A first time for everything

Dusk. We're sitting in Tsipouradiko. Another name for this place is Vasilis. He is Michalis' friend and he runs the place. They are about to play bouzouki with a third friend. Michalis is about to reach the respectable age of 25. I did that three days ago. Now is not the first time we celebrate our birthday together, but it is the first time ever that I am in Greece. The wine is delicious.
I'm in a bubble. The restaurant is filled with groups of people, sharing endless numbers of little plates with Greek food. Now that they are playing, I am a stranger here, protected by my pen and my writing book, who now give me the right to exist in this place. My gateway to homes safety. This booklet is my home.
It's been about 9 days since I arrived in Greece. In Athens at first, where the danger of the night opened the arms of a group of communists at the foot of the Acropolis. Friendly people, like all Greeks, and luckily half of them spoke English. Greek is hard to learn, but the music that my friend is playing now tells me stories of the past. A bouzouki is a type of guitar making high tones. They play it in fast rhythms, and sing with high voices. I'm privileged to sit at this band's table.
I don't remember my first encounter with Michael in 1988. Two families unite. Divorced mothers, odd sisters and the two of us. I remember a time where his Dutch wasn't so good, he was in the Greek kinder garden class, but we were friends all the same. I was the dominant one, which he accepted, and through time, learned to make fun of. His concern about what other people want has always made him beautifully insecure.
Three days ago we went for a walk from his fathers mansion in the middle of nowhere. We crossed a village, greeting black-clothed old ladies and went downhill towards the sea. I asked him what makes him happy in life. Now that I see the emotions escape his body in the form of sweat drops on his forehead, and the subtle twitches in his eyes when he sings he answers the question as never before.
"I don't know" he replied. But the silence of the olive trees around made his thoughts unstoppable. He's not as adventurous as I, if we don't count his recent doubts on his silent life. He likes to sit around in his house and he loves love. And where I love to write, he loves to play. This moment at the table, the short eye contacts we have, and the "bravo, Gilles" he just called out justify this little tear in my eye.
He lives in a beautiful country. The sea is crystal clear, cold on some spots, but very nice in bays. Kerkyra is mainly green, except for the city that consists mainly of yellow houses. The picture of the scarcely clothed old tourists is not as beautiful as the more stylish ways of the big amount of students that hangs around here, but what strikes me deepest is the reoccurring scent of Jasmin, surprising me on the street.
The music stopped. The strings are broken. Movement all around me. Greek words traverse the room. Little boys and girls are looking at the instruments. A hi and a goodbye. My pen keeps my mind close to the paper. Nikos calls Vasilis back with a cascade of high tones and a focussed look from eye to eye. We're back in the air. The pictures on the bar behind them show in black and white that what I'm in the middle of is Greece. I catch the word "mistica". Does that mean mystic?
Tomorrow is our last day together. We will swim in the sea, drink too much wine again, and have an open air celebration with Greek bands. We will chat with friends, and play more Greek and Dutch music under pillars and tympanums. Before my flight takes of, I will learn one more word. Nichtoluludo. Honeydew. Smells have always compelled me.