You awake to the irregular beat of a bamboo wind chime, blown as it is by the morning breeze picking up over the choppy sea. It’s too hot at this time of the year to keep the windows closed at night—ajar they beckon breeze. Getting up, you make it down the narrow wood staircase, the scent of fresh bread wafting on the salty air.
Pushing open the creaky old door, you are greeted by the greenery of the tangerine grove, the trees heavily laden with fruit, boughs bending under their burden. Haphazardly planted hundreds of years ago, the orchard has no order, no organisation, no optimisation of outlook. Narrow, heavily trodden dirt paths wind in and around the trees, and with extended hands, your fingertips traverse the tangerines hanging from their trees. The dry loamy landscape is fed by ancient cisterns, small oases sprinkle the surrounding hills. Further downhill—deeper into the verdant grove—a sweetness cuts the air, your nose speculating baklava from the bakery at the water’s edge. The sun seemingly struggles to infiltrate the orchard, the dense leaves of citrus providing respite from the heat. Soon though, the allure of baklava was too much, and you begin to meander further.
At the old stone wall, the tangerine grove terminated, supplanted by a web of narrow streets. Cramped cobbled paths continued to shield your skin from the sun—the tall houses, some several centuries old, acted like riverbanks to a stream of shadows. Several friends hands waved or welcomed, however sweetness of scent spurred you on, closer to the harbour, closer to the sole bakery in the village.
A worn oak beam greeted you at the threshold, and upon entering, the sugary smell cemented itself in your psyche—there would be nothing else until on the other side of the oak beam again. Zlatko looked up and smiled—his piercing eyes incongruent with his calm and caring character—and handed you a kite-shaped cut of the layered filo, honey and pistachios pouring out onto the plain plate. Nodding, you stepped back into the cool claustrophobic corridors of cobbles, and made your way towards the water. Sitting and watching the tide lap languidly always made food take better.
A low stone wall—warmed from a morning under the sun—welcomed you. The headlands and rest of the island looked almost whitewashed in comparison to the vivid lapis lazuli of the ocean stretched out before you. CRŌNCH. The filo snapped in jagged unpredictable formations under your bite, the pistachios added their own texture after breaking apart. The honey came flooding in afterwards with tangy tangerine jam—a local delicacy made right here on the island, it’s stickiness sought to flow between your teeth. The wind was more noticeable here, unimpeded by trees and terraces. Cool on your cheeks, it seemed to also chill your mouthful of pastry.
This was it—all there was, all there needed to be. Taste. Experience. Presence. Breath. You are free from anything that is not the now.
