January in Greece is off-season.  Streets typically teeming with people are totally passable, beaches are deserted, and business is slow almost anywhere that caters to tourists.  Two friends and I traveled through the country for two weeks during this lull.

Many times over we encountered the friendly, conversation-making question “why now?”  Which was invariably followed by the useless though well-intentioned suggestion that “next time” we come back in summer.

This chatty, harmless thing to say was strangely powerful in giving me a twinge of doubt.  I wondered if we would be better off somewhere else, if we were missing out on the “authentic” Greek tourist experience.

By the end of our trip, however, any second thoughts had left my mind.

On day twelve, I found myself passively glancing around a dusty pottery shop in the Peloponnesian town of Nafplio.  The hole-in-the-wall establishment was overwhelmed by shelves packed with things like candle holders and dishes.  It was a colorful, jumbled mess anchored by a bearded, older man seated in the corner: the owner.

Our conversation began with some chatter about his clay wheel.  Topped with coffee cups and papers it seemed like a forgotten artifact, but he told me it’s just the opposite during the summer months.  He makes all the pottery himself and when souvenirs are in high demand, he uses it every day.  I must have looked interested because before I knew it he was showing me the back room, informing me about the clay he imports from Italy, and explaining how the kiln works.

Next to the shelves of tools and clay slabs I noticed a bulletin board of photos.  The conversation turned to his family: a lovely wife, two daughters, and a “crazy,” or in my interpretation, “crunchy,” mother in law.  “Call her to say it’s a sunny day and you hang up knowing more than you ever needed to about vitamin D,” was the example he gave.

Before I knew it, my new friend had whipped out a plastic ice cream tub full of honey soaked Greek cookies (made by his mother in law – with olive oil instead of butter).  Standing there enjoying the treat and the moment, he talked about the value of “the present.”

“You have to honor it,” he said, and to illustrate his point, he looked out the door of the shop and gestured outside.

“It is a cloudy day.  I look out and see the lemon tree.  I am happy.  I am a little fat.”  The wide-waisted potter looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “as simple as that.”  I think I’ll remember that line forever.

The truth is, it really did feel simple.  I had nowhere to be but there and nothing to do but talk to him.  And without the hustle of tourist season, he didn’t have much to do right then either.

It’s moments like those when it is easy to cherish the present – and I want to remember this encounter when things are not so carefree.  Stress and worry distract and detract.  I risk overlooking the unexpected joy around the next bend.  And you just never know when you are going to make a friend or learn a lesson or hear a line you’ll always remember.  Thanks, off-season and sweet old man, for the reminder.