All across Greece, every village has a taverna where someone’s Mama is making spitiko fagito– home-cooking. And like my taverna-owning friends, Alexandra in Aristi and Naufsika in Kefalohori, the mamas await all who wish to feast, with open arms and warm hearts.

How spoiled I have become after 10 years of road trips from Messolonghi to Aristi to Gutheio, Pelopponesos. How unique to Greek culture this is but I did not know until I traveled in Bulgaria, Romania, and the Balkans. The Greeks know how to do tourism and they have some practice beginning in the 70s and 80s when word spread about how special were the beaches, how tasty the food, how unique the culture with many traditions still preserved. I have experienced moments of generousity in other countries: the old Bulgarian woman dressed in ballooning trousers and headscarf, living just over the border from Komotini, Greece who offered me a glass of warm milk, fresh from her cow. The people of Suceava, Romania who called to me over their fence as I passed by inviting me in for coffee and cookies. But these are single incidents. Perhaps the Soviet arm of oppression and mistrust has left a mark on the people of the Balkan countries. The Soviet feel lives on—excessive cigarette smoking, block housing, slight mistrust of strangers, tentative hospitality, fear of cameras. Maybe they too, in time, will foster a love for strangers.