name was George, and I liked him right away because I knew that everything
he said was going to go directly into this story. It was our first night
on Folegandros. A mischievous, slightly rodentlike man with a keen smile
and a mustache, George looked us over. What, he wanted to know, did we
make of Folegandros, this remote and humble outpost of the Cyclades?
We told him the truth—that we'd just come in on a boat
from Santorini and hadn't made much of it yet. We knew we were somewhere
far away, just not quite sure where. "Ahhh," he said, and then
directed at us such a sustained nodding grin that I began to worry he
might not know any more words in English. But it was our innocence that
made him smile.
Finally he declared, "I know that you know that Santorini is an
island famous for its exceptional natural beauty. Santorini is... "—he
enunciated with flair, holding each word in his mouth like a candy before
letting it out—"Santorini is for professional photographers.
But Folegandros is for amateur lovers."