It was a trip 22 years in the making. For my entire life, I’d heard stories from my mom, aunts, and uncles about Greece, the land that raised my forbearers. My family hails from Ikaria, a small and often overlooked island in the eastern Aegean Sea that has gained a celebrity status of sorts in recent years for being declared one of the world’s Blue Zones— a place where a comparatively large proportion of the population lives to be over 100 years old. I grew up hearing tale after tale of beautiful beaches, delectable dinners, and, by every estimation, paradise on Earth. After years of deliberation, my parents finally made the decision to book a three-week trip to visit the country. Years of anticipation were about to finally come to a head.
After a voyage from the San Francisco Bay Area that lasted over 24 hours, including a stop in Zurich and an overnight stay in Athens, the small, twin-engine prop plane that carried my parents and me over the Greek isles touched down on a small landing strip flanked by the sea. Arriving on Ikaria brought about an unexpected emotional turbulence. Initially, I felt an immediate calm wash over my body—like all the troubles of the world were suddenly insignificant. As we were leaving the airport, I was awestruck by the beauty of the place: a rock bursting out of the sea with greenery creeping out of every crevice. Ocean views and neighboring islands peeking above the horizon made me feel like I was in a postcard. I never imagined a place like that was possible.
Reaching the village we stayed in for the duration of our trip required an additional hour of travel. To reach it as quickly as possible, we cut through the island over a mountain pass that defied the stereotype of Greek islands being barren and hot—greenery threatened to encompass the road, and a dense fog bank sat at higher altitudes as we climbed. On the way, we encountered small villages and single houses with limited amenities and sparse satellite dishes connecting them with the outside world. “Off the grid” took on a whole new meaning.
During my first few days on the island, I was smacked in the face with the biggest culture shock I had ever encountered. The contrast between the rapid-fire lifestyle of Silicon Valley that I grew up in and island life could not have been starker. At first glance, for a newcomer and completely inexperienced international traveler, local living seemed to amount to drinking coffee, sitting and enjoying the view, and relaxing all day. I spent the first few days bored out of my mind, pining for the luxuries afforded to me back in the United States, and vowing never to come back. Eventually, however, I fell in love with the island.
The average day for an American transplant on the island was not very eventful. The majority of one’s time could be spent mulling over the aforementioned cup of coffee before a seascape that is barely possible to believe even when you’re right in front of it. Most days consisted of visiting different villages and exploring the Ikarian wilderness, which was the biggest surprise for me personally—I had no idea Greek islands could be so forested—and ended with a sacramental spread of the freshest homemade Greek cuisine I had ever had. And the wine; can’t forget the wine—which was delicious and seemed to never stop flowing.
I returned to Ikaria twice after that first visit and fell in love with it more and more each time, almost to the point where it feels like my home. It took some adjustment, but as I spent more time there, I couldn’t help but feeling that somehow, some way, I belong there. It could be that I just got used to the laid-back, simple, and communal life that Ikarians lead—which by the way, provides a much-needed decompression I recommend to everyone. But it could also be that when I am there, I’m walking on the exact same land that my ancestors did for hundreds of years before me, and because of that I cannot help but feel a little bit of the supernatural permeating out of the dirt.
Being effectively trapped in my house for the last four months has left me pining for another voyage to Ikaria to spend my days on the water reading books, drinking a freddo cappuccino, and revisiting my roots.
Ryan Love was born and raised in a woefully average town called South San Francisco, California. Currently, he can be found either with his nose in a book at a local coffee shop, playing his guitar in spectacularly semi-intermediate fashion, podcasting with his friends, or hunched over his laptop with the preposterous resolve of writing the next Great American Novel. He also wrote his own bio entirely in the third person. To read more of his work, visit him at https://www.ryterlove.com/.