I remember a perfect picnic in Greece, many summers ago, with all of the Aegean stretched out beneath us—a chunk of pungent feta cheese; a loaf of crusty bread freckled with sesame seeds, still warm from the cubbyhole bakery; and a little packet of olives wrapped in paper. Olives wrinkled as if with great age, dry cured and surely full of wisdom. A ripe tomato, some tinned tuna, and oregano stolen from a pot in the courtyard of our pension. Cold dry Santorini white wine perhaps, or bottled water.
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