Easter Paranoia - Caught Between the Sea and Legendary Cookies

 Nomadic Tales

While traveling through eastern Greece, between Komotini and Kavala, I kept noticing these odd little shops with storefronts plastered in a chaotic mess of fonts, colors, and loud banners. On this particular trip, I had packed my bags so full that I barely had space for more than a day’s worth of food. With public holidays like Easter and Worker’s Day around the corner, I figured it’d be smart to stock up and settle into a campsite in Nea Karvali for a few days.

With time on my hands, I finally decided to step into one of these peculiar stores.

I’m not going to share photos of the place or the product. You can find it yourself, since it’s “very famous” as the store keeper kept telling me. The cookies are indeed famous, but I didn’t know about them at the time. Now, growing up under Ceaușescu’s bleak economy I am biased to see empty shelves as a red flag. So when I walked in and saw the sparse selection of products on half-empty shelves, my prejudices kicked in. Thinking the business was struggling and the cookies must be stale, I bluntly refused the offer to try a sample.

The shopkeeper did not take it well. She muttered something in what I think was Turkish, threw in a dismissive hand wave, and said in broken English:

“Bike, take, problem!”

In the following days, I kept to my routine cycling back and forth to Kavala, passing that same shop each time. On Sunday, knowing everything would be closed, I spent the day in front of the campsite’s restaurant, the only spot with Wi-Fi. I turned terrace furniture into a makeshift desk and spent my day working. To others, it must have looked like a reception desk because people kept coming over, asking about the restaurant. I had to keep explaining it was closed.

Around 4 PM, a man in his 50s showed up asking the same. When I told him the place was shut, he said no problem, he’d just have a smoke and assertively told me to join him. He asked where I was from, where I was going, and when I planned to leave. Then he started talking about himself, mentioning that he worked as a quality manager at the cookie factory. I couldn’t help but wonder, was he related to the offended shopkeeper?

Then he repeated the same questions about my stay, which made me suspicious and deliberately gave him opposite answers.

He kept the conversation going, touching on topics like food and the environment. He mentioned how some nearby industries dump waste into the sea, contaminating the seafood. Then, related to merchants that will sell bad food just to make a profit, he said: “Your death is my money.”

I froze. Then he repeated it.

My paranoia shot through the roof. Was this guy... a hitman? Was I being targeted for rejecting a cookie?

From this point I was tense like a spring under load. He kept talking, but I wasn't listening anymore. My right foot was strategically facing in the escape direction. I was playing movies in my head of how I would throw the table at him and sprint off if he makes a move. I was looking at every detail of his appearance, making a list of his physical traits so I can later identify him if needed.

Eventually, the day came to leave. As I cycled past the shop one last time, the woman waved and smiled.

So… I guess we made peace after all.

Greece, Apr 2019

Unforgettable Sights & Hidden Gems

Greece's Traditional Boatyards – Karnagia

In Greece, traditional boatbuilding is still alive, carried on in small shipyards known as karnagia. The craft is often passed down from father to son, preserving knowledge that spans generations. These humble yards blend seamlessly into the maritime scenery, just another part of the coastal landscape filled with boats, masts, and salt air. Easily overlooked by modern travelers racing between tourist spots, these places quietly hold stories of craftsmanship, resilience, and ingenuity.

With Greece’s fragmented coastline, shallow waters, and countless islands, small wooden vessels remain essential. Local fishermen rely on their kaiki to supply fresh seafood to nearby communities, while tour guides take visitors on sea excursions aboard handcrafted boats. What emerges is a tightly woven ecosystem of local trade, where the art of building boats is directly tied to their everyday use.

Working in modest sheds or open-air yards, skilled shipwrights craft boats from pine and other local woods. Depending on the size and complexity, construction can take anywhere from a few months to over a year.

Some of these traditional karnagia are still active in places like Kavala, Ierissos, Perama (near Piraeus), Nea Moudania, Syros, Skiathos, and Spetses, each one quietly continuing a centuries-old legacy.

Roadside Hacks

Broken tent poles are bad news, especially when a cold night in the mountains is looming. The warning signs had been there for a while: fine cracks forming near the ends of the segments. Zip ties can help slow the damage by preventing the cracks from spreading, but after enough daily use and exposure to strong winds, failure is only a matter of time, and it usually happens when you're least prepared.

Lightweight tents designed for bike touring often use a Y-shaped pole structure, with a central spine that branches into two arms toward the short ends of the tent. While this setup trims down weight, it also creates a single point of failure. The segments vary in length, diameter, and even curvature, making repairs or replacements more complicated.

By contrast, a more classic X-pattern dome tent uses two poles composed of equal-length segments. This design allows for flexibility. Even if one pole breaks, you’ll make it through the night with one healthy pole. More importantly, you can rearrange the segments so that a damaged one ends up in a low-stress position, like near a tent corner where the pole bends less. Carrying one or two spare segments, which weigh almost nothing, will have you covered on long tours.

When my pole finally gave out, I was camped at 800 meters elevation at the base of Mount Olympus. The sun was setting fast, and the cold was already setting in. I managed to salvage the situation by removing the ferrule (the metal connector) from the broken outer piece and sliding it into the remaining section of the pole. A few metal clamps added pressure to keep everything together, and just like that, I had a functioning shelter for the night.