We decided to spend several days hiking around the flanks of Mt. Olympus, rather than the two days it would have taken to hike to the top, because the summit route is known for its several hours of death-march switchbacks above the treeline, and it was August, and we were tired, tired, tired of being overcrowded. Zeus and cohort would have to just present themselves – or not – a little further down the mountain.

We were rewarded for this little moment of tourist inspiration by four days of lush and wild forest. It smelled just like Northern California there (manzanita and blackberry and hot dusty pine; in August, the feeling that everything might be a thistle) but on Mt. Olympus, fig trees grow wild, and we shared the trails with donkeys.

They have not quite developed hikes that go ‘around’ a mountain here. Each trail we chose went straight up to start and then continued, exactly straight up, for as many miles as we could stand before turning around. Read: not many. We had been wandering aimlessly around Italy and floating in the ocean for nearly two months. We were not in good hiking shape.

Every afternoon Mt. Olympus gathers thunderheads around itself and stands, shrouded in thick magic, next to the ocean. Almost daily, distant thunder propelled us down the mountain faster than we otherwise might have gone – but grinning, of course; a little potential electrocution well worth seeing stories brought to life.