Mikro Xorio is the village in Greece where my grandfather and relatives once lived, and where a few still remain. When I first arrived and saw the village from afar, it wasn't culture shock that ran through my veins, it was pure awe and disbelief. It looked to be from an ancient fairy tale or nursery rhyme, with cobblestone houses nestled in scattered woods at the base of a mountain.

Yet the houses were not houses at all -- they were perfect cottages with chimneys and smoke that twisted and lingered above. The cottages along the unpaved streets of the neighborhood had perfect plots of land with generous fertile soil, allowing flowers, gardens, herbs and lush wild landscaping to flourish.

The village was set on a high vista, with a view that extended forever. As we made our way into town, the images flooded into my memory as if I had been here before. Yet I knew that had not traveled this far in my life.

I had dreamed of this, yet never had. My mind had imagined this, yet my imagination never extended this far. It was a dream, and I was awake to witness the outcome. Even as I write this now, nine months later, I am still tempted to believe I traveled to a fairy-tale land.

The center of town, the platea, consisted of a hotel and a restaurant that framed a small plaza, with a fountain and tables. Down the road is a church my cousin built. The fountain and the center of town are dedicated with a marble plaque in honor of my great grandmother and grandfather. This land has always been in the Hamberis name and they dedicated the land in our honor. My family's history in Mikro Xorio goes back many generations, and the Hamberis name is still honored today. When my mom, my grandmother Mary and I arrived in the town, we were embraced and welcomed as if we had lived her our entire life. The Hamberis's were back and the town celebrated.

My grandmother (Yia Yia in Greek) had married into the Hamberis family more than 50 years ago, yet had always known this town as her own. Yia Yoyo grew up in Agia Vlaherna, a village on the other side of the mountain. My Papou, whom I never met, grew up here in Mikro Xorio. His father was a postman, a very respected and important job. Back then the only way to receive news was through the mail. It is thought that the name Hamberis translates to "bringer of news."

My Papou's sister and niece still live in the town, and we were supposed to find them as soon as we arrived. Finding the house was not a hard task in a small village of fewer than 100 people. We walked to the home of Thea Harilia, my great aunt, and found that she and my second cousin Papisa were waiting for us. This may sound odd, but my relatives are the cutest little old Greek women I had ever seen. They both wore glasses and had their hair tied back in buns. They were both short, like most of the Greeks I have met, and their attire was that of every Yia Yia I have ever known - skirts, long-sleeved blouses, and cross necklaces that rested below their necks.

When Thea opened the door, smiles, tears and joy flooded the room. My mom and Yia Yia hadn't seen Thea and Papisa for more than 20 years. I had never met them before. Yia Yia was so proud to show off her granddaughter, and I was honored to be there. The moment was intense - and it was all in Greek.

The Greek language is definitely Greek to me. I can always recognize it, and I know a few key phrases, yet as for conversation, I have always been out of the loop. This is the one thing in my life that I now regret. I met relatives who were so overwhelmed and excited to meet me, yet all I could do is say hello, smile and nod.

When I first arrived in Greece, the culture shock didn't hit me as it would hit most foreigners. I am not a stranger to Greek traditions and culture, as my family has always celebrated the Greek heritage and nationality. I found it comforting that although I couldn't speak the language, I could identify with most of the things I saw.

When we went out traveling in Greece, we didn't travel as adventurers or hitchhikers or backpackers. We didn't travel by bus or in tour groups. We traveled extensively throughout Greece in a yellow taxi, with the same driver day in and day out. Christina, a family friend who we stayed with in Athens, hired Vassili, the taxi driver. He was going to be our personal chauffeur for the duration of our visit.

I must admit, the idea of being squashed in the back of the taxi with blaring Boseki Greek music piercing my ears seemed to me quite horrible. However, this was Yia Yia's trip and my opinion did not matter.

Christina told us that Vassili was great, that she always uses him to travel around Athens, and that she trusted and respected him. At first, I believed her. But the more time I spent in the taxi, the longer the road trips became, the more I grew to hate the machismo Athenian taxi driver named Vassili.

Vassili is in his 30s and still lives in Athens today. He works mainly in Athens, but also finds "gigs" once a month, where he takes tourists anywhere they want to go and however long they need him. We were one of his "gigs." Vassili is a macho street rat from Athens, short, stocky, with slicked-back black hair and tanned Mediterranean skin. He wore loud silk shirts and fancy dark sunglasses. Vassili, a victim of an urban environment, never went to school and was out on the streets working, doing whatever he could at the age of 8. He was street smart, a hustler, a shucker and a jiver, a snake in the grass who always knew exactly what he was after. He knew as much English as I knew Greek, so the only communication we had was between our interpreters - my family.

He knew when I was pissed off at him, which was often. Vassili would come up with crazy ideas, then drive us to crazy locations. We would have no say in the matter; he just went. Occasionally, the car trips became a little too extreme and I found myself swearing at this Greek man I didn't know. He never knew what I was saying. He could only hear me screaming, and know that I was mad. He just looked at me and laughed.

The only English he knew was "Oh, my God!" I was hoping for divine intervention on the day Vassili drove us up a mountain on our way to a church that Yia Yia wanted to visit.

On that day, we were greeted outside our hotel by the owner, Maria, and a priest, a young man who looked to be about my age wearing a long blue robe. He wore a large crucifix around his neck. He was also smoking. I had never seen a priest smoke before. I wondered if he was really a priest.

On our way to the mountain, I was told that this was the same mountain that in the 1960s suffered a severe landslide that had wiped out half the town of Mikro Xorio. Only five or six families were killed because most of the villagers were attending church that Sunday morning. Vassili and his small yellow taxi were up for this adventure, a joyride up a deadly mountain road.

And so we departed up the hill, and soon I began to blame myself for trusting the judgment of my Yia Yia, an 84-year-old woman who hadn't been here for more than 50 years. The taxi heaved and belched as it began its ascent, with more than 500 pounds of quivering flesh and bone inside. We were scaling the Mount Everest of Greece on a road only fit for a horse, and we were trudging through it in a taxi. With every turn of the wheel, the car slipped and bounced over sharp boulders and loose soil. The tires slid ahead, challenging the brakes. As soon as we realized the danger we were facing, my mom, Mary and I began to get vocal. We were yelling, we were screaming, "Oh, my God!"

I hated Vassili for continuing up the trail. He kept telling us, "It's OK, it's OK." To the left of me, a 50-foot cliff was staring me in the face, and I began to fully understand why the mountain collapsed 30 years ago.

Throughout the chaos, Yia Yia sat in front, calmly screaming back at us to be quiet. Yia Yia was in her own element, and she was going back to her special hill.

The 45-minute drive seemed like five hours, but we soon found ourselves arriving at the top of the mountain. We had completed the adventure in the yellow taxi, and I knew the mad cabbie was proud. It was an additional ego boost for the already machismo driver. His taxi had made it up a dangerous mountain.

When we stopped, I was the first to get out of the car. The priest, who had gone on ahead of us in a 4-wheel drive vehicle, was immediately at my side and had his hand on top of my head. He was blessing me in Greek.

I couldn't believe this was going on. This was the last thing I needed. If only the priest knew what immoral thoughts were running through my head at that moment. I thought for sure I was doomed and would be struck by lightning any second.

Mary was still in the car, and she was laughing uncontrollably at the sight of me being blessed. I made eye contact with her and started to laugh too. My mom was standing next to me also laughing, taking pictures of the event. I felt tears rolling down my face. It was an emotional breakdown brought on by mixed emotions and anger. I couldn't tell the priest to just stop; I didn't want to disrespect the gods, who were very much alive on this mountaintop. The priest kept telling me to not be afraid, and the tears kept rolling out of my eyes.

The moment he took his hand off my forehead, I looked around and saw heaven. The mountain was blanketed in yellow-green grass, patches of trees and wildflowers. The sky was enormous, and all I could see was blue and white puffy clouds and green grass. The sound lingered through the air, sounding like wind chimes on a spring day. I was amazed and was instantly cleansed of negativity - for what stood before me was breathtaking.

It was a short walk to the chapel, and we gathered wild oregano and chamomile that grew along the dirt road. The rest of the visit on the hill consisted of a liturgy in the

small chapel, and everyone seemed to be walking around in awe. Yia Yia was smiling the entire time.

"See?" she said to me.

"Yes, it's beautiful."

Yia Yia told me that this hill was in the Hamberis name - it was part of our family's land. I couldn't believe I was standing there, on our family's piece of Earth.

We were greeted by two shepherds who lived on the hillside and tended their flock there. They gave us two stuffed bags of oregano and a homemade bottle of Raki, Greek liquor made from grape leaves. They told us there was an alternate road that we could take down the mountain. These men were now my saviors on the hill.

The road back down was paved, and although it took two hours longer than the original road, it didn't matter. We all felt safe.

We stopped at the first restaurant we saw and had a fantastic Greek meal, complete with Restina and dancing. Mom and Yia Yia and Vassili were Greek dancing in circles, holding hands, calling me to join them. And I did. I danced and rejoiced that I was still alive. I had seen the most beautiful mountain in the world, and I was blessed.

We sat back down to enjoy another glass of wine and listen to the priest tell us dirty jokes with a cigarette in his left hand and a drink in his right. All his son could do was smile and shake his head in disbelief. He turned to me and said, "I don't know why he is a priest. Can you believe it?"

I couldn't. His values and morals were severely lacking. Ordinary Greek Orthodox priests do not behave in such a manner, telling dirty jokes to a group of people he's never met. A priest with a split personality had blessed me. Go figure.

We survived the rest of the trip in the taxi. The adventures were over, yet they would never be forgotten. And the mountain still remains green and lush, and the fairy-tale land of Mikro Xorio still nestles beneath it.