Pyrgos sits at the top of the island and almost nobody comes up here after sunset. The caldera views belong to Oia and Fira, the infinity pools belong to the honeymooners. This village gets what's left, which turns out to be everything I actually wanted. Stone walls still warm from the afternoon. A cat investigating my sandal. Two old men at the next table arguing softly about something that sounds, from the cadence alone, like it has been argued about for decades.
The taverna has maybe eight tables, half of them empty. The woman who runs it brought bread, olives, and a small carafe of white wine without asking. Then she told me the fish came in this morning and I should have the red mullet. There was no deliberation. I said yes. The oil on the bread was green and peppery and I could smell thyme from somewhere I couldn't see, maybe the hillside, maybe the kitchen, maybe both.
The mullet arrived whole, eyes and all, charred on a clay plate with nothing but lemon and salt. I ate slowly because there was no reason not to. The wine was cold and faintly mineral, the kind of wine that would mean nothing in a different context but here, on this terrace, with the last bruise of light disappearing behind the ridge, it was the only wine that made sense. I thought about how my mother always said you can tell a place by what it feeds you when it isn't trying to impress you. Pyrgos is not trying to impress anyone.
I loaded a roll of Portra 400 before dinner, knowing the light would be difficult. It was. I shot three frames of the table, the carafe, the fish bones after. The camera sat on the chair beside me for the rest of the meal. Sometimes the best thing it does is stay quiet. I paid in cash. The woman squeezed my hand when I left, like I was someone she'd known before. Walking back down through the dark streets, I could still taste the salt on my lips. Saudade is a word for missing something while you're still in it. I think the Greeks must have their own.
