A cracked electricity meter stands guard by every door, easily mistaken for a postbox. Take a few steps back, and every house will tell you its dilapidated story of life and neglect. Read the layers of stone, crumbling mortar, abandoned attempts at renovation, poisonous wild plants taking root in what used to be a family living room.

Sahara dust. Everyone’s coughing. Look far enough, and the powdered milk blurs all edges. There’s no horizon. You live inside a blue plastic lunchbox. 

Olive farmers. Three Greeks running a lone taverna overlooking a cliff with the most beautiful view that nobody will see because it’s too far away from anything Instagrammable. A retired cargo ship captain helps his wife run a restaurant with mami food, as she calls it.

“Mami?” she asks as I chew the first bite of grilled cheese.

“Yes,” I reply, surprised, though I’ve never had grilled cheese at home, but this local dish she made has the same wholesome quality as the wonderful kotlety my mother used to make on Sundays. Something about it that says home and gives comfort to the soul. 

The body can get sick from rest. Once you are away from everything, free of obligation, put your phone on silent, and resist the temptation to distract yourself from the overwhelming presence of your conscience.

You can see the new photo album HERE.

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Have a Think

Stories and photography for chronic overthinkers.

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