The morning light filters through the canopy of olive trees, casting lace-like shadows on the terracotta tiles beneath my feet. In this hilltop village in southern Greece, I've found what guidebooks can't map—a place where time stretches like warm honey.
Yiayia Maria doesn't speak English, and my Greek consists of three words learned yesterday. Yet every morning, she sets out a plate of loukoumades on the stone wall separating our properties, still warm and sticky with honey. Today I watched her hands—gnarled like the olive wood she uses for kindling—as she fried the dough balls in her outdoor kitchen, a setup that would make food safety inspectors faint but produces miracles.
The village market isn't a market at all, just three folding tables on Tuesday mornings where neighbors trade what they grow. No money changes hands. Mrs. Katerina's tomatoes for Mr. Dimitri's fish. My broken Greek for patience and laughter. An economy of trust older than currency.