Fragments of Greece: How I Found Wholeness in a Vineyard in Karpathos

They say every trip to Greece leaves a mark on you. I didn’t expect mine to be made of tile and glass.

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon in Karpathos. The sky had that particular blue you can only find in the Aegean, and I found myself wandering into a vineyard—not to taste wine, but to create something. A mosaic, of all things. I had signed up, half on a whim, for the Creative Workshop for Mosaic in the Vineyard, offered by a local group called Art and Walk. I was skeptical. I'm not particularly artistic. But I liked the idea of doing something hands-on, something beyond snapping photos of beaches and ruins.

What I didn’t know then was that the experience would do more than offer me a charming keepsake. It would change how I think. Not in some grand, cinematic way—but in small, steady, human-sized ways. Let me explain.

The workshop was set in the middle of an active vineyard, shaded by olive trees, and filled with the soothing hum of cicadas. The table was already laid out with wooden boards, cutters, heaps of colorful tiles and glass, and a few designs we could follow—or not. The host welcomed us like family. No formalities. Just a smile, an apron, and a gentle encouragement: “Choose what speaks to you.”

I gravitated toward the Mati—the blue Evil Eye, a symbol I’d seen everywhere in Greece, said to ward off envy and bad energy. Simple, right? But as I started placing each piece, I realized something ancient was unfolding. Mosaics go way back in Greece. The craft dates to the 5th century BC. In ancient houses, temples, and public baths, mosaics told stories, honored gods, marked everyday life. The medium is painstaking, fragmentary, deliberate. You take broken things—shards, really—and give them purpose. That’s where it started to hit me.

Each little tile had to be chosen. Not too big, not too small. Not just the color, but the shape. It’s a constant balance between intuition and patience. Too fast, and the harmony breaks. Too slow, and the flow dies. There’s a sweet spot—and you feel it when you find it. The instructor guided us without controlling. There was silence, then laughter, then silence again. I forgot time. I forgot my phone. I forgot, almost, where I was from.

And in that process, I began to feel something deeply Greek—not just in the aesthetic, but in the spirit of the thing. This wasn’t just arts and crafts. This was philosophy in action. I remembered something a local told me at a café earlier in the week: “In Greece, nothing is ever whole—but everything belongs.” That phrase echoed as I worked. In the act of putting fragments together, I was learning about meraki—that untranslatable word the Greeks use to describe doing something with soul, with love, with the essence of yourself.

Here’s the thing: modern life trains us to chase perfection. Faster, cleaner, optimized. But mosaic doesn’t work like that. It’s imperfect by design. What matters is composition, intention, and beauty in imperfection. Suddenly, I saw why this art form has survived millennia in Greece. It’s more than decoration—it’s a meditation. It’s how you process life when things don’t fit neatly. It’s how you create beauty from brokenness.

I took my time. Three hours passed in what felt like a heartbeat. At the end, I had something to show for it—yes. But more than that, I had absorbed a way of thinking. Of being. Back home in Berlin, where everything is scheduled, sharp-edged, and rushing, I now find myself slowing down. Drinking coffee without checking email. Repairing things instead of replacing them. Letting conversations breathe. When I work, I ask myself: where is the meraki in this?

My mosaic sits on my shelf. It’s not perfect. But it holds meaning. And when I look at it, I remember the vineyard, the sun-dappled table, the feel of each shard in my hand. I remember that being whole isn’t about having no cracks. It’s about arranging the pieces so they sing.

If you ever find yourself in Karpathos, do this workshop. Not for the souvenir—but for the shift. Come with empty hands, and you’ll leave with a full heart.

Take-away tips from my experience? Sure, here they are:

• Let go of perfection. Embrace the fragments. That’s where the soul lives.

• Do things with meraki. Whether it’s cooking, building, or speaking—put your essence into it.

• Slow down. There’s a rhythm to Greece that rewards presence over productivity.

• Make things with your hands. It grounds you. It teaches you to see differently.

• Travel isn’t always about seeing. Sometimes it’s about making.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. But next time, I think I’ll make an olive tree. Or maybe a labyrinth. There’s always another story to tell—one tile at a time.