To die for

Some visitors from Northern Europe had arrived at MAICh this week, and looked a little lost. They were headed by a stout Greek bilingual male who seemed to need some help in finding a particular place on the campus, right at the moment I was passing along.

- Where are the stone houses? he asked me.

- They're just behind the Poseidon building, I said, pointing in the direction they wanted to go.

- Are you Greek? he asked me.

- Yes, I am.

- You don't sound Greek. I am never really aware of how accented my spoken Greek is.

- Well, I was born overseas but my parents were Greek.

- Overseas? Where exactly?

- New Zealand.

- New Zealand? It must be nice there.

- Yes, it is, but it's nice here too.

Just then, a young red-haired man who was leading the group with the stout Greek man came forward. I noticed how much the other group members were smiling. The day was sunny, not at all cold and only a light breeze was blowing.

The photo was taken at the celebration of the cutting of the Vasilopita.

- Yes, it certainly is nice here, he said, in near faultless, but highly accented Greek. That's why I live here too.

- You're not from here? I asked him.

- I'm from Sweden, and I've been here ten years, and I don't want to leave Crete, ever. I want to die here.

That man looked younger than me. I hope he lives a long enough time to enjoy Crete.

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