Astinomia
“Passport please,” demands a policeman as he approaches my Jeep. We're at a roadside pullover near Kefalohori, Greece just a stone's throw over the Grammos mountains from Albania. In these parts, I can't remember a time I have NOT been asked to show my papers or open the trunk of my car.
He spreads his paperwork out on the back well of the police pick-up and I begin telling my story before he starts to ask questions. Photographer. Here many times for work. Staying at Naufsika’s taverna and pensione in Kefalohori.
Of course he knows Naufsika, her husband, children, cousins, uncles. Then I reach into the back of my Jeep, pull out a copy of my book, “Daily Bread: Stories from Rural Greece” and present it to him. He pages through the photos with interest—not his typical encounter doing roadside passport checks. He names the locals in the photos and says repeatedly, “poli oraio, poli oraio”—very beautiful. I believe he is truly enjoying taking a break from his routine border control duties.
“We’re having a coffee in Theodiklis,” he begins.
It’s just down the road on the National Highway. Perhaps an off-handed invitation to continue our friendly chat? Just then his colleague pulls in followed by a car busting with travelers. Duty calls.
“Keep the book,” I say and with a nod and a smile go on my way.