…Agios Nikolaos, a fabulous Greek town, leaned against a mountain of white stone, with terraces running down to the Gulf of Mirabello. Your cherish wish will be the never-ending stroll through its cobbled streets, staircases winding along the slope like bougainvillea-lianas. Their gently pink flowers are reaching for the roofs, balconies, parapets and …for you—an occasional guest, a neophyte tourist, who with the delight of a puppy examines Cretan areas.

Ten kilometers to the east of the above mentioned town is the village of Istron. It’s not so dressed up and animated as its neighbor, but here Greece breathes like at times of Hellas,—with white stones, turquoise sea and even with linen curtains in your hotel. There are there whitewashed walls, wooden shutters protecting the windows against every day sunshine, lemons like light bulbs hanging down from the tree next to your balcony. Awaken from the tender songs of turtle doves and inhaling the smell of a warmed tree from the garden, you don’t believe yourself that you are in Greece.

Calimera!” (“Good morning!”) None other than Aphrodite greets you. She is a maid here, but this does not detract from her connection with the namesake goddess of the Greek pantheon. Coffee in the bar pours you Paris, and what is tzatziki explains you Maria in the restaurant. It is not surprising, if in some olive grove you meet hoeing Zeus.

Ten years ago, the first Greek friend of mine, the sculptor Nicolas Ioannides, dropped in a conversation: the Greeks feel themselves in their history like in their own kitchen—habitually and comfortably. I testify: the true truth! Do you need some arguments? Yes, any number! One is right under your feet: on the marble tiles of the hotel’s patio are myths of ancient Greece, painted by nature and time. And let the Poles, my neighbors in hotel, be surprised when I bow filming these marble letters—to walk on them should be in sandals and dressed in tunic, intercepted by a tape above the waist.

In the village hiding in the mountain above Istron, there are three churches: one is majestic at the highest point of the village; two others are small sheds with modest crosses on the tops—right in the middle of the “vegetable gardens” among vineyards and olive groves. After getting some work done in the vineyard, like Hercules, say a prayer. For a Greek, it seems just as common as eating cheese with bread and drinking wine in the shade of an olive tree.

Do you know how the local landowners designate the boundaries of their plots?

There aren’t any barbed wire or metal blind fences: only white stones, which trail like patterned paths between ancient trees (judging by their mighty tree trunks). The edge of the road—a mountain one, not tarmacs—is lovingly restricted by the wide palms of low cacti. What for? I’m sure the Greek would answer: it’s beautiful! If there are not enough colors on the edge of the vineyard, its owner will “highlight” the palette, planting here unknown plants with scarlet flowers. If any owner of a local tavern finds somewhere a piece of an old ceramic vessel, he will definitely mount it into a wall made of stone, and will next attach a lamp repeating the form of this amphora, because “it’s really beautiful!”.

It seems that the sense of beauty is as firmly took root in culture of the local inhabitants as the motive of “Sirtaki” or the indispensable “Yasas!” (hello) to any passerby. It was no need in such politeness:  tourists in Istron are a dime a dozen, but I didn’t even meet a hint of the usual xenophobia against outsiders either in the village, or in a hamlet, or in a mountain monastery, to which I climbed three hours. Why does it need so high location? It was “because the path to God

can’t be easy,”—as I understood after my difficult conversation in English with the descendants of the ancient Greeks.

There are some temples, perched on tiny terraces in the mountains, visible when the bus takes you from the airport to the hotel. How did their builders deliver materials there? How do they get there to pray? The answer is still the same—the path to the top. In fairness, it is worth noting that in many of these miniature churches, the services are held only once a year: on the day of the saint, after whom the temple has been built. One more detail: at several houses in the village I saw near the entrance almost toy temples—”huts”, hollow inside. For certain, a candle will be lit there on holidays. “God and beauty are next”, as I heard it from all sides, absorbing the wisdom here with all my skin.

May be that’s why on any mountain road or in any of the “wild” bays of the gulf, I have not met a packet, no bottle and no other garbage. For example, if suddenly a plastic cup is washed up on shore, which has been snatched by the wind from the hands of a beach visitor, it will be immediately caught by a net of the guys-beach workers. They were looking like the young gods. Dionysus? Hermes? Oh, how beautiful was one of them playing in the early morning on the sand with a dog!

Old Greek people are worthy of a song by Homer. They are strong as the trunks of olive trees and as clear as the classic Greek pattern on the edge of a tunic. It seems that they do not know the sadness, because they are sure that after their departure everything will continue: the wind, the sea, the boy playing with the dog on the beach. By the way, the Greek courtyards after more than two thousand years (I saw them in Crimean Kirkinitide) are still the same… In my opinion, I was not the only one admiring the old people with the same faces like in photographs from the Authentic Greece series, which I met in many Greek shops.

One dream was left unfulfilled after two trips to Crete: it was Sirtaki. I never saw this dance, uniting and hugging, and did not dance it in any of the taverns. I am sure: as soon as I will be taken into this common circle, I will understand something more about the Greeks, about myself and the world, and for the umpteenth time I will say to it with joy: “Yasas!”

Svetlana Zaitseva.