Osmosis

Friday evening 4pm, early May 2010. The ferry from the southwest coast of France has reached Ile d’Yeu and we’re the last ones to get in. We stroll through the mainland of this tiny island on the Atlantic coast, taking note of the whitewashed houses all around that immediately hit a soft spot.

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July 2023

Our French-Belgian host has invited us to his summer house for a long weekend away from school. 

I don’t know much about the composition of the group but as soon as I settle, I find myself in the kitchen looking for something to nibble. A quiet guy from Mexico is manning the fort tending to some peeled tomatoes and lobster tails on the stove, while the rest of the group are cracking open some humongous rock oysters. He’s a warm hearted chap, always available for a quick banter around food so I indulge and start chatting about the menu tonight. He’s wearing glasses, a berette and looks very much consumed with his cooking. “I’m making Lobster Thermidor” he says, which is a first for me so I’m kind of reserved. 

A couple of hours later dinner’s ready and around 10 of us are seating in a big dining table in the kitchen sharing a delicious and silk-textured delicacy, together with fine wine and tales of everyday life. As I discover new tastes and enjoy an amazing dinner, we chat on different cuisines and ways of the world. The Mexican pours a glass of refined tequila and I immediately jump to the opportunity to try. It’s remarkable how breaking bread with people can open up to new tastes, new horizons and new friendships. 

And slowly but surely, a certain kind of osmosis is taking place as travellers submerge into the real essence of this destination - all becoming one. 

On a different trip, this time during summer and in Paros a similar crowd has gathered from different places of the world. It’s again about 10 of us, each with different level of acquaintance with Greece and some of who are traveling to my home country for the inaugural time. 

The following day, the Mexican is a bit more daring so he wants to go to the local butcher to peruse his produce. He’s in search of something chunky for the barbecue as we plan a dinner night in. I take the opportunity to get this on camera and take him towards Parikia, the island’s main port and local commerce. We enter this tiny, immaculate store and he immediately greets the Parian butcher by his name - in Greek! They discuss the various aspects of produce whilst also getting really detailed on into cooking tips. He seems to now understand much more about how Greeks tend to their cooking and tries to reciprocate by offering us a peek into how they do stuff back in Mexico.

Back to the present day and I’m having lunch in one of the pantry shops in Tinos. Tucked away in the narrow alleys of a rural village, this tiny establishment has been here for years with its fate getting passed on from generation to the next. The son, a talkative middle-aged guy, comes to my table to take the order while the dad, a calm 75 year old chap, sits patiently at the back inside the store. I order today’s special and try to pick their brain on how the summer season has been faring so far. 

One thing leads to the next and we find ourselves unwinding the past of this place, the village and of Tinos. And in a similar way to how people experience, get to know and appreciate friends and a foreign culture, I also witness my own osmosis to this sacred place - slowly taking it all in and becoming one.