sporting the requisite Greek black moustache, and sparkling smile…whom we never saw again after that first encounter. He asked for no payment up front and made no arrangements for settling the bill. There appeared to be no other staff, and after Martine left, we did not see any other patrons. When it was finally time to leave, we had no idea whom to pay or how to return the key. We could easily have considered ourselves guests of that cheerful, handsome man with the moustache, who looked a lot like the man who ran the souvlaki stand near the town center, but instead, we left the key and money in the room, never knowing whether those drachmas found their way into the proper pocket. 
   Each day, Sabine added to her entourage, and our dinner table at the various tavernas of Skiathos grew larger each night. Wherever we went, the food was not only delicious but incredibly fresh. And even though Sabine was on holiday, it fell upon her to be interpreter, passing effortlessly from German to English to French. 
   One day, our expanded international group rented a private boat, now that we were large enough to make it affordable, and sailed to “secret” coves, surrounded by imposing rock formations. We lounged on deck, relishing the yummy breezes of the Aegean, before docking at the port of Skopelos, an island with 360 churches, each more charming than the last. 
   To truly explore Skopelos, we had to climb up several crooked streets and stairways, but the reward was always a new and special view of the churches, the harbor, and the turquoise sea below. Everywhere were bursts of bougainvillea in hues of red, violet, pink and orange. And then there was the ever-present Aegean sun, providing a light of such clarity, it felt like I had just cleaned my pupils with lens tissue. The whitewashed houses defied any believable concept of “white” known in the streets of New York, where we have only a Clorox commercial to evoke our imagination. It was an extraordinary day! 
   By late afternoon, following lunch, our group had splintered. Carol and I, however,  remained together. Exhausted from climbing so many stone streets, alleys and stairways, by the time we made it back down to harbor level, we opted to take a local bus to the far end of the island, where our boat was moored. 
   Carol took a seat by the window about three quarters of the way toward the back, and I sat beside her. The only other passengers were an English family: a large, pale, gawky-looking man, his equally pale wife, and their pale, fretful child, who whined incessantly about something trivial, each complaint beginning with, “Deddy, Deddy.” Deddy stood in the aisle, looming over his son, who sat nearer the front, diagonally across from us.
   The road we traveled on was poorly paved, and the bus seemed as though it had been constructed in the Age of Plato, so our ride was predictably bumpy. Carol and I were happily bouncing along, babbling away, but as I faced her in conversation, I suddenly saw her facial features change. 
   In what felt like slow motion, her mouth dropped open, her eyebrows lifted, and a look of terror entered her beautiful blue eyes. Before I had fully turned my head to discover what had caused this metamorphosis in Carol’s expression, the danger she had observed coming, was delivered in the form of a mammoth Deddy falling upon me as we rounded a sharp curve. Suddenly there he was, sprawled across my lap in all his clumsy hugeness, obscuring me from the world. For a suspended moment, probably only seconds—but in this strange slow motion time warp, it might have been an eternity—when Deddy and I locked eyes. 
   It may well have been the most intimate exchange he had ever shared with anyone, except maybe his wife, and even that was questionable. He struggled in his lack of grace, but finally righted himself back to a vertical position, allowing me to breathe once again. Gripping another seat for balance, Deddy exclaimed over and over again, “I’m terribly sorry.” The poor man was awfully embarrassed and had turned the color of those wonderful ripe Greek tomatoes. He was practically hysterical in his repeated apologies, even though he was not the cause of his plunge onto my lap. I was alright, after all, and we kept telling him it was not his fault. But both Carol and I were struggling mightily to contain our own hysteria in the form of laughter. We had to get off the bus and walk the rest of the way to the boat just so we could release our giggles, and when we did, they exploded like one of those ripe bushes of bougainvillea erupting over the Skopelos stairways. Even now, when I think of that moment, of Carol's expression, of that poor pink bulk in my lap, and the look on his face, I cannot help but laugh. 
   On one of our stopovers back in Athens, Carol and I connected with Puck, whom Carol met years before on a plane from Mexico City to San Francisco. Puck had arrived from her native Stockholm to spend a week with us in those glorious isles, which one could easily believe were chosen by gods. 
   Puck was a very tall, exceedingly pale, and large-boned woman, a bona fide Swedish platinum blonde, with light blue eyes and an ever-present smile. Despite her size, Puck carried herself with utter grace and femininity, and she completed our triangle perfectly. Her ever cheerful and flirtatious nature notably amplified the attention we already drew from local men.
   The three of us treated ourselves to a flight to Santorini, famous for its breathtaking panoramas and black sand beaches. We stayed in a guest house that offered a single shower for its many guests. Hot water existed, but only in limited supply, so that it was fortuitous to be among the first to use the shower in the late afternoon. It was interesting to observe the behavior of the guests, which of course included myself, in being outwardly courteous, saying, “Oh, please, you go first” while inwardly thinking “Didn't he go first yesterday?” 
   Santorini was too crowded with tourists and I was not particularly fond of the volcanic sand, but the perspective behind the lens was extraordinarily rich. There were sensational photo opportunities everywhere, along narrow streets of whitewashed houses, gazing at blue-domed churches silhouetted against the sea, climbing onto roofs and looking down at the harbor. 
   Following those days of vigorous hiking up and down the hills of Santorini, lazing on powdered lava, and taking sporadically lukewarm showers, we took a boat to Paros for essentially more of the same— eating, drinking, and being merry—very much in line with Puck’s life philosophy. 
   In Paros, Puck’s outlook completely won us over. Much of our time was spent sitting at the tavernas near the water’s edge, watching the fishermen bringing in the day's catch, as we happily sipped our retsina. We were especially intrigued by the way the fisherman would smash the octopus against the rocks to tenderize the flesh for consumption and enjoyment. When it came time for dinner, taverna guests were invited into the kitchen to choose their fish or seafood from that day's bounty. I had never eaten such fresh and delicious fish until I visited the islands of Greece. Carol, Puck and I would look at each other and moan in total gustatory bliss. 
Each day, Carol and I would spend some hours on a different beach, sometimes reached by boat. Being so fair, Puck often opted out of joining us sun worshipers, preferring the shade of her favorite taverna. 
One day, after much persuasion from the boat operators, Carol and I finally agreed to visit the stalagmite caves on nearby Antiparos. Puck, more resolute, stayed behind. We had been told that the excursion required not too many drachmas for the boat ride there and back, but upon arrival we learned the caves themselves were a few kilometers up a rocky incline, which we were welcome to walk. 
   “You can ride on the donkeys for a few drachmas,” we were told by a man whose trade was, if you haven’t guessed, donkey transport. 
   After a quick assessment of the climb, we were easily convinced. Still, hoping to save money, I said, 
   “Okay, but we will share one donkey.” 
   The man offered his assistance in hoisting Carol and me onto the poor animal’s back, no small feat. Not only did it take multiple attempts, but the rather slimy man kept feeling us up as he lifted us. You know the type, they exist all over the world. Short in stature, greasy hair, missing a few teeth, questionable hygiene, dirty clothes and feet. Our emotions ran from rage to frustration to laughter at the sheer comedy of this scenario. We finally found a semi-secure position, and had only half a second to orient ourselves before the man, a cynical smile upon his sleazy face, slapped the donkey’s rump, and we were off, clinging to each other as well as our transport, for dear life. 
   The entire ascent was a mix of hysterical laughter and low-grade panic, never having achieved a feeling of confidence. Our donkey proved to be willful and unpredictable. While all the other nice donkeys moved obediently in a line toward the cave, ours would now and then decide it was snack time and veer off the path to nibble on some unappetizing looking scrub near the edge of a precipice, just to heighten our terror.   
   Dismounting from the donkey at the cave entrance was a little easier than getting on, though we underwent a strange sensation of the ground shifting beneath our feet and needed a few minutes to steady ourselves. Not surprisingly, entry into the cave required yet another fee, and we realized just how easily we had been drawn into the whole scam. 
   After exiting the not-very-impressive cave, we paused to take in the scenery, a mostly dry, colorless landscape, yet still expansive. Looking down at the seaport far below, we realized just how far we had climbed. Fortunately, there was no additional fee for the descent, which was even scarier, as we constantly felt we might fall and fly off to Mount Olympus. “Apollo, take me!” 
   Before boarding the boat back to Paros, we sat for a little while at the closest taverna, for a drink and a chance to regain our wits. With our return passage already paid for, we knew the few remaining drachmas that we had could go towards refreshments. Eating did not seem possible after that donkey ride, not to mention the ire making itself known in the well of our stomachs at being ripped off and having to pay two additional fees above what we had been told. 
   By the time we alit on the shores of Paros, our appetites had returned with great vigor. Puck was cheerfully awaiting us at our decrepit, yet homey room in a local family's house. Carol and I washed the dust off our sunburned, sore bodies, and ravenous, we headed for the Italian restaurant atop the hill, a departure from Greek cuisine for the first time. 
   As with nearly every meal we had in Greece, this one was divine, and particularly special, as it was to be our last one with Puck, whose holiday was coming to an end. The next day, she would return to Athens to catch her flight home. Of course, we had a glorious celebration, Carol and I basking in the sheer warmth of Puck’s buoyant energy, as we had little of our own. We ate pasta and pastries, drank lots of wine, and had fun conversing with the owner. But mostly this night was for a sharing of spirits among three goddesses. 
   For Carol and me, Paros was also to be our last island together. I would soon return to New York, and Carol was off to Lesbos and eventually Rome. 
   Greece is so pleasure-seeking and sensuous, it could light the embers of passion in even an ice cube. I could not believe such an atmosphere would be wasted, so I was determined to have one last affair. In the short remaining time on this journey, I was not expecting to find the kind of connection I had with Manuel or Tristan, just rather a sweet memory to take with me. 
   I remember when I first spotted my prey on the beach. From a distance, with his black hair and tan skin, I could almost pretend there was a slight resemblance to Tristan, but if I were to measure every man against him, I would likely remain chaste for the rest of my days, so there was not much point in that. 
   It did not take me long to casually make my way close enough to command his attention. Costas turned out to be a decent conversationalist, and his English was quite good. This is important because even though I obviously did not have to wait until the fifth date to get intimate with a man, there had to be some bottom-line criteria for me to be interested. Well, all I can say is that Costas was treading rather close to the bottom line, but I was on a mission to have that one last encounter, and time was short. 
   You see, I was leaving the next day for Athens, where I planned to spend a few days doing last-minute shopping before heading back to the U.S. Costas lived in Athens and planned on returning there the next day, as well. He was staying at a hotel slightly more upscale than ours and I welcomed the opportunity to spend the night there and enjoy a hot shower. 
   In the morning, Carol came down to the boat where she and I had a dramatic, tearful goodbye. After she left, Costas and I went to buy our tickets, only to discover that the boat was full. The later one was probably also full, we were told, but we could certainly return in a few hours to check. Instead, we secured passage on a boat departing the following morning. 
   Now I had a dilemma: another night on Paros. Should I go find Carol? After such an emotional farewell, it felt strange to seek her out again. So, I decided against it, which also felt strange. In truth, I would have preferred spending the evening with my dear friend rather than with a man who was already beginning to bore me. But we were to rise early, and I did not want a repeat performance with Carol, which would make our heartfelt parting seem trite. I sneaked around Paros with Costas that night, hiding from a possible encounter with my best friend. At least I gained another night with the good shower. 
   The next day we arrived in Athens, where I returned to the Paris Hotel. There was Helen, at the front desk to greet me, a welcome sight as I was already keenly missing Carol. Costas and I made plans to meet later for dinner. 
   That evening, he took me to a ritzy part of the city and we rode the funicular up to the top for a panoramic perspective of Athens. We did not stay together that night, as he had to be at work early, but we agreed he would come by my hotel the next day, during siesta, for a final afternoon tryst. 
   The following morning, I woke early to the familiar clatter of plates from the restaurant across the alley. Stepping into the streets, I was in the thick of all the sounds and smells of the city, which felt European, but distinctly rough around the edges. Athens was already very much alive with traffic, honking horns, and the scent of petrol hanging in the air. Its populace was either sipping that horrid coffee and eating those tasteless rolls—made only slightly palatable with jam—or walking here and there on their way to work. 
   I was bound for the markets and tourist shops in The Plaka to purchase last minute gifts, a rug for myself and an extra bag with which to pack additional goods. At one point, I  bought some tomatoes from a street vendor. Their color was so vivid and their flavor so divine, I cared little that the juice dripped down my face as I closed my eyes, savoring each bite, a perfect pleasure and respite from my sweaty morning in Athens. 
   When I got back “home,” loaded down with my booty, Helen was all excited. 
   “Weelees, she is here!”
   I finally figured out, that my darling Carol Willis was back in Athens. She had dropped her stuff off in my room, but had stepped out and would be back soon. I was confused since I knew she had planned to go on to the island of Lesbos after we parted in Paros. I was also thrilled, yet there was a small complication. You see, very shortly, Costas would be arriving for our “appointment,” and I couldn't very well have Carol walk in on that. 
   Obviously, I had to let Helen in on my plan for the afternoon so that she could stop Carol from coming upstairs. I still had to take a quick shower, so there certainly was not enough time to come up with anything other than the truth.  
   “Um, Helen, there will be a man visiting me soon. We met on Paros. This is the last time we will see each other, so….you need to keep Carol here, downstairs until he leaves.”
   Luckily Helen was a woman of the world, or at least the hotel world, and understood immediately. 
   “When you are feenished, call me here at the desk. I will keep Weelees until then.”     
   “He should be here soon. Just sent him up and I'll try to be quick,” I said gratefully.    Thank God for Helen.
   I was so happy to see Carol, whom I found sitting in the lounge watching TV with the old widows. She ended up not liking Lesbos very much, so headed back here. Since I still had a few days before my flight, we decided to check out one more island, Poros, close to Athens and easily reached if we sprung for the hydrofoil. We couldn’t leave the next day, however, as I had already paid for a one-day tour to the ruins of Delphi.
   When I woke the next morning, I realized I had a bladder infection from too much activity with Costas. The bus ride to Delphi was agony because I had a desperate urge to urinate the entire time. I was trying to hold it in, even sitting on my heels to create pressure on my poor exploding bladder. 
   Finally, I could take it no longer. I approached the female tour guide and explained that I had some kind of illness and absolutely needed to release my water now. We were already far from the city, with nothing in sight but an old shed. The woman told the driver to stop, and I made my way to the shed, the only possible chance for “privacy.” Everyone in the bus was watching me through the windows. I walked around the back of the shed to obscure myself from the penetrating eyes of all the puzzled tourists. I was greeted by a furious dog, ferociously barking at my intrusion, but I didn’t care. I lowered my pants and let it flow, and for those few glorious seconds, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
   Throughout the day, my bladder infection worsened. Sacrilege or not, I had to pee multiple times among the ruins, tempting the wrath of Zeus. I managed to find someone close to my age, in a group of mostly senior citizens, and she and I formed one of those instant bonds whereby intimate secrets are exchanged within minutes. She became privy to my bladder infection and how it was probably provoked, while I learned all about her failing marriage. The friendship did not really go anywhere, though I think we wrote a few times and may have exchanged Christmas cards that year.     
   By the time Carol and I got to Poros the next day, I was pretty sick and could barely walk from the pain. Thankfully, we found a place to stay pretty quickly and discovered that just up the hill from our ramshackle tiny room with peeling paint, there was a doctor, to whom we immediately headed once we were settled in. 
   It did not take long for this man to diagnose my condition and to inform me of its cause. Carol and I watched as he took out a large sheet of paper and very deliberately wrote upon it a gigantic number 80 that practically filled the entire page. He then held the paper up, moved it close to my face and spoke to me in thickly accented English. 
   “Eighty percent of women get this from looooovvve.” 
   When he said the 80% part he moved the paper back and forth, and as he emphasized the word  love, drawing it out and raising his pitch, he looked directly at me and held the piece of paper under my nose. 
   I felt like I was visiting the priest instead of the doctor. 
   Carol and I could barely contain our laughter, but we managed to stay composed and act serious because this man was my salvation. He wrote a prescription and instructed me to drink vast amounts of water. Carol escorted me back to bed, then dashed off to the village back down the hill to get my medication. 
   Thank goodness for Carol, and for the fact that she did not like Lesbos, and had shown up in time to take care of me. The medicine and hydration worked wonders, and by the end of the next day, I was already feeling a lot better. 
   Those final days with Carol and the Aegean were magical and felt like an unexpected gift, like icing on the cake. Poros was close to Athens, and yet a world away from its noise and polluted air. There were few tourists on the beaches, and the calamari and salads tasted especially wonderful. We moved at a slow, dreamy pace, even after my pain subsided. And though I had to return to Athens for my flight to New York, it was the vision of the cerulean water, the revitalizing sea air, and the harmony I shared with Carol that I carried home. I have always been grateful for those days of calm before the storm.