Greece

Merchants called to us as we wandered through the market. Its aisles were a maze; each turn greeted us with a new delicacy to marvel at. Families swarmed around containers of feta soaking in salt brine. Basins of multicolored olives shimmered in the Greek afternoon sun. Baskets of tomatoes, apricots, and figs rested beside dishes of syrupy gold honey. We attempted to chat with the locals, stringing together broken thoughts and hand gestures in the puzzling limbo of multilingual conversation.

We left the market with armfuls of food. Fresh bread and six different flavors of baklava dozed in my embrace, still warm from the oven. We meandered towards our home for the week, not minding that we didn’t know the way. Flowering bougainvillea trees lined the narrow pathways. Their pink petals danced in the breeze and scattered themselves across the marble streets. We admired each white and blue stone house. By the time we stumbled upon our own, the sun hung low in the sky like a peach.

We shuffled around the kitchen to prepare dinner, enamored with each slice of supple tomato and dip of freshly pressed olive oil. Nightjar birds dove through the early evening twilight as we carried platters of food to the balcony. We took turns proposing elaborate toasts with kumquat liqueur, surrounded by our feast and the stars.