Like most rural Greek villages, Asklipeio relies upon its weekly market to supplement what is available from the smattering of local stores. The nearest place of any size is Lardos, which, whilst only 15 miles away, is too far for many locals to travel on their rickety mopeds and beat-up pick-up trucks.
Whilst I was visiting the village, a battered old VW combi pulled into the square, and its owner proceeded to unload boxes of shoes to display on the ground. He sold several pairs, so obviously he had a good trade in the village. After his last sale, everything was piled back into the van and off he drove to his next port-of-call.
I spied but one fruit-and-vegetable shop in the village laden high with mouth-watering watermelons, oranges, lemons, limes, and grapes, all of which were as fresh as you will ever see and had probably been picked that very morning.
Investigating the back streets and alleys, I found a couple of real ouzeries, (no tourists here), a tatty looking "snak" bar, and a restaurant that appeared to be more of a lady’s front room of her home that had been opened to the public.
Everywhere I walked, I was greeted with kalimera, such was the spirit and happiness of these local folk. There was no pressure for me to go inside and sit down; let’s face it, with just a handful of visitors each day, one more meal isn’t going to make or break them.
I walked by old houses decorated with the traditional colours of white-washed walls and cobalt blue shutters and doors and realised that this was still a little piece of old Rhodes. Wooden gazebos occupied every front yard, resplendent with hibiscus, geraniums, bougainvilleas, and azaleas. People looked happy as they went about their daily chores, needing little more than that which Mother Nature already provided an abundance of with her sunshine and fruits.
I walked past the tiny workshop of the local tinker and watched a while as he soldered up holes in old water pots that were surely years past their best judging by the dents and scratches. But the moral here is, "Why buy a new one if the old one can be mended?" I asked if I could take his picture, and with a gracious wave of his hand, he agreed to my request. I almost felt like I ought to buy a pot from him, but I got the impression that they were all repair jobs for the villagers and that none would be for sale.
I enjoyed my stroll around this lovely old village and felt honoured to have been welcomed by all those I encountered. Such is the essence of filoxenia, the love of the foreigner, conveyed in a single word that means both stranger and guest, surely a message for us all?