MEMORIES OF A GREEK TAVERNA

Years ago, when I was riding through Greece, I found a tiny Taverna in the hills above Salonika.

I found this taverna through chance, having decided to ride higher and higher outside the city and into the mountains to the north. The streets became narrow, and suddenly turned to cobblestone. I rode higher. The hum of my Triumph 650 resonated off the walls of the clustered buildings that hemmed me closer and closer.

I was hungry. I was broke. I wanted to keep riding late into the night, having earlier found a YMCA where I could bunk for a Dollar a night.

Each corner turned sharper than the former until I noticed a lighted window ahead. It was a tavern with wonderful food smells emanating into the night air. I stopped and walked in.

Greek Tavernas are like Black Holes. They bring everything and everyone in. They hold mysteries no one can imagine. They are filled with love, family, dancing and mirth.

I learned that night just how precious strangers can be: for they are no longer strangers as of the moment you say "Hello." Indeed, the people within become like family in just a few hours.

There is much more to tell of that night. But for now I must head to bed as a new adventure calls in the morning. The rains have abated, and this particular fellow is ready for another ride. Till then, enjoy some Creta Red and roast shoulder of lamb. The Greeks know how to live well. So do you. And so do I.