This article was originally published on August 19, 2011
By Barbara Morris, 17-time traveler & Vacation Ambassador, Falls Church, Virginia
I am a closet dancer. In my kitchen, watched only by my cat, I am a veritable Ginger Rogers. And so, when I planned my visit to Greece, my thoughts naturally turned to dancing. I visualized myself as Melina Mercouri, linked arms over shoulders with Zorba the Greek, sidestepping sensually together to a seductive Greek love song.
Alas, after eight days in Greece, I hadn’t danced a step. The streets of Athens were humming with motor scooters, not traditional Greek melodies. Even in the Plaka, the old quarter, the music floating from the tavernas was by the New Kids on the Block.
But then came the port of Nafplion—and the stuff of dreams.
Barbara Morris was most looking forward to the opportunity to dance during her adventure to Greece in 2008.
It happened at lunch in this picturesque village where our tour group shared a restaurant with a jovial party of Greeks on vacation from Samos. The music of their island, which they had brought on cassette, filled the restaurant with a demanding beat.
Singly and in twos and threes, the Greeks plunked down their wine glasses and moved to the small dance floor. There, they burst into the kind of spontaneous, spirited dancing you see in movies, complete with stamping, high-stepping, circling, hand-clapping, and finger-snapping.
My feet tapped. My body ached to join them.
Then the invitation came. The dancers gestured toward us with open arms.
“Go,” our guide urged. “They’ll teach you.”
Four of us were immediately caught up in the dancers’ circle.
The leader, the one everyone deferred to, was an elderly man: white-haired and pot-bellied, but with the ruddy, weathered complexion and muscles of a hard-working farmer. His stamina was amazing.
During her visit to the port of Nafplion, Greece, Barbara enjoyed a special encounter with a local elderly man.
And suddenly this man was my partner. We faced each other in the middle of a circle of laughing, clapping dancers.
The old man’s fingers snapped. His feet moved in jig time. His eyes challenged me to duplicate his steps.
Following him a fraction of a second after the beat, I spun, I dipped, I stamped. I lost track of time. I was Melina! He was Zorba! I was in heaven.
The dance built to a finale—and to greater challenges from the old gentleman. He faced me squarely and extended his left leg while, on his right leg, he bent low. Then lower. And lower still, all the while flexing his wrists and snapping his fingers. His extended left leg moved to and fro with the beat.
A miracle happened. I followed him. Lower and lower. My knee quivered but held. My fingers snapped. My left leg swung vigorously.
It brought down the house.
And then it was over. “Efkaristo poli. Thank you very much,” I gasped and was rewarded with a broad smile.
One of the men in our tour group had videotaped the dance and offered to send me a copy, but I declined. See my puffing, middle-aged body, my permanent press pantsuit and stout “old lady” walking shoes? No way. Not when I have my own image to call up whenever I want to—as slim and seductive as Melina, circling with Zorba, out of the closet and dancing in the isles!
This article first appeared in the travel section of the Washington Post.
Have you had your own unexpected encounter with locals during an OAT adventure? Share it with me at harriet@oattravel.com.
Read more of favorite traveler stories