*that's garlic in the back of that truck*

In 1990 I traveled to Greece with a college group. It was, in many ways, a problematic trip. In many others it was sensational. Several years ago, Neel had a conference that took place in the Peloponnese, outside of Athens, and we all went back. Callum was eight.

Our first night in Athens, we traveled with the group from Neel's meeting to a restaurant at the base of the Acropolis for dinner. It was early evening, that time of night just before twilight begins to fall, not quite the golden hour, but close. Still late afternoon, really. As our busses pulled to a stop so that we could get out and make our walk to the restaurant, I looked up and suddenly there it was.

The Parthenon really does glow in the late afternoon light, you know.

I burst into tears. It felt like coming home.

It was an amazing trip. When we finished Neel's meeting, which was an incredible experience in itself, the three of us took ourselves off for some exploring on our own. I planned a trip that mimicked somewhat the travels I'd made many years ago. I wanted Callum to see the Palace at Knossos in Crete (we took an overnight ferry to get there, and that was pretty awesomesauce), and I wanted him to see the caldera at the volcanic island of Santorini. We did it all.

It was really, really hard to let Neel go off to Greece on his own this summer.

Honestly, I'm not completely sure how to talk about what this place means to me. How do you find the words to describe a place that feels like home to your soul? Sometimes I'm a little embarrassed saying it, thinking people think I love tourist traps (Santorini) or I'm a hard-partier (Mykonos). And while I love the beach and the ocean, I'm not really a beach bum either.

Instead, it's the light. A skim of gold across azure water. It's the roar of a crowd of men gathered around a tiny, tinny television to watch a local football match. It's the steadied measured click of worry beads in worn hands. It's the hearty "Yia sou!" ("Hi!") from everyone you pass. It's old women sitting and watching through the hot, slow afternoons. It's every apartment having a balcony. It's the smell of night blooming jasmine and the bright magenta burst of bougainvillaea against the sun bleached walls of white. It's bags of cherries at the market and glasses of Ouzo at the start of dinner. Olives and feta, and fish so fresh you swam with it just hours ago.

If I have dreams of dreams, the kind you know don't come true but dream anyway, it always has a house in Greece, with jasmine at the window so the smell drifts indoors. There's a spray of bougainvillea at the gate and scrap (at least!) of a view of the sea. I can pick lemons from the tree in my back yard and walk a winding path to town or the water.

I can't wait to go back.

Neel's been invited to another meeting. Countdown to Olympia: 243 days.

This is where we start, each week. At 61st and Oceanfront. Sometimes one of us arrives before the other and waits by the water, but lately we've been pulling in one right after the other and parking and walking down together. One week she brings the coffee, one week I do.

Usually we walk a good distance and then stop and sit on the sand a bit before walking some more. The day I took these pictures, I had a migraine and I'd texted to ask if we could sit instead of walk. So we brought our chairs. It's all good.

Most often, we have the wide expanse of sand all to ourselves. Can you believe that? We'll see three, maybe five people the whole time we're there. We generally see more dogs. The dogs always come up to say hello to me.

Each week is different. Some days the water is gray and white-tipped, the waves choppy. Other days it's serene and glassy blue.

Always there are dolphin. Always. This last time, when the water was still and the air so clear that the horizon stretched for miles further than we normally seem to see, there was a never ending train of dolphin trailing in front of us. Tail-slapping, leaping, slowly curling their way up and down the coastline. You get so you expect to see them, and still, it's a surprise and a delight.

To be honest, as much as I love the walking, my favorite is when we sit. The ocean changes so much in our short time on the sand. Crabs scuttle nearby and the tide creeps ever closer. The waves are constantly changing, sometimes a gentle "bloop" onto the sand and sometimes, suddenly, huge and crashing. You don't notice this as much when you walk alongside. It's a different union with the water and the shore when you're moving.

And when we go, I hate to leave. Even knowing we'll be back, I hate to leave. We never run out of things to chat about; the stories of our work, and our families, and our kids (especially our kids) change from week to week.

There's a metaphor in there, I'm sure.

this place {life}

wednesday walk {life}