Lessons in language and life on the Greek island of Ikaria

Each tourist attraction becomes a cultural experience. We visit Theoskepasti — a tiny chapel tucked beneath a gigantic granite ledge. It’s decorated with icons and oil lamps, and houses the skulls and bones of old monks. We sit at a long wooden table under the pine trees while the elderly caretaker serves us Greek coffee and freshly made loukoumades — hot dough balls sprinkled with cinnamon and drizzled with honey. The young couple at the other end of the table shift down and strike up a conversation. They tell us that in ancient Greece, loukoumades were served to the winning athletes as “honey tokens.” They speak slowly and don’t seem to mind my limited Greek.

Ikaria may not be bursting with classical ruins, but it’s a walker’s paradise of hills, forests, gullies and gorges. Starting out on the Plateau of Raches about 1,640 feet above sea level, my classmates and I follow a dirt path toward Armenistis, a quiet fishing village west of Evdilos. Every step brings a dramatic change of scene — abandoned stone houses hidden among pine trees, followed by terraced mountainsides and then desertlike cacti and lunar landscapes. We stop at a gushing waterfall to rest and snack on local almonds and apricots. We end up at Livadi, one of the island’s most beautiful beaches, for a dip in crystal-clear waters.

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Napping and night life

My mother-in-law turns out to be right about the island’s quirky customs — the Ikarians are renowned for their odd timekeeping. I don’t need a watch here, because nobody’s in a hurry and there’s no pressure for punctuality. Everything happens in its own time.

It’s also acceptable to disappear for several hours in the afternoon for a siesta — everyone does it. This custom is taken to the extreme in the village of Christos Raches, where residents come to life after sunset and stores stay open well into the early-morning hours. Until recently, the baker left loaves of bread and an honesty box in the bakery so that he could snooze uninterrupted.

Napping turns out to be essential for me, too, when I discover that this sleepy island has a hopping night life.

There’s nothing like Ikaria’s panygiria, religious festivals that occur almost daily between May and October in villages across the island. These are exhilarating occasions where you leave your inhibitions at home and dance all night.

With other students from the language school, I loosen up for our first panygiri, in honor of two early physicians, Saints Cosmas and Damian. A local dance teacher named Kostas has come to lead the class. His eyes are gentle and his voice is soothing. He guides us through the steps of several circular dances, including the traditional Ikariotikos — a quick, graceful dance with light steps. At 10 p.m., we arrive in Karavostamo, a nearby village. People nod and smile as we make our way to a wooden table under the trees.

While I work my way through a communal meal of roasted goat meat, fried potatoes and salad, I notice a round-faced grandpa bouncing his granddaughter on his knee. A young couple in their 20s are smooching. The musicians are playing at a feverish pace, and people of all ages hold hands and swirl around, snaking through a second circle of dancers.

I knock back a few glasses of smoky red wine to unleash the unbridled dancer within. Soon I’m part of the dance circle, carried away by a dizzying rhythm as though under the intoxicating spell of Dionysus. I dance nonstop until 3 a.m.

Before turning in, I stop on the terrace for a lingering look at the Aegean below. I must leave this enchanted island, though I’m not ready to go. I came to learn a language and I’ve discovered a way of life. When I return home, I vow, I’ll make more time for the people who cross my path.

I look up at the starry sky above. And I make a wish.

Hestler is a freelance writer in New York.

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