Greece: A Feast for the Senses

There are two kinds of people – Greeks, and everyone else who wish they was Greek.   – Gus Portokalos

My journey to Greece started approximately twelve years ago at a Greek-food festival. While attempting to dig into an enormous piece of baklava, flakes of filo dough rained down from my mouth as I closed it around the plastic fork. As one does, I looked up to see if fortune had smiled upon me and allowed this transgression to go unnoticed. Alas, it had not. I met eyes with the elderly Greek man seated across from me, just as a wide smile spread across his face. “It’s good, no?” he laughed. “Mmhmm!”I nodded, mouth stuffed with syrup, walnuts, and oh-so-flaky filo dough.

My love affair with Greek food continued, bringing me again and again to falafel stands, gyro joints, and to any event or restaurant promising stuffed grape leaves.

So when a friend asked if I’d like to accompany her to Greece – despite the fact that I had decided to stay in Germany and pinch my pennies – I said yes. When it comes to true love, no price is too great, no shore (or airport) too far.

Santorini wine after a long hike. Could life be any finer?

Twelve or more years in the making, I set my feet on sacred soil. When the waiter set two squat glasses on the table along with a half-liter of wine, and I took my first bite of grilled feta, I knew I had arrived in the cradle of culinary perfection.

Between creamy eggplant, the rich warmth of Santorini’s white wine, the nutty smoothness of a double Greek coffee (medium sweet), and eating an obscene number of olives, my taste buds found what they had hoped for and more.

Greek yogurt and Greek coffee. The breakfast of Olympians.

But Greece, I discovered, was an indulgence for all the senses. Despite some spring gusts of wind and rain, the smell of freshly sprung flowers filled the air around Athens’ ruins. The scent of garlic and spices wafted from open windows in the early afternoon in Santorini. Greek music streamed from car radios and cellphones. In a restaurant window, people joined hands and danced. The sun shone sparingly, but warmly, and the water washed coolly over my feet.

As much as a table full of mezethes was a feast for the stomach, the landscape was a feast for the eyes. Stony hills sprouted with flowers, olive trees reached their twisting branches skyward. Red beaches gave way to turquoise water, and colorful towns crept over the cliff-sides of a crescent shaped island. Dark clouds rolled across blue skies, casting their shadows upon ruins that have persevered through millennia.

My only complaint about Greece, is that the time was too short. Athens and Santorini gave us just a glimpse of what the country has to offer – just a sampling of the delicious food, the magnificent nature, the engaging culture, and the generous people. Yet, even in the short span of seven days, there are moments I will never forget.

We made some four-legged friends on our hike.

We had the good fortune of being invited into a Greek home for a meal. Every time I buy olive oil, I will remember the large jug that our hostess pulled from underneath the sink while explaining that it came from her father’s village by the sea.

When someone references ancient Greek mythology, I’ll remember that same generous woman driving us to the Temple of Poseidon and, as we stood upon the cliffs above the Aegean sea, retelling the ancient myths of how Athena and Poseidon fought for the affections of the soon-to-be Athenians. Or how King Aegeus threw himself into the sea from that very place after thinking his son, Theseus, had succumbed to the Minotaur.

The next time I happen upon a donkey, I’ll remember walking up the winding stairs from Fira’s old port in Santorini and being passed by a portly man astride a donkey – with three more in tow – as he pointed at me, repeated something I had no hope of deciphering, and finally handed me his hat and motioned towards the top of the cliff. I carried that dusty hat up the 500+stairs, and will never know the reason why. But I have faith that the donkey-man eventually retrieved it from where I placed it at the top of the path.

 

And when I search for spare coins or hidden bills in an otherwise empty wallet, I’ll think of the man at his ice cream stand who laughed when my friend and I both discovered we had no money on us and said, “It happens to the best families!”

Greece, like creamy yogurt covered in a sticky layer of the best honey you’ve ever tasted, was an indulgence. And it was one that I hope to have the fortune of indulging in again. In the meantime, you can find me wherever the stuffed grape leaves are.

 

 

Fruit of the Month: Salak

Later this month I will be going in search of komodo dragons (posts to come!), so it seems only fitting that our featured fruit of the month be something best described as reptilian.

Salak, better known in English as “snake fruit,” has a scaly, brown skin, and really looks like something that belongs in Jurassic Park. Salak fruit is about the size of a fig, and the skin peals off easily to reveal three segments of white fruit that rather resemble overgrown garlic cloves (sorry, no baby dinosaurs). It is native to Indonesia, and some of the best salak fruit comes from Bali and right here on Java.

I tried salak fruit my very first day in Indonesia. I remember another trainee asking me what it tasted like. “Like pineapple and nail polish remover,” I replied. Safe to say, I wasn’t the biggest fan after the first bite. But, like many things in life, salak grew on me. It still has an astringent, pineapple-y taste, but it’s sweet, refreshing, crunchy, and oddly satisfying. As the saying goes, don’t judge a fruit by its scales.

The face of a helpless fruit addict.

Better to Give

This Saturday, I will turn a quarter of a century: Half-way around the world, and half-way to fifty. I can only hope that my next 25 years will be filled with as many wonderful people and memorable experiences as my first have been. Even more, I hope that as much as others have poured into my life of love, kindness, and generosity, I will be able to give back to others.

While many Americans expect to be treated on their birthdays (to dinner, cake, a free drink from Starbucks, etc.), here in Indonesia the one with the birthday is expected to treat everyone else. Most adults are quite low-key about their birthdays here, but it is common for people to share a cake or a meal with their friends and coworkers. Throughout the past year, I have seen teachers bring in cakes, hand out lunches wrapped in banana leaves, or call the bakso man to share the joy of their special days.

In fact, this tradition goes beyond birthdays. “Syukuran” means to give thanks, and this kind of thanksgiving can be done for birthdays, special occasions, and important accomplishments. It is a way to celebrate and share your good fortune with others. Who wouldn’t want a celebratory bowl of bakso when a co-worker finishes their Master’s degree?

So to share the good fortune of making it to 25 in Indonesian fashion, I ordered a cake from a family down the road – a couple weeks early in order to account for the semester break and fasting during Ramadan. What I thought was going to be a simple sheet cake came out a bit…ostentatious. But it was fun to share, and why not finish my first quarter of a century with a bang?

Cutting the cake.

I wish I could have mailed you each a slice, but in the spirit of sharing (and not breaking the law), here are my birthday wishes for you, my faithful readers. May you have many reasons to be thankful and to celebrate, and may you have the joy of sharing your good fortune with others.

Fruit of the Month: Sawo

This month, I bring to you a very special fruit: Sawo. Known by many names in many countries (sapodilla, zapote, naseberry, etc.), this deceptive little fruit first crossed my path over a year ago. I was completing my practicum teaching at an agricultural-vocational high school (part of my Peace Corps training) when some students shyly approached me with a package of these fruits: their class project and harvest. Small, brown, and oblongly-round, at first glance I thought they were potatoes. But oh, they were so much more.

I purchased the humble-looking fruits after being assured that they were definitely not potatoes, but something “sweet and delicious.” And thus started yet another of my Indonesian addictions.

When ripe, sawo fruit has a slight grittiness (akin to a pear, but much juicier). It is soft, sweet, and, according to Wikipedia, malty. I’ve had my fair share of malted milk balls, malted milk shakes, and other forms of malted beverages, and wouldn’t quite use that term to describe this fruit.

To me, sawo are more like brown-sugar in fruit form. Imagine having a tree in your backyard that grows slices of pecan pie, and you might understand the wonder I feel towards sawo.

Although not native to Indonesia, sawo abound in their deceptive, lackluster wrappings. And they will always be a symbol for my experience here on Java – a hidden sweetness in humble surroundings, a reminder to allow ourselves to indulge and be surprised.