Selling, selling goes on the world over and has gone on for all time. High up on Mixalaki, I can hear a hum of activity rising from the Village below. The sounds of commerce—the fishmonger shouting “Ela, gavros, sardelles!” luring housewives to his truck to purchase his beautiful fish. The gypsy vegetable man is making his rounds in his red pick-up truck: “domatis, kremidia.." I know that by now the bakery doors are flung wide open hoping for customers to snatch up the plump loaves of bread, the tasty koulourakia warm still from the oven. Doors of shops deep in the Village are gaping open inviting buyers to flock in. Spiros, the happy butcher is ready, his cold room stuffed with boxes of chickens, hanging carcasses of lamb, goat, and rabbit. Later, taverna owners will stand like sentries on the harbor front, menus in hand, crowing about the delicious foods to taste within. Just pick a table, his beckoning hand says—anywhere you like. Selling and waiting. Katerina stands before her motorcycle shop, praying that in spite of the torn up roads on Skopelos, tourists will choose her shiny motorbikes to rent for a ride to the beach, a day tour of Skopelos Island.