Sweet Figs

I had probably one of the best travel experiences of my life today. Paul and I took the 6.5 mile path from Fira to Oia this morning (by my haggard look and the sweaty, smelly state of my dress you woulda thought it was 25 miles across the Sahara Desert). About half way through we came to a natural breakpoint at a tiny Greek Orthodox Church. As Paul rested outside, I ventured into the tiny chapel only to be greeted by a lovely older gentleman taking me by the elbow to invite me in. He immediately drew my attention to the second picture. His words, “Mi familia 1 thousand 700.” As he said this he circled the room with his hand. He then pointed to the picture again, “Mi familia.” The pride he took in sharing that this simple, stunning church was built and cared for by his family for 1,700 years shone like light. And that the man in the glorious painting was his great, great, great x 1,000…… grandfather. He then invited Paul and me into his tiny apartment behind the church and looked to a bowl of beautiful figs on top of a small refrigerator. He gingerly and lovingly picked 6 of the finest, ripest figs he had and shared them with us. I left feeling blessed and so honored to have met this beautiful soul. And by the way, the figs were some of the sweetest I’ve ever had.

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