3 days before: Sarah and I had arrived at the farm on Naxos and began settling into our cottage. We barely spoke to each other. Sometimes this happens between us…and sometimes it stems from that kindergarten adage – if you don’t have anything nice to say…In retrospect, I think we were in shock. We had just come from the island of Folegandros, where we had spent our days living in a studio in the center of the island’s largest town. We’d grown accustomed to walking down the steps from our studio and landing right in the middle of peaceful, but nonstop, hubbub. We’d sit at a café each morning, watching people begin the day, and we’d end up at another café late at night, when travelers and locals and lights and sounds and the aroma of Greek cooking cluttered up the town square. I’m in awe of Greek socializing – these people are completely exuberant, and embrace life late into the night, yet somehow remain peaceful and just plain make you feel cozy. It was the perfect setting for a couple of girls who want to hold on to the excitement of youth, but are so over raucous crowds and really just want to turn in at a reasonable hour. We sure could get used to that life. But now we were on Naxos, a whole new cup of tea. This island is large, and our bus ride from one side to another revealed very few towns, each being just a cluster of houses and businesses. You can only rent a car or moped in the port town, which is the farthest point from where we were silently unpacking our bags. The bus schedule seemed confusing and only offered a stifling few pick-up and drop-off options. We tried to focus on the breathtaking scenery around us, but these thoughts were continually interrupted by, “Oh my gosh we’re so far from any form of civilization,” and “Where will we eat?” and “8 days of this? Are you kidding me?” We were moping around big time, and we just wanted the day to pass so that we could wake up and try again. We had some moments of hope – Astrid invited us up to their house. She had some leftovers in the oven and realized that we probably hadn’t eaten in awhile. A home cooked Greek meal…it was a new pleasure that hadn’t been available in our busier locations. And it was just what I needed to keep me from crying myself to sleep that night. The family seemed charming, our cottage was clean, and the sea was in view of our front window. As I closed my eyes that night, I thought, “Well, we’ll see.”

I was sitting next to Sarah on a concrete bench. In front of us was a large table filled with dishes, now nearly empty, stray bread crumbs, carafes of wine. Above us was a lazy canopy of grape vines shading us from the intense afternoon sun. Music, strummed from across the table, danced its way up into the clear blue sky. This was one of those experiences in life that had me thinking over and over - It doesn’t get much better than this. Let me explain how this started. We’d spent the morning and early afternoon on the rocks across from the farm that we had quickly come to love. The sea’s waves crash onto these rocks, spraying us with a refreshing mist. We’d figured out a routine of reading, swimming, climbing back out to read some more or look at the clouds or play some cards. Then maybe we’d swim some more. So on this particular day we had just returned to our cottage when Nekos, the Greek farmer, stopped by to extend an invitation. His English is…well it’s a mental workout to understand him. But we knew there would be a goat and friends and music. We headed down to the small pavilion perched right above the sea and took a seat. Astrid and the kids were there, the German man and his son who were staying next door to us were there, and maybe there was a guy with an instrument that was stringed and Greek-looking. At this point there were two Greek salads on the table and the most gigantic jug of Nekos’ wine. I’ve always dreamed of going to a woodland feast, tucked away amidst enchanted trees, dining with friendly talking animals, eating food that is hearty and soothing, and sipping drinks that warm you to the core. This came pretty close. The rest of the afternoon is the most magical blur in my mind. As we were eating our salad and bread, dishes of new and enticing food kept showing up. I don’t even remember who was bringing them, but the table steadily became filled with so many things hearty and soothing. Salad, bread, potatoes, goat roasted by the very exuberant Nekos, some things from the sea still in their shells…And as the food trickled in, so did lots of new faces – friends, neighbors, relatives. At one point I thought, it’s a Wednesday afternoon…this feast just happened to work out for everyone? I didn’t know if this was a special occasion or if this is just how they spend the afternoon every now and then. I never found out, and I like not knowing.

We ate and drank and talked and laughed. Some of the faces around the table spoke a little English; some didn’t speak any. It was the perfect way to take in an authentic Greek feast without the social pressures of say the right thing, and ask good questions, and please come across like you stay up on American politics. We had some short conversations, but mostly just sat back and absorbed. Europeans have a keen awareness of the wine glass. As soon as it neared empty, someone was reaching for a carafe to give you a refill. As we continued to pick at our food and wine glasses were filled again, the musicians pulled out instruments that are in the guitar family, but seemed much cooler at the moment. There was no sheet music, but everyone knew which chords to strum and which notes to pick and which words to sing. Before long, one of the cutest old men I’ve ever seen (who turned out to be Nekos’ father-in-law from his previous marriage, evidently they’re still close friends) had been overtaken by the jams and got up to dance. It was too much. It was like a scene from a movie, and when you’re watching the movie you wonder if this stuff really goes on, or if they just make it up for the movies to make a culture seem interesting and exciting. And three days before I’d nearly cried myself to sleep? Sheesh.

Before we came to Greece I’d had hopes of eating and drinking well, meeting the nice people, hearing some Greek music, maybe seeing some dancing. I’d expected that this would happen in a restaurant, maybe a place that’s geared toward tourists who’ve come with these hopes. I love that we got all of this in such an authentic context. I love that we’ve been able to slip into the lives of people who live here everyday. I love that we’ve been extended such grace and hospitality. What an inspiring example of living well.

And three days later I felt like crying as we packed up our things to move out of these people’s lives.