Who is that man on the motor bike coming my way? It must be Adonis, husband of the vet Ourania. No. It’s the former boatman, Kosta, whose family ran the taverna at Glisteri Beach. And the woman at the ATM? Kary, the daughter of Yeorgos the
School is out and Skopelos town is filled with kids. "Ela, koretsia,” Come on, girls, a small one shrieks gesturing to her friends to follow. Off they go skipping and jumping down the Post Office road. Everywhere kids romp or ride their bikes; the
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
A wake like a smile, yes, some boats are like this, sending up a joyous spray of white as they slice through the blue sea. Turned up bow in the front and a happy rooster tail behind — oh what a joy to be on the open sea on a hot afternoon. The sea
I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for
All the years I traveled around rural Greece, I searched for stories that described the daily life. Tales of meeting and photographing farmers, shepherds and bakers unfolded. Stories too of bouzouki bar nights and looking for abandoned villages high
All summer long in 2018, the Roma camp on Skopelos Island was full of visitors. Every week another family arrived for a 7-10 day stay—aunts, uncles, cousins, tons of kids. Lots and lots of people I could photograph. But as the summer of 2019
Ring, ring. “Ela koukla mou.” Come, have a coffee, says Mitsos. New visitors have arrived at the campsite.A large group I’ve never seen before fills Mitsos’s “front door” of their basement home. A rotund gypsy, a xadelfos, cousin, surrounded by an
Ela, come in, says Evangelia as I drive into the campsite. Their chained pit bull, spying my dog jumps atop a car wreck in the yard and bounds crazily up and down like a carousel horse. No matter. We sit down to a glass of cold water—it’s too hot
It’s early evening at the Roma camp. A bonfire is blazing in the clearing of the olive grove and half a dozen young men gathered around it. The regulars lounge in plastic lawn chairs—Evangelia, her husband, Dimitri, the sisters, Taxiakoula and
Who is that man on the motor bike coming my way? It must be Adonis, husband of the vet Ourania. No. It’s the former boatman, Kosta, whose family ran the taverna at Glisteri Beach. And the woman at the ATM? Kary, the daughter of Yeorgos the
School is out and Skopelos town is filled with kids. "Ela, koretsia,” Come on, girls, a small one shrieks gesturing to her friends to follow. Off they go skipping and jumping down the Post Office road. Everywhere kids romp or ride their bikes; the
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
A wake like a smile, yes, some boats are like this, sending up a joyous spray of white as they slice through the blue sea. Turned up bow in the front and a happy rooster tail behind — oh what a joy to be on the open sea on a hot afternoon. The sea
I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for
All the years I traveled around rural Greece, I searched for stories that described the daily life. Tales of meeting and photographing farmers, shepherds and bakers unfolded. Stories too of bouzouki bar nights and looking for abandoned villages high
All summer long in 2018, the Roma camp on Skopelos Island was full of visitors. Every week another family arrived for a 7-10 day stay—aunts, uncles, cousins, tons of kids. Lots and lots of people I could photograph. But as the summer of 2019
Ring, ring. “Ela koukla mou.” Come, have a coffee, says Mitsos. New visitors have arrived at the campsite.A large group I’ve never seen before fills Mitsos’s “front door” of their basement home. A rotund gypsy, a xadelfos, cousin, surrounded by an
Ela, come in, says Evangelia as I drive into the campsite. Their chained pit bull, spying my dog jumps atop a car wreck in the yard and bounds crazily up and down like a carousel horse. No matter. We sit down to a glass of cold water—it’s too hot
It’s early evening at the Roma camp. A bonfire is blazing in the clearing of the olive grove and half a dozen young men gathered around it. The regulars lounge in plastic lawn chairs—Evangelia, her husband, Dimitri, the sisters, Taxiakoula and
Who is that man on the motor bike coming my way? It must be Adonis, husband of the vet Ourania. No. It’s the former boatman, Kosta, whose family ran the taverna at Glisteri Beach. And the woman at the ATM? Kary, the daughter of Yeorgos the
School is out and Skopelos town is filled with kids. "Ela, koretsia,” Come on, girls, a small one shrieks gesturing to her friends to follow. Off they go skipping and jumping down the Post Office road. Everywhere kids romp or ride their bikes; the
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
A wake like a smile, yes, some boats are like this, sending up a joyous spray of white as they slice through the blue sea. Turned up bow in the front and a happy rooster tail behind — oh what a joy to be on the open sea on a hot afternoon. The sea
I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for
All the years I traveled around rural Greece, I searched for stories that described the daily life. Tales of meeting and photographing farmers, shepherds and bakers unfolded. Stories too of bouzouki bar nights and looking for abandoned villages high
All summer long in 2018, the Roma camp on Skopelos Island was full of visitors. Every week another family arrived for a 7-10 day stay—aunts, uncles, cousins, tons of kids. Lots and lots of people I could photograph. But as the summer of 2019
Ring, ring. “Ela koukla mou.” Come, have a coffee, says Mitsos. New visitors have arrived at the campsite.A large group I’ve never seen before fills Mitsos’s “front door” of their basement home. A rotund gypsy, a xadelfos, cousin, surrounded by an
Ela, come in, says Evangelia as I drive into the campsite. Their chained pit bull, spying my dog jumps atop a car wreck in the yard and bounds crazily up and down like a carousel horse. No matter. We sit down to a glass of cold water—it’s too hot
It’s early evening at the Roma camp. A bonfire is blazing in the clearing of the olive grove and half a dozen young men gathered around it. The regulars lounge in plastic lawn chairs—Evangelia, her husband, Dimitri, the sisters, Taxiakoula and