Chapter 3.

  I have not experienced such all-consuming peace for a long time. Having lived a fairly successful life as an artist on the island for a whole year, I was never able to find my favorite places there.

  Probably every person has such a corner of nature, some places of power where you feel unity with the Universe. I was looking..., sometimes desperately trying to find something similar for myself on a rocky piece of land in the middle of the endless sea. I loved this island, its mountainous landscape and bustling tourist life in the summer season. As an artist with a logical mind, I realized that this place could become an inexhaustible source of ideas for my new paintings: long sandy beaches, almost always a choppy sea with huge picturesque waves similar to the ocean, ancient ports and fortresses, where in ancient times its inhabitants defended themselves from pirates, and, of course, labyrinths of extraordinary ancient streets.

  But what logic can there be when it comes to creativity? For some reason, my soul refused to respond to all this. I didn't feel inspired there. I began to notice that I almost didn’t say the words I’m used to, “how good!” which used to so often fall from my lips when I was walking around Halkidiki.

It seemed to me that all my sensations had fallen asleep, the passion with which I had always boldly walked through life had disappeared. All sensations were as lifeless as the bare southern shores of the island, the rocky landscape of which sometimes reminded me of lifeless Mars.

  And now here in Chalkidiki, I continued my journey, completely absorbed in my newly awakened feelings and felt alive again!

  Suddenly, in an instant, this whole perfect world suddenly shrank into one point and instantly disappeared.

A car abruptly flew out onto the road from the adjacent country path on the right. I reflexively quickly pressed the brakes. My heart suddenly sank down somewhere, as if someone had pushed me into an abyss.

A white BMW, without slowing down, drove onto my road at a dashing turn, drifting along the dusty gravel. Having barely had time to slow down in front of the reckless roadhog’s wheels, I stopped abruptly and only swiftly saw the driver’s face, throwing a glance at me as quick as a flash, and as if nothing had happened, he continued on his rapid path.

  - "Crazy!" I shouted after him, jumping on my tiptoes and slightly stretching my neck forward, as if this way my message would reach him faster.

  I didn’t notice how he disappeared from view. It was so fast, exactly like a bullet, the trajectory of which cannot be followed with the ordinary eye.

  For some time, I stood in the middle of the road and tried to recover from the sudden incident that so abruptly returned me from my ideal world to the imperfect human life. Realizing the whole situation, the feeling of sudden fear gradually gave way to anger.

  - “He didn’t even apologize,” I said, my voice still slightly trembling from shock.

  - “Is everyone really that ignorant in these parts?”

  After standing for a few more minutes in the middle of the road and inevitably replaying what happened in my head a couple of times, I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled with relief, letting go of this unpleasant situation along with the air.

  A slight perspiration appeared on my forehead. The sun was already rising higher and higher in the sky. Its rays, no longer as gentle as in the early morning, were felt well on my naturally pale skin.

  I adjusted my backpack, placing its straps more comfortably on my shoulders. I didn’t want anything to stop me from ruining such a wonderful start to the day. And without hesitation, I climbed back onto my bike and rode on.

  After a few hundred meters, I saw the tiled roofs of houses appear in the distance. I was approaching the village... The red roofs in the distance acquired a lilac tint due to the density of the air, but still contrasted so beautifully with the green bushes growing on both sides of the road. The glass windows of the houses reflected the rays of the sun and sparkled like beacons. I was looking forward to my future painting, thinking about what I wanted to depict today.

  The rocky road abruptly changed to an asphalt road and came out onto the roadway, which ran smoothly along the sea. It indicated the entrance to the settlement.

  No sooner had I entered the village than something inexplicable happened... A sharp oncoming gust of wind from nowhere seemed to fly into me, almost breaking my balance and taking my breath away. I staggered. Then, I immediately saw how several seagulls that had just been calmly walking along the edge of the sea took off and began to circle above me. They looked very worried. It was as if something had suddenly disturbed them. I looked around... it was unclear because there was nothing nearby that could excite them.

  - “How strange,” I thought.

  The seagulls made noise and circled right above my head, moving forward at exactly the same pace as my bicycle. Their piercing screams made me feel uneasy... and even creepy. I increased my speed. A few meters later, by their fading screams, I realized that the flock of these insane birds had been left behind.

  I looked around and realized that I was already leaving for the main embankment. The embankment, paved with paving stones, ran along the length of the sandy shore. Along the edge, which bordered the sea, grew several luxurious plane trees, under which the tables of traditional taverns were comfortably located. There, in the cool shade of fluffy green trees, local old people sat and sipped their morning coffee, leisurely discussing the latest news. As I drove past them, their eyes were fixed on me. They looked at me the way they look at a newcomer in an already established company. But I didn't care at all. Driving past taverns, I felt the aromas of cooking dishes coming from the kitchen, which hovered along the entire embankment and excited the appetite of passers-by.

  At first glance, I realized that tourists are not frequent guests in this village. But here’s what was remarkable... according to some obvious signs, I observed here echoes of the past heyday. The first thing that prompted me to this idea was a complex of tourist houses on the first line from the shore, built in the so-called monastic style that was fashionable in the past days: walls made of natural stone, small windows framed with platbands made of dark natural wood, the same wooden beams serve as support for the stone frame. It was beautiful and authentic. But they were abandoned long ago.

Judging by the unkemptness of the surrounding area, the courtyards overgrown with weeds, and the shutters covered with cobwebs, it was obvious that the houses had not been used for many years. However, as well as several abandoned shops and restaurants. Only their old advertising signs, faded in the merciless Greek sun, were reminders of the former bustling tourist life. Only local residents sat at the tables of the few taverns that still remained in existence.

  The embankment road suddenly stopped, running into a dead end, from where the pine forest began. I stopped and left my bike on the sidewalk, leaning it against a lamppost. I went down to the sea to look around and choose a subject for my future study.

  There was no one on the beach. The sea was no longer as calm as it had been early in the morning. Light waves rose, and on their glossy curves the sun scattered colorful, shining reflections. A little further away, right by the sea, there were several terracotta-colored residential houses. Some bushes grew near them.

  - “I can compose a study in such a way as to capture the shining waves, the semi-round edge of the sea, and these wonderful houses with bushes. A more square canvas is suitable here, and terracotta will fit perfectly into the color and complement the delicate turquoise of the sea.”

  After thinking a little and leaving no doubt, I decisively began to arrange a workplace for myself, which this beach has become today.

  Every time I start hastily putting my things away when I see a subject that inspires me. I immediately took off my backpack from my shoulders, took out a blanket from there, and spread it as close to the sea as possible. Then I took my pochade box, placed it directly on the blanket, and set the height and position of the canvas to a comfortable height for me. My movements were a little harsh from haste and impatience to start painting.

  While adjusting the canvas on the pochade box with one hand, I simultaneously put my other hand in the pocket of my backpack. I pulled out my brushes and put my hand back into my backpack to get the bottle of thinner. I didn’t feel it and lowered my hand deeper... Not finding it, I desperately grabbed the backpack with both hands and, opening its pocket wide, discovered that the bottle of diluent was not there...

  - “Sooo...” I said out loud, sighing in annoyance...

I was faced with a dilemma - to go home or come up with something...

  - “Hmm... I have no desire to return home without painting, having come all this way, but without a thinner I won’t be able to mix paints.”

Being a person who always looks for a way out of any difficult situation, I began to think about what I could do now.

  - “Mmm...so... The thinner for oil paints is 1/3 linseed oil, which means I could replace it with regular olive oil! Yes, let the paints take forever to dry, but at least I will proudly return home with my painting trophy.”

After these thoughts, the way out of this situation was obvious! 

  - "I'll go to one of these taverns. Surely they'll have some olive oil in their kitchen for me."

  Leaving all my art tools on the beach, I immediately went with long steps to the nearest tavern.

  Approaching the tavern, I saw a woman who was no longer at all young, but very sweet-looking, serving dishes to visitors who were sitting at tables outside: a slightly plump figure, dark short curly hair like wire springs, probably wrapped in curlers before exiting, and very kind eyes the color of strong coffee, emphasized by slightly sloppy makeup, which clearly spoke of her blurred vision with age. She was like those hostesses, when you visit them you feel like you are at home with your mother. Her blue polka dot apron with lace trim around the edge also looked cute and very homey. Leaning forward slightly, she was heading towards one of the tables, holding in her hands a round tray with pastries of small crispy pies with cheese and bougatsa with cream, from which there was still heat.

I decisively ran up to her and immediately asked.

  - "Kalimera kyria! Sorry to interrupt you, but could you sell me some olive oil?"

The woman turned around, looked me straight in the eyes, and smiled widely. Her warm smile also made me smile back.

  - “My girl, do you see that door?” She nodded her head to the entrance to the covered hall of the tavern, on the sides of which stood two clay flowerpots with red begonias. “You need to go there and go into the kitchen; someone there will find some oil for you."

  -"Efkharisto!" I said.

  - "Go well, my love." she said.

  Having just arrived in Greece several years ago, I was very surprised that here it is considered a common courtesy to say to a stranger “my love, my boy or my doll (and the latter does not mean that you are soulless, but that you are very beautiful).” Every time I heard such words addressed to me, I was pleased, and it didn’t matter how sincere they were. Such politeness always involuntarily won my favor.

  Of course, I still haven’t learned such sweet simplicity myself. I always started conversations with strangers with a serious, even tense expression on my face, peering at them to first determine who I was dealing with. And only then suddenly I remembered that, as is customary here, I should first smile.

  Childhood spent in a small northern town dictated certain manners and seemed to sew its own habits under the crust of my head, which could only be gotten rid of with a very strong desire and painstaking work on oneself.

I entered the tavern hall. It was a spacious room with several windows overlooking the sea. The hall was empty, as in good weather visitors preferred to sit at tables outside, enjoying the sea breeze. After the bright sunlight, it seemed to me that the tavern was quite dark. There were several carved tables and chairs made of natural wood. Behind the bar, the wall was decorated with sturdy shelves with small oak barrels. Attached to them were brass plaques, darkened by time, with the names of local wine varieties, among which was the aromatic variety of white wine Malagousia, which almost disappeared in the 80s, but was miraculously restored by the efforts of one famous winemaker, Evangelos Geravasiliou from Chalkidiki. Also, a rich variety of Assyrtiko, which came to us from the island of Santorini, and an ancient variety of red Limnio with a delicate aroma of violets, strawberries, and herbs after rain.

  I can’t say that I have a great passion for wine, but local taste preferences have always helped me create a more complete picture of the area, and I enjoyed learning about them, discovering something new for myself every time.

  And then I discovered something that intrigued my observant eye. In the center of the hall, directly on the wall opposite the windows, a special place was allocated for a tall antique sideboard with glass doors, more reminiscent of a showcase.

There were ancient utensils there, apparently related to winemaking. On the bottom shelf, several glass cones made of translucent glass were neatly arranged in a row. The middle shelf displayed a wicker basket. Ripe bunches of grapes used to be collected in such baskets, and ancient wine bottles surrounded it like a round dance. The bottles were of an unusual shape with a narrow neck and a wide base of dark green glass. Along the edges lay some tools for pruning grape bunches, the names of which I don’t know. And there, on the very top shelf, this entire composition was headed by several old faded sienna-colored photographs depicting different subjects. But it was obvious that they were united by two things: this winemaking and a couple of people, a man and a woman, who were in all these photographs.

  One shot showed how this man carefully cuts a large handful of grapes, and this woman next to him, smiling, holds the same wicker basket. Another shot showed them taking wine samples, surrounded by a group of people and wine barrels. In another photo, the same couple, but at a more mature age, are simply standing against the backdrop of a golden sunset in the rays of the sun and smiling. And I completely forgot that the photographs are not in color. The scenes came to life in my imagination. I felt the aroma of almost black grapes from ripeness, as the sun shines through the bright green leaves of the vine. I was immersed in this world, as if I lived a moment of life with these people. God, how happy they looked in these photos! And how their eyes glow!

  I have already seen something similar in one local shop where they sell fresh fish. There, above the counter, hung an old framed photograph, maybe from the 40s. Some photographer captured fishermen dressed in extremely simple clothes with their catch in front of their well-worn shabby boat. And it was obvious that all they had was their boat and the boundless faith that tomorrow the capricious sea would again bring them its gifts. But how much immense happiness was in their shining eyes!

  And now... what has become of us now... when, having so much, we complain about life all the time...? When did we lose the ability to simply enjoy life?

  I stood at this showcase, which was more like a kind of memorial, and for a few minutes, I completely forgot about everything.

  The room was quiet. Only from somewhere in the depths a quiet Greek melody could be heard.

  At the end of the hall I saw an open door; from the aromas emanating from there it was obvious that the kitchen was there.

  With slightly hesitant steps, as if invading someone else’s space, I walked into the open door. There I saw the figure of a man. He stood at the stove, with his back to me, and poured wine from a bottle into some dish that was sizzling on a hot frying pan, and at the same time stirred it with his other hand, lifting the frying pan by the handle.

  He was wearing a lavender-colored sports T-shirt and dark blue knee-length shorts made of thick fabric. On top was an apron, the straps of which were tied somehow carelessly. It seemed that he was not dressed at all for the occasion, as if he were here by accident.

   The young man was strongly built. His elastic, tanned arms were clearly visible from under the short sleeves of his T-shirt. When he lifted the pan to stir the dish, the relief of his muscles became clearer. Then his legs caught my eye: Strong, powerful calves, like two large flounders, covered with tanned, glossy skin. Those with strong legs have always given me the impression of confident and imperturbable people, those who “stand firmly on the ground,” just as strong supporting columns support the entire house.

  He was not at all like those cooks who stand at the stove all their lives. But then I thought that I was thinking somehow stereotypically and it would not be worth making any hasty conclusions, as I sometimes do. 

  He didn't notice me and continued to cook, quietly humming the same tune that was playing on the radio. - "Σπασμένο καράβι να' μαι πέρα ​​βαθιά, έτσι να είναι..."

  - "Smells tasty!" I said loudly to get attention.

Hearing my words, the stranger fell silent. He lowered the frying pan onto the idle stove burner. He turned his head over his right shoulder and looked at me.

  And then something happened that I didn’t expect at all...

Olive-colored eyes looked at me carefully from under wide dark eyebrows.

The man standing at the stove was the same “Schumacher” that almost hit me and my bike on the road!

  - "Oh, is that you?" I said with a hint of contempt and took a slight step back to turn around and leave.

  -"Wait... I recognized you! You are the girl with the bicycle... Did you find me to punish me for what happened on the road?" he said with a slight smile on his face. There was no irony in his voice. He said it completely simply and somehow kindly.

  - "No, I just wanted to borrow some olive oil from you," I answered with a serious look. "The affable missus who serves customers outside told me to come here." Frankly, my words sounded a little arrogant, apparently to deliberately show him the resentment for what had happened in my voice. 

  - "Some oil?" he asked again.

  - “Yes, that’s right, regular olive oil.”

He looked at my face, which was already flushed from the midday sun.

  - “Undoubtedly, olive oil is good for the skin, but I would still advise you to use sunscreen,” he said.

  - “Oh, you completely misunderstood me!” I objected.

  - “The fact is that I need oil to dilute my oil paints. I’m painting a seascape here on the shore nearby. But by some completely ridiculous accident, I forgot the bottle of thinner at home, and I don’t want to come back at all.”

  - “So you are an artist...?” he asked in surprise.

  - “Yes, absolutely the real one.”

And again, notes of some kind of disdain did not want to leave my voice.

  - “Interesting...” he said at length and thoughtfully, looking ambiguously at me from head to toe, as if assessing how much of what I said could be true.

I didn't want to have a long conversation with this stranger. Moreover, I was in a hurry to start my sketch and still have time to drop by the post office before it closed.

  - “So will you give me oil?” I asked, returning our conversation to the matter that brought me here.

He looked at me, smiled slightly and, without saying anything, reached for the shelf on which various strange bottles and all sorts of jars with some kind of spices were stored, like a wizard’s potions. He took out one of the small bottles filled with olive oil.

  - “Here you go,” he said and handed the bottle to me.

  -“What do I owe you for this?” I asked and took the oil.

  - “Just one smile. That will be quite enough.” After thinking for a second, he answered.

There was some special softness in his voice, and because of this, my previously impenetrable expression on my face also softened. I suddenly wanted to smile, but I barely restrained myself, trying to remain steadfast to the end.

  At that moment, a voice rang out loudly in the tavern hall: “Αγόρι μου!” (My boy). Then I realized that this was the right moment to turn around and leave.

  - “Well, I have to go. Thanks for the oil!” I said.

  - "Καλή έμπνευση!" (happy painting) he shouted as I was leaving.

At the door of the tavern, I met the Missis.

  - “Well, my girl, did you find the oil?

  - “Yes, thank you very much!” I answered and showed her the bottle that I was holding in my hands.

She continued:

  - “On Tuesdays, a mobile market comes to our village. Come! There you can buy not only the best oil, but also the most delicious local vegetables and fruits, herbs and even fresh fish. We ourselves buy everything for cooking only here.”

I noted the woman's kind advice. I like these mobile markets. They are called Laiki. And every day of the week they stop in a certain village and trade local products.

  - “I’ll definitely come! Thanks again!” I said goodbye and returned to the beach.

  My art tools were obediently waiting for me on the shore. Having sat comfortably in front of the canvas in the lotus position, I poured a little oil into the oil can...

  Now I was absorbed in the process... The paints thinned with olive oil were not as viscous as usual. This gave my strokes a softness and they somehow flowed and connected to each other. I was immersed in my own world, where thoughts about the painting were intertwined with others that appeared as suddenly as they disappeared...

Read Chapter 4 ➔