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The band was hot—figuratively and literally. The two flashy bouzouki players battled it out with lightning-fast solos while the quiet classical guitarist between them kept a steady, familiar rhythm, grounding the frenetic energy of the ancient Greek instruments. Meanwhile, all three troubadours dripped sweat, the evening heat proving relentless even in the mountains.
The rich, vibrant sounds echoed effortlessly off the sandstone walls of the tiny taverna, where 20 or 30 patrons were packed tightly together. I had a front-row seat, a place of honor that my hosts had clearly arranged for me. To my right sat Manolo, an affable octogenarian whose decent command of English spared us from relying entirely on charades. Across from me was Vasee, a German national of Greek descent. With his salt-and-pepper beard and a long bun fastened at the back of his head, he looked perfectly at home in this remote mountain village of southeastern Crete. So much so that when I first met him and his 26-year-old son Lukas—seated to my left—I assumed they were both locals.
So, how did I end up in a remote mountain taverna, surrounded by this international group of fascinating people, listening to incredible local musicians (including, by sheer coincidence, our Airbnb host), and sipping raki late into the night? Well, this story is why I love to travel. Meeting people—locals and fellow travelers alike—brings me immense joy. It’s worth so much more than visiting any “must-see” museum or landmark.
My wife Francesca knows this about me, which is why she quickly encouraged me to accept an invitation from Vasee, whom we’d met just a few days earlier.
It all started when we packed the kids into the car to visit Anatoli, a mountain village about 15 minutes from Myrtos, the small beach town we’d been calling home. I’d read online that Anatoli was supposed to be charming, with great views and a couple of tavernas. But when we arrived, we found what looked like a ghost town. Not a soul was walking the streets, and many of the buildings were crumbling into picturesque disrepair.
“Where is everyone?” we wondered aloud.
It was hot, and we were desperate for water. The few cafés and restaurants we came across were shuttered, and we couldn’t tell if they were closed for the day or permanently abandoned. Eventually, we stumbled upon what I wouldn’t even call a store—it was more like someone’s house with a refrigerated cooler outside, stocked with drinks for sale.
We bought some water and tried to ask the proprietor about the village, but the language barrier proved too much. So, we resigned ourselves to exploring this eerie “ghost town.”
On our way out, we finally spotted two bearded men who seemed friendly enough. I stopped to ask about the village.
The older man introduced himself as Vasee, and his younger companion, Lukas, turned out to be his son. To my surprise, they weren’t local Greeks but Germans of Greek descent who had moved to Anatoli six months earlier. They were in the process of buying a rundown hotel to transform it into a recording studio and creative hub for musicians and filmmakers.
Vasee is Greek and spent much time in Greece growing up and as a result he speaks Greek fluently. Lukas, on the other hand, is only 1/2 Greek and he admitted that he wished he knew more of the local language. I should point out that both were fluent in English, thankfully for me as my Greek and German are both a bit rusty. :)
While we were chatting - and my kids were sweltering in the car cursing their Dad's extroverted nature - Vasee told me the story of Anatoli and why it seemed like a ghost town.
Antoli's creation dates back to the Venetian period (1205-2012) and also featured prominaently in the local resistance to the Turkish invaders centuries later during the Ottoman Empire's rule (1645-1669). But it was in the 1960s where Vasee started his story. At that time Anatoli was a thriving village of over 1,500 inhabitants, with an elementary school - something of significance during this period - but it fell on hard times and people began to leave the village. In the late 1960s a Dutch argiculture expert named Paul Kuypers went to the villagers of Anatoli and encouraged them to plant tomatoes using greenhouse techniques that he would teach them.
He promised to make them rich. The Anatoli mountain dwellers were reluctant to embrace this totally new way of making a living so Paul offered to pay for all of the set up costs including building the greenhouses, the tomato seeds, water, etc. Only one villager took him up on his offer, but that villager's tomato business did so well in that first year that hundreds of villagers took up tomato greenhouse growing the following year. As a result, the population of Anatoli swelled again and the village was thriving. However. over the next couple of years the tomato crops were so lucrative that those farmers had so much money that many of them left for Athens and a better quality of life leaving Anatoli with about 50 people and the village fell into disrepair.
Today there are about 500 inhabitants living in Anatoli and Paul Kuyper's legacy is solidfied in the ubiquitous tomato greenhouses that cover the area between Irapetra and Myrtos.
One of the many greenhouses built into the existing landscsape in Myrtos
A peek inside on of the greenhouses
Picked, ripe tomatoes ready for transport
Up close and personal view of the greenhouse structures
During that relatively brief chat with Vasee and Lukas, they told me about an evening of local music at one of the tavernas in Anatoli the following Saturday and encouraged me to come. We exchanged Instagram info and agreed to message about it later in the week. I was excited about meeting my new friends and hearing some local music and seeing this ghost of a town come to life.
When Saturday arrived, I kissed Francesca and the kids goodnight and drove up the winding mountain road, nervous like I was heading to a first date. Would I click with these new acquaintances? Would I even find the place?
Upon reaching Anatoli, I struggled to locate the taverna. Thankfully, a local woman pointed me in the right direction, though she knew nothing about live music—turns out, it was a new addition to the village.
Eventually, I found the right spot, recognized by the musicians outside tuning their instruments. Peeking inside, I spotted Vasee and Lukas at a table. Relieved, I walked in, and they greeted me warmly, introducing me to Manolo and a German friend visiting from abroad.
Manolo showing us a photo of himself (bottom photo, person to the left) at aged 19 in Anatoli
Just as I was settling in, a commotion erupted near the band. I heard someone call my name: “Dan, it’s me, Spyros!”
To my astonishment, Spyros, my Airbnb host—whom I’d only met briefly during check-in—was one of the bouzouki players. We stared at each other, equally surprised: him at seeing his American tourist renter among local Anatolians, and me at discovering my corporate-lawyer-turned-Airbnb-host moonlighting as a bouzouki virtuoso.
The night passed in a haze of incredible music, raki, and lively conversation. Manolo shared tales of his youth, traveling the world on a freighter before returning to Anatoli to settle down. I learned about the other bouzouki player, a retired Berkeley professor who had recently moved back to Crete.
At 1 a.m., with the band still going strong, I decided to head back down the mountain. Despite my protests, Vasee insisted on covering the bill, explaining how Anatoli locals never let him pay for anything.
A few days later, I hosted Vasee and Lukas for dinner at our place in Myrtos. Over food and drinks, we talked late into the night about everything from politics to family to our shared love of travel.
Meeting them, hearing Spyros’ bouzouki magic, and experiencing Anatoli’s hidden vibrancy will forever be a highlight of this year-long adventure.
Longer version of bouzouki band Crowd shot at the taverna
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