I stand at the top of a cliff looking over the Mediterranean Sea on the island of Agistri in Greece.
I’ve just hiked and “scrambled” (a new hiker’s term I learned for this experience — when the hill is too steep to walk normally, but not quite extreme enough to qualify as rock climbing) my way up a narrow, rocky path through the pine forest, with no map to guide me but the ocean on my left telling me I’m heading the right way.
I’ve reached my destination. Below me is a hidden beach nestled between the sheer cliffs, and sunbathing on it are roughly twenty or thirty naturists, also known as nudists.
An old, fully clothed man is sitting in a lawn chair a little way away from me on the rocks, and as I squint at the cliffs trying to spot a path down to the beach, he yells something in Greek and gestures for me to come over to where he is.
“Milate Anglika?” I ask as I approach; it means “Do you speak English?”
“No English,” he says, but gestures to his eyes indicating that he is going to show me something. I join him at the cliff edge and he points out a steep path around the rocky outcropping below us that leads to the shore.
“Efcharisto!” It means thank you, and I am so grateful I do prayer hands and bow my head too.
As I start to leave for the path, he calls after me and starts speaking in Greek again and pointing to his lower calves and then to my hiking shoes. I have no idea what this could mean, and I don’t know enough Greek to ask him, so I just pretend to understand and assume I’ll figure it out as I go.
Source: The Whit Online
Original publication 15 October 2019
Posted on NatCorn 23rd October 2019
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