Chapter 11. Village market

   It seemed that each new day revealed some miracle to me. And I kept asking myself, Could anyone ever grow accustomed to this? But the answer was obvious. It felt as though I could live an entire lifetime here, grow old surrounded by this intoxicating wonder, and still die without having fully savored the beauty of this land. God must have created these places in a moment of special inspiration—that rare state from which masterpieces are born, where every line and every brushstroke falls upon the canvas with perfect certainty and grace.

   That morning, after taking a cool shower beneath the open sky, I suddenly caught myself thinking: here, I had stopped counting the days. Space and time had merged into a single stream with neither beginning nor end. Day flowed into night, night into dawn, and weeks replaced one another so naturally that I felt myself part of it all—inseparable, woven into existence as organically as the wind among the pine crowns and the waves in the breathing of the sea. In this place, in this house, alone with nature and myself, time was not divided into segments—it breathed. And in that breathing there was lightness, a freedom from conventions and rules invented by people.

   The rising sun above the hills etched the sky with sharp strokes of gold, piercing the layered lilac-and-pearl clouds. Its golden light spilled across the curves of the hills, gently touching the treetops with warmth. The air was heavy, saturated with moisture and cool density, mixed with the delicate, almost cloying sweetness of pine pollen. That morning the swallows flew so low while hunting insects that they seemed almost to brush the earth with their pale bellies. Everything foretold rain.

   I was hanging my towel on the veranda, still damp from the shower, when my gaze lingered unexpectedly on the yard below. Beneath one of the olive trees, a genuine drama was unfolding. Two hoopoes were fighting over a prize. One of them held a plump black larva proudly in its beak. The other clearly disagreed with this arrangement and appeared determined to challenge it. Apparently convinced that such a generous catch was too much for a single bird, he launched a desperate attempt to snatch it away from his rival. Realizing that only one of them would leave with the prize, both adopted battle stances. Their mottled orange-and-black crests spread proudly as they struck at each other with beaks as sharp and precise as tweezers. From time to time they emitted strange rasping sounds—"khrr-khrr... frr-frr..." Feathers flew through the air, and the scene grew increasingly warlike. Each of them, it seemed, had already declared himself the victor in his own mind. I was just about to witness the finale of this heroic battle when, by one of life's favorite ironies, a third hoopoe appeared out of nowhere. Without entering into any argument and without the slightest hint of embarrassment, he deftly snatched the larva straight from one bird's beak and vanished in an instant, darting like an arrow through the silver crowns of the olive trees. The two remaining rivals froze.For a moment they stared blankly at one another, as if trying to comprehend what had just happened. And for the first time that morning, they found themselves completely united—in utter bewilderment. I couldn't help smiling. Sometimes, while you are desperately occupied with your struggle for survival, nature—much like life itself—makes its decisions far more quickly and far more cleverly than you ever could.

   All morning I was haunted by the feeling that I absolutely had to do something today. As though the day itself expected some small step from me. But what step? Still under the spell of the morning's little drama, I stood on the veranda and suddenly became aware of a very earthly, very human hunger. And then, as if prompted by an invisible whisper, I remembered the words of Leonidas's aunt, Nona. She had mentioned that every Tuesday a market came to their village—a real, living market where local farmers from across Halkidiki sold the finest homemade delicacies from their own farms and kitchens. I turned around abruptly and almost ran into the house. Grabbing my phone, I glanced at the screen and smiled.

"Of course. It's Tuesday today!"

Living without counting the days was certainly easy, but even the Olympic gods, if the myths were to be believed, could not do without ambrosia—the food that granted them strength, immortality, eternal youth, and beauty. What, then, could be said of us mere mortals? And if the morning itself was offering signs, perhaps they were worth trusting, I thought as I opened the refrigerator and noticed that I had completely exhausted all my food supplies.

   Some time later I was already driving along the familiar road toward Leonidas's village. The sea that day was strangely motionless. It looked almost lifeless, lying in wait as though conserving its strength before an approaching storm. Even its color had faded—a smooth expanse resembling a vast sheet of cold steel spilled all the way to the horizon. The air was growing denser. Massive clouds gathered into a thick inky mass above the distant skyline, veiling the mountain peaks. It was unusually quiet. Only as I neared the village did I begin to sense life again—first in faint sounds, then in voices, in the subtle vibrations of movement.

   The dirt road gradually gave way to asphalt, and as I emerged onto the waterfront, the village's main street opened before me, climbing gently uphill into its heart. I left the car near the waterfront, slung my empty backpack over my shoulders, and decided to walk. Finding the market proved easy. All the villagers were descending the same street leading to the central square—the very place where not long ago I had admired the snow-white marble fountain erected as a gift by a certain Dionisis Theodorakis.  Local men and women were making their way down the street at an unhurried pace, though the women far outnumbered the men. They pulled shopping trolleys overflowing with groceries, green onion tops, celery stalks, and lettuce leaves protruding from every direction. They walked slowly, stopping often along the way. Meeting acquaintances, they exchanged news, brief remarks, laughter. Sometimes they merely raised a hand in greeting and tossed out a casual,

"Καλημέρα! Καλά;" ("Good morning! Everything well?") without even waiting for a reply, as though the question itself already contained both the answer and the carring for a person.

Such simplicity was unfamiliar to me. Could I ever see the world through their eyes?Understand them? Become like them?

This village was a small universe for its inhabitants, a place where every resident belonged. And the travelling market was a weekly ritual—unchanging, anticipated, almost festive—a day when everyone gathered in one place united by a shared and important purpose: to fill their homes, feed their families, and become part of this living, breathing circle. There was something warm and domestic about it all, almost familial. Something charming, elusive, and unmistakably Greek. Something that belonged solely to this place and this country.

I walked slowly, studying the people around me, observing their faces, gestures, shifting expressions, listening to fragments of ordinary conversations. Simple pastoral scenes unfolded before me like paintings from another century. I was there, and yet I was not truly part of it. I felt as though I were sitting in a theatre, watching everything from the audience. I saw the movement of the people, sensed the smells drifting from the stage, experienced their emotions much as a spectator immerses herself in the lives of actors. I was so close to it all—as though seated in the very first row. It seemed that at any moment I might step onto the stage and become part of their shared story. And yet an insurmountable barrier existed between me and this world. Thin, but resilient as a membrane.

   Suddenly I realized what that membrane was. It was the membrane of the womb itself, the one that breaks only when a child is ready to endure the painful journey into the world, already carrying within them the code of an entire people. And I understood that to truly become part of this world one must be born Greek. This was not something one acquired. It was absorbed with a mother's milk. It was inherited by birthright. And despite how deeply I loved this country, despite the connection I felt to this land, I discovered—to my own surprise—not the slightest trace of resentment at my inability to become one of them. It was enough simply to be here. To witness. To be someone who sees, loves, and appreciates. And perhaps someone capable of preserving these moments as memories within her creations.

    Soon I found myself exactly where the entire village seemed to be converging. The market greeted me before I even saw it. First came a wave of aromas—herbs and spices. Bitter wild thyme, pungent basil and mountain tea carrying faint notes of incense, almost ecclesiastical in character. Then came the freshness of citrus: oranges, lemons, grapefruits softened by hints of meadow honey. The scents, colors, voices, rustling bags, and clinking coins swept me into the market's whirlpool.

A few steps later I realized I had already been pulled into its very center. The vendors called out brightly and loudly, competing for customers. Yet one of them stood out unmistakably from the chorus. Behind a fruit stall stood a striking moustached man with a powerful, almost operatic bass voice. Twirling his thick black moustache, he proudly lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and sang out repeatedly:

"Φράουλα μέλι, μήλα μέλι!" ("Strawberries like honey, apples like honey!") 

His voice rolled across the market square, lingering dramatically on the "ε" in μέλι. It was both inviting and intimidating. The sort of voice that made walking past without buying something feel almost like an act of rebellion.

My attention, however, was immediately captured by the olives. Glossy and rich with oil; black, green, stuffed, cured. Rows upon rows stretched before me like endless olive groves. Seeing me approach, the vendor—a young, tall, slender Greek man with an extraordinarily long neck—offered a warm smile. A spark of genuine curiosity flickered in his dark eyes.

"Best olives in the world," he declared confidently in English, fixing me with an unwavering gaze.

I stopped and smiled politely while examining the selection. At once he bent toward me like a giraffe lowering its head, making me feel tiny by comparison. Squinting slightly, he asked,

"Which one do you prefer?"

I considered the options for a moment and then pointed to the wrinkled black olives.

"Βάλτε μου 300 γραμμάρια παρακαλώ." ("Three hundred grams, please.")

The moment he heard my Greek, he threw his head back in delight so enthusiastically that he nearly struck the market canopy.

"Αααχ!" "Μιλάς Ελληνικά;" ("You speak Greek?") "Bravo! Bravo!"

He seemed genuinely thrilled, almost childishly amazed, as though hearing a foreigner speak Greek was a small miracle.

"Τώρα, τώρα..." ("Right away, right away...")

He muttered while hurriedly scooping olives into a paper bag with surprising awkwardness, as though his long limbs were not entirely under his control.

Then he took a second bag and filled it with an equal amount of green olives stuffed with red peppers.

"Here you are," he said, handing me both bags.

"These are the black olives you chose. And these are a gift from me. They're delicious."

Accepting the bags, I looked at him for a moment and smiled. I wanted him to feel my sincere gratitude. He smiled back.

"Να πας με το καλό." ("Go with goodness.")

In such simple moments, amid the noise of the market and the fragrance of spices, something greater would suddenly reveal itself— that uniquely human warmth which requires no translation.

   The vibrant colors and swirling aromas made it impossible to focus on any one thing. Everything beckoned. Everything called to me. I wanted to taste everything and carry home at least a small piece of every stall, each one offering the generous gifts of Greek nature like an opened treasure chest. 

   I bought sun-ripened fruits and vegetables, fresh herbs, fragrant honey. After I stopped at a dairy stand and couldn't resist purchasing homemade sheep's milk feta and thick, velvety yogurt. At a stall selling live herbs, my hands seemed to move of their own accord toward the small pots of mint, thyme, and basil seedlings. I chose several, already imagining them growing in my yard and filling my mornings with freshness. My backpack grew heavier by the minute. As I struggled to wedge the pots into the remaining side pockets, I found myself seriously considering the wisdom of acquiring one of those shopping trolleys so beloved by local housewives if visits to the market were to become a regular habit.

    Meanwhile, the sky continued to darken. The first scattered raindrops struck the ground. The vendors immediately sprang into action. Canvas rustled as they tightened and secured their awnings, shouting to one another across the rows of stalls:

"Θα βρέξει! Θα βρέξει σήμερα!" ("It will rain! It will definitely rain today!")

As if teasing them, the clouds lazily released a few more drops of rain, and then, a moment later, everything fell silent again.

   I continued on. The rows of market tents that had stood shoulder to shoulder suddenly began to thin. The wave of sweet aromas—fruit, honey, and herbs—seemed to stumble against an invisible barrier. Another scent replaced it: dense, salty, rich with iodine—the scent of the sea. A little farther away I noticed stalls selling fresh fish. In the heavy, humid air, the smell seemed thick and almost tangible. Instantly I felt the fruity-spiced intoxication that had enveloped me only moments before dissolve, giving way to entirely different sensations.

Before me stretched an assortment of seafood freshly caught from the clear waters of the Mediterranean: supple octopuses with muscular tentacles curled neatly upon trays; pale gray squid and cuttlefish glistening with moisture; spiny scorpionfish, their mouths agape, staring at me with bulging eyes frozen in eternal surprise. I stopped at one of the stalls and imagined that only hours ago these creatures had been living their own lives, swimming through ultramarine depths where another kind of silence reigns—a silence almost sacred. And now they were here. Amid the noise of the market, the voices, laughter, and clinking coins, they lay motionless upon melting ice that slowly dripped together with cloudy fish juices into buckets beneath the tables.

   The marine scent was peculiar. At once repellent and alluring. The smell of raw food. There was something damp and primordial in it—the very essence of life before it had been touched by fire or spices. There was something almost intimate in that duality. It reminded me of the scent of perspiration on a beloved man during a hot summer day—something that under other circumstances might repel you, yet somehow makes you want to move closer.

   I was still standing there, absorbed by the ambiguity of my feelings, when a bright voice suddenly called out to me. It sounded familiar. I turned, searching for its source among the crowd, and soon found it. Peering over the heads of people gathered near the neighboring stalls was Christos—Leonidas's friend and, as I had come to understand, the object of Victoria's rather turbulent new romance. He waved energetically, as though afraid I might disappear into the human current flowing through the market. Our eyes met. I smiled.

"Nicole! Come here! Over here!" he shouted above the market noise.

Threading my way through the crowd, I approached his stall. Fresh fish lay displayed before him, and he was simultaneously talking to customers, weighing purchases, and cleaning fish with remarkable ease. His movements were quick, precise, practiced to perfection—as though he had been born knowing how to do it.

"Well, there you are at last!" he grinned, throwing me a quick glance. "I thought you were going to walk right past without recognizing me. First time here? Mostly locals come to this market. Tourists rarely find their way here."

"Yes, my first time," I nodded. "Leonidas's aunt recommended it."

"Ah! Nona!" he exclaimed immediately. "You know her too?"

Then he pulled his rubber gloves nearly to his elbows with a sharp snap and announced with businesslike determination:

"Right then, Nicole. Take a look and tell me what you want. I'm not letting you leave here without a proper lunch."

I laughed despite myself. Adjusting the straps of my backpack, I gave it a little bounce to demonstrate its considerable weight.

"Christo, I'm very grateful, but I think I've already bought half the local harvest today." I smiled apologetically and pulled an exaggerated face of mock despair. I didn't want to burden him, especially since a queue had already formed behind me. The most impatient customers were already shouting questions about freshness and prices, while others stretched forward holding money in their hands.

I was just about to say goodbye—fully aware that under no circumstances would he allow me to pay—when Christos cut me off.

"Nicole, I'll put the fish in a separate bag. You'll carry it in your hand," he said quickly. "Don't worry. I won't give you an entire tuna." He winked and burst out laughing.

There was such effortless good humor in that laughter that arguing seemed utterly pointless. Grabbing a crisp paper bag, he stepped out from behind the counter, expertly parted the crowd with his shoulder, and positioned himself before the trays.

"Look," he began. "This is bakaliaros. Pure white meat, almost no bones. Best simply fried in olive oil until crispy." He spoke with enthusiasm, as though sharing an important secret.

"And this is koutsomoura," he continued, lifting a small coral-colored fish. "Don't let the size fool you. It's delicious and very healthy. See that color? That's iodine. You'll lick your fingers afterward."

For a moment he paused, biting his lip thoughtfully.

"Hmmm... what else..."Then his face brightened.

"Of course! Shrimp! Do you like shrimp?"

The question was tossed casually over his shoulder as he peered into a nearly empty tray. Without waiting for my answer, he turned and headed toward the neighboring stall.

"Panayotiiii!" he called melodically. "Give me some shrimp. I've run out."

I followed him with my eyes.

Only then did I notice his unusual walk. As he moved, his entire body swayed gently from side to side, as though he were still balancing on the deck of a fishing boat battling seven-meter waves. The sea lingered in his movements. You could immediately tell that he spent far more of his life out on the water than on land. From a distance one might easily mistake Christos for a local drunkard who had enjoyed one glass too many. But I knew better. He was one of those rare people who inspired trust from the very first moment. Open, straightforward, entirely free of cunning or pretense. What surprised me most, however, was that I had never noticed this distinctive gait when we met at the bar with Victoria. It was obvious why. That evening all my attention had been fixed on a single person - Leonidas. I had been completely swept into the whirlpool of his charm. Melting beneath his gaze. Blushing whenever he looked at me. Lost in the temptation of moving closer and the aching desire to touch him.

"Nicole!" Christos's voice suddenly pulled me back from my memories.

"A couple more squid," he announced slightly out of breath, as though placing the final stroke on a finished painting.

Within seconds he cleaned the fish, wrapped everything neatly, and handed me the bag.

"There! Done!" he declared proudly.

Silver scales glittered on his gloves. Tiny remnants of fish entrails clung stubbornly between his fingers. Then, quite unexpectedly, he stepped toward me and stretched out his arms as though preparing to embrace me. I froze instinctively, nearly taking a step backward. He burst out laughing.

"Ah, I'm joking, Nicole. No hugging. At least not right now."

Realizing it was a sort of fisherman's joke, I exhaled with relief. We both laughed.

"Ah-ha! I caught that look of fear in your eyes," he said with another wink.

"To be honest," I replied, smiling, "I'd prefer the smell of fish to remain in the frying pan rather than on my clothes."

He laughed loudly and nodded approvingly.

Throughout the entire conversation I had secretly expected him to mention Leonidas. To tell me where he was. What he was doing. Anything at all. But he said nothing. Not about Leonidas. Not about Victoria. Instead, he simply showered me with gifts from the sea—generously, the Greek way—and we parted.

   To reach the waterfront from the market, one could circle around the central square and turn into a narrow shaded lane winding between old stone houses. Loaded down with purchases, a heavy backpack on my shoulders and a bag of seafood in my hand, I slowly made my way toward the car. I had taken only a few steps toward the quiet side street when something caught my eye. A sudden flash of vivid scarlet. The color of blood. The color of life itself. Bursting triumphantly through the lifeless grayness of the gloomy day. I stopped.

Slowly turned my head. And found myself staring at a scene of extraordinary beauty. Dozens upon dozens of crimson roses in pots stood so closely together that they formed what appeared to be a single living carpet woven from velvety petals. Behind that scarlet sea, almost hidden from view, sat an elderly flower seller. Only her head was visible above the roses.

She noticed me and smiled, gently lowering her chin in greeting. For several seconds I remained rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of color that had washed over me and made me forget entirely where I had been going. Then I walked toward the flowers, set the fish bag on the pavement, and lowered my heavy backpack to the ground with relief. An invisible cloud of fragrance hovered above the roses—so rich and dense that it felt almost tangible. It was inseparable from the flowers themselves, just as sunlight is inseparable from the sun.

Looking around, I asked the woman,

"Do you sell only roses?" I glanced over the display. "Nothing but roses? No other flowers at all?"

Hearing my question, she smiled again. This time differently. Leaning on her knees, she slowly rose from her chair. Every step seemed to require effort. When she reached me, she extended a hand toward one of the blossoms and gently touched the velvet petals of a half-open bud. Her hands were old. Time had woven a fine web of wrinkles across their dry skin.

"Only roses..." she repeated softly, almost in a whisper, shaking her head. Something mysterious entered her expression.

Her age-clouded eyes grew distant, as though her thoughts had wandered somewhere very far away—perhaps into the past, or perhaps into a place where time no longer mattered.

"Roses, my girl," she said gently, "are not merely flowers." She leaned slightly closer and lowered her voice.

"There is a special power in them. A mystery beyond understanding." Her fingers still rested upon the petals. "Look at them and tell me—do they truly leave you indifferent?"

I looked again at the scarlet sea before us.

"To be honest... they affect me somehow."

She nodded confidently, like someone who had known the answer all along.

"Scarlet roses always affect people. They peer into the most hidden corners of the soul."

She paused.

"And sometimes they even speak to you." She nodded firmly, as though confirming the truth of her own words.

I looked at her in surprise.

"They speak?"

"Oh yes," she replied with a knowing smile. "They speak. But to hear them, you must first quiet your restless mind."

"And what do they say?" I asked with the hint of a smile, only to realize immediately that my amusement bordered on rudeness. I felt embarrassed.

But she took no offense. She merely shook her head gently.

"Ah, my dear... each person hears something different." Then she added:

"I'll tell you this. Roses keep the secrets of souls. The souls of those who once lived upon this land."

I fell silent.

"The ancient Greeks believed," she continued, "that the rose was a symbol of eternity.

Its fading and blooming again each spring represented the rebirth of souls." She spoke slowly, turning her words over like beads in a rosary.

"In earlier times entire rose gardens were planted around tombs. People believed that as long as the roses bloomed, the memory of the deceased remained alive and their soul rested beneath the protection of the gods."

For a moment she closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrance.

"And their scent drives away darkness and comforts the soul of the departed, helping it forget earthly suffering... earthly suffering..." she repeated softly.

Then suddenly she reached for my hands and enclosed one of my palms within hers. Warm. Dry. Gentle.

Holding my gaze, she tilted her head slightly and said,

"Choose one, my girl. Take your time. Look closely. Listen. Choose the one that speaks to you."

For a moment I thought her words sounded almost mad. Perhaps the old woman was not entirely well. Perhaps I was wasting my time listening to fairy tales.And yet there was something about her. A depth. A wisdom. A sense that she knew something not yet available to me. Whether to avoid disappointing her or because of something else entirely, I nodded and began to study the roses carefully.

My gaze drifted from one bush to another until it stopped at a plant standing quietly in the corner. Almost unnoticed. Its buds had not yet opened. Tight and full, they still guarded their fragrance within themselves like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. Something inside me responded. A faint inner stirring. Could the old woman really have been right? Had a rose spoken to me? The thought felt strange. Yet it lingered.

"That one," I said at last, pointing to the bush. "It has only just begun to bloom. There is the energy of a beginning in it. Its finest flowering still lies ahead."