By Jolene Brink

As September blows into October, the islands are already changing. When we arrived in Greece three weeks ago, the streets were thick with hundreds of tourists.

Then they were gone. As suddenly as the season changed from beach weather to sweatshirt temperature, the crowds outside my apartment dissipated. Thank goodness.

I say this tongue-in-cheek while I write from a tiny apartment complex. Living abroad, I am still a tourist. I just happen to be fixed in a single place. While I may belong with the throngs peeking into shops and eating cheap gyros, I’ve also gained a sense of permanence among the whitewashed houses and cobblestone streets of Paros. And unlike most tourists, I know where to find the best shops. In the grocery store, there are familiar faces. The same postman stamps my letters to places like Madagascar, Nepal and Chile where other friends are studying abroad.

Down the street from school, an Italian woman named Denise owns a gelato shop called Sulla Luna. Her chunky glasses and thick accent compliment her gracious personality.

I’m constantly reminded that the people behind every shop counter and restaurant table cater every day to tourists like myself and our elementary Greek vocabularies.

While visiting the island of Mykonos last Thursday, I passed a group of Greek women preparing for a funeral.

The scene felt out of place amid the cheap postcards and overpriced meals across the street. I was embarrassed by my tourist backpack and the bulky camera around my neck. While they mourned, tourists were arriving on ships and heading for the beach, oblivious to the ceremony taking place. Imagine if our campus was an archeological site. Instead of 150 years old, it was 1,500 years old and known throughout the world for its beauty.

Every year, millions of tourists would arrive by bus, train, and hot air balloon to snap pictures of buildings where we live. They would need food, water and places to stay. They don’t usually recycle, rarely speak our language and typically leave their trash behind. Prices everywhere would rise because of higher demand, but they would arrive regardless, awed by the beauty of our quaint paradise. And you, dear friend, would either cater to their needs or eventually be forced to leave.

At minimum you would need to speak something besides English. At that point we might understand how the citizens of Greece feel during tourist season. I was riding in a taxi last Sunday with three good friends. Our driver was an old Greek man who could speak English fluently.

I asked him curiously, what was his favorite time of year on Paros? He didn’t hesitate, “When the tourists leave.” I have never been more aware of myself or how I speak and think.

Today when I walk to the bakery for baklava, I’ll leave my camera at home.

Filed under: Opinion by Justin Roth