It’s called balance 👌😇, I tell myself, as a plate glides away and another arrives with the hush of a harbor at dusk. On this island, balance isn’t a spreadsheet or a strict rule; it’s a sensibility you feel in your bones, a soft gravity that keeps you centered between the bite and the breath that follows. The sea keeps time here, and so do the small rituals of meal and morning, of laughter and patience. The balance isn’t perfect, but it is always present, like the shore that wears the same habit of waves day after day. I wander the morning markets and learn to listen to the day’s quiet demands. Lemons glow like captured suns, olives glisten with brine and memory, bread is still warm from the oven and carries the faint scent of rye and yeast. A vendor offers honey in a jar that looks almost too golden to hold, while another threads thyme through the air with a whisper of oregano. The octopus sits in its own lacquered red-sauce stillness, a reminder that Cypriot flavors arrive in patience as much as in heat. It is here, between the lemon rind and the sea breeze, that balance begins—not as a plan, but as a practice of noticing what the body leans toward when the sun climbs and the day demands its share of attention. The table becomes a map of give-and-take. Meze circulates like a friendly orbit: a bite of smoky grilled halloumi, a spoon of taramasalata that glistens with olive oil, tiny salads that crackle with herb and lemon. We hand plates across the table as if passing along small parcels of courage and joy. There are briny bites and bright ones, creamy ones and tart ones, each dish seeking its moment to shine without overshadowing the others. In Cyprus, sharing food is a philosophy of restraint and generosity braided together. There is no hunger for show, only hunger for connection—the kind that holds a table steady through stories and silences alike. I learn to pace myself as the day does. The heat of midday asks for a pause, a glass of cold water, a moment to listen to the harbor’s steady murmur. Dinner becomes a longer ritual: more people arriving, more plates joining the chorus, more laughter spilling into the dimming light. The wine does not overwhelm; it accompanies, like a chorus that knows exactly when to dip in and rise again. In this rhythm, indulgence does not topple balance; it enlarges it, like a tide that carries shells and stories closer to shore. Balance, I discover, is not merely about portion control or heart-healthy choices. It is about attention—attending to the sizzling sound of octopus on a grill and the soft, almost shy sweetness of watermelon and feta in a summer breeze. It is about the eye that notices when a plate has arrived with the right amount of salt, the mind that remembers toasts and to listen to the person across the table who speaks with hands half in motion, half in memory. It is about forgiveness for the little excesses—the extra olive, the second piece of bread—knowing the next bite can re-center what felt unbalancing. There is a history here that helps balance the present. Grandmothers who tucked recipes into the pockets of aprons, fathers who poured wine with a steady hand, daughters who learned to share from the same plate that fed a courtyard full of neighbors on summer evenings. The old and the new meet in a single meal: a twist of modern plating on a tavern’s rustic charm, a nod to tradition in every lemon zest and herb sprig. Balance is a bridge—between memory and moment, between reliance on the familiar and curiosity for the new. And so the island teaches me to breathe between bites, to let a moment linger when there is room for it, to be grateful for the way a simple spoonful of olive oil coats bread and makes even the ordinary feel sacred. The sea—always there, always patient—reminds me that life, like a good meze course, is best enjoyed not through force but through a steady, grateful rhythm. If you listen closely, you can hear it in the clink of glasses, in the soft laughter that travels from one corner of the table to another, and in the way the sun settles behind white houses as if to bless the day with a gentle glow. In Cyprus, balance is a practice, not a destination. It is the art of savoring a moment and letting it go, of tasting enough to know you have tasted, and then turning your attention to the person sitting beside you. It is the discipline of savor and share, of resting enough to notice the next flavor arriving on the plate, of saying yes to warmth, yes to sun, yes to the sea’s patient counsel. It is a life lesson learned one bite at a time, with a smile that asks for more time, more talk, more breath, and more gratitude. So I return to the reef-colored horizon and the table that always promises another round, another story, another cup of something bright and clear. The lesson remains simple and enduring: balance is the soul’s seasoning, the quiet engine of a life well tasted. It’s called balance, and it tastes like a day spent in good company, near the edge of the sea, under a Cypriot sky that never rushes, but always arrives just in time for the next bite. #foodies #cyprusfoodies