Anjie Jolie

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The air of a Greek island is not much different than the air of any other region of the world. In its most basic essence it is, too, chiefly composed of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, and carbon dioxide. Such a chemical of air can be found in many dark and bright corners of the earth.

And yet the air contains something to yearn for. It wields a flavor that arrests the senses, a tang of sun-drenched soil and foam-flecked sea that zings from your nostrils to your brain and unleashes a dose of oxytocin. The aromas of virgin woods and naked rocks drive the mind wild with their freshness and their cleanness—they trick a man to believe that anything is possible, that everything has potential.

The magic of a Greek island satiates your soul via all the senses. It is pocketed in the sounds of children’s laughter, in the clatter of drunken happy brawls. It is carried in the mandolin music thrumming sensually from a generations-old cassette tape in the colorful souvenir shops where old smiling ladies and rosy-cheeked young women beam at your attention. It is in the taste of a nectar-sweet loukouma, in the tender bites of lemon-and-oregano-swathed lamb, in the fizz of foreign wine-misted lips as they swirl around your probing tongue. You’ll feel it in the flapping of the blue-white flag strapped to the ferry masts that rear above the sparkling harbor, you’ll see in the brown-eyed winks and twisted mustaches of the passersby.

You won’t soon forget it. And you’ll never regret it.
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