After spending a week in the land of order and efficiency (I adore you Germany, never change), the Greek islands came as quite a surprise. Life is a lot less strict on Paros and Naxos. Laws are merely suggestions—especially, I gather, at the end of the season when we were there, when tourism dollars are drying up and there’s no one else around for you to injure or offend with your rule-breaking. Go where you want, see what you want, do what you want. No one cares.
Need to rent a car but don’t have the required international license? No one cares. In fact, the rental company will likely deliver it right to your guest house—for free! All they ask is that you pay the 25€-per-day fee in cash, real above-board like. (We referred to our little white Renault as “Niko’s car.” Niko was out of town, our story went, and had loaned his car to the rental company to make a few extra bucks. It was full of dust and often struggled to turn over, but it got us to some hillside villages, rugged cliffs, and scenic outlooks that we wouldn’t have seen without it. Thanks, Niko!)
Want to avoid the vertical inclines and sheer rock faces on your way to the top of Mount Zeus? No problem—just walk through the gently terraced farm instead. As long as you shut the gates behind you so the goats don’t escape, no one cares.
Spot a crystal-clear cove while you’re hiking and fancy a dip? Go right ahead—venture off the designated path, strip down to your skivvies, and hop in. You might scandalize a couple of elderly British hikers, but otherwise, no one cares.
In a hurry to get from your clifftop hotel to the seaside ruins you keep seeing from your window? Take the locals’ advice and stroll down the steep, rocky path at the end of the street. You know the one: It’s got a big sign in the middle of it warning people in three languages that it’s private property. No one cares.
Hungry for some authentic Greek fare? Perhaps a plate of moussaka, a dish of saganaki (fried cheese) with honey and sesame seeds, or a hefty slice of baklava? Better watch your step: Greece is swarming with cats, and they saunter into tavernas and camp out under tables as if they were paying customers. No one cares.
(Allow me to take a moment here to admit a shameful truth. Before we went to Greece, I associated the food with cucumbers, olives, parsley, and hunks of raw tomato—all things I’m not especially fond of. Sure, I like falafel, tzatziki, and hummus, but man cannot live on dip alone. I thought we were going to starve. Friends, I was so wrong. Greece served up some of the most decadent dishes of our trip so far. If you think you don’t care for Greek food, make a reservation at a restaurant that’s not a corner gyro joint and thank me later.)
For the best view of one of those famous Greek sunsets, hop over the stone wall behind your guest house, traipse through someone’s junkyard property past their howling dogs, veer off the road as soon as you see the chain link fence, and get as close to the edge of the cliffs as you can. No one cares.
Before we went to Greece, I was pretty indifferent to it. But after spending nine laidback days in an island paradise, surrounded by cats and unencumbered by rules…yeah, I care now.
What’s the first thing you think of when I say Colombia? Cocaine? Pablo Escobar? Narcos? FARC? Terrorism? That’s fair. But what if I told you everything you thought you knew about the country is wrong?