When two cars meet, someone has to find a pullout so the other can pass. Back home, it would be fist-shaking chaos. Founded in 1420, its isolated position sequestered it from pirates and the onslaught of modernization. Departing early in the morning, I charge up the graded roadway that parallels the island's spine. Peaks rise on one side with wisps of cloud obscuring lofty 1,200-metre summits.
Few buildings blemish the treeless slopes.
Except for the blazer blue Aegean lapping far below, the land looks as wild and desolate as Nevada cowboy country. After a two-hour drive, I round a corner and see the homes of Olympos clinging like glitter glued to a mountain crest. Shops, tavernas and residences line a maze of streets so narrow that two donkeys would have to honk to pass. Waitresses serve coffee and beer. Storefront and sidewalk merchants offer everything from tourist trinkets to fine handcrafts.