My Virtual Reading Room

Not Even Chickens by Robert Fulghum

      With all the recent seaside development, it is easy to
forget that Crete and Cretans are fundamentally about the mountains –
the steep places, the high and isolated villages that breed independent,
self-sufficient people who have always been a rule unto themselves. 
They still are.  The Mountain Cretans say they fear nothing and nobody,
and would look at God, Himself, with hat on and eyes open.  Thus they
look upon strangers with interest, not suspicion.

     One afternoon I parked my car and walked a narrow road that
connects several small villages along a high mountain ridge.  A voice
called out from the porch of a whitewashed house:

     “Ehla, ehlah, kahtheeseh!” (Come come, sit!)  An old man beckoned to me, pointing to the chair beside him.

      I went.  I sat.  On a small table were almonds, raisins,
olives, and a bottle of tsikoudia (tsee-koo-di-ah)  the Cretan
equivalent of white-lightning or grappa- the proffered sign of
hospitality and welcome to a Cretan home.  He was expecting company -and
anybody would do.