An elderly Greek man killed the engine to his dusty, two-wheeled drive Toyota pickup truck, a vehicle so ubiquitous around this part of Greece that it seemed odd whenever we saw a passenger car. The man slowly got out of the vehicle and approached us. He was a farmer, smelling of sweat and stale cirgarettes, wearing a hat with the logo of a Greek fertilizer firm. Using hand gestures, we realized he wanted to know what the hell two lost-looking tourists were doing crossing his land. The man’s son was not far away, manually picking green and red peppers. 
This was our last day on foot. We started the morning in the city of Giannitsa, paid homage to Alexander the Great’s birthplace in Pella, and were less than five kilometers from Chalkidona, a town with regular bus service to Thessaloniki.
From the farmer’s field, we could see a vast plain dominated by agriculture. That morning we skirted vineyards and cotton fields splattered with yellow and purple flowers. Following the Via Egnatia in Greece means getting an inside glimpse into the the world of large-scale fruit and crop cultivation. Noticeably different from Albanian and Macedonian rural landscapes, the Greek countryside showcases more capital with modern tractors and expensive irrigation systems.   
The farmer only spoke Greek. “Helvetia,” we said, explaining that we came from Switzerland. This caught his attention. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, indicating money. Then he pointed at himself and shook his head. We got the message.
What we have not commented about Greece nearly enough is the generosity of the Greek farmers. Similar to our Albanian experience, the Greek farmers and villagers didn’t let us pass through their small towns without some token gift. More often than not, we were on the receiving end of fruit, coffee or bottled mineral water. Most of the time the person treating us to the gift never even spoke to us. 
The old farmer pointed towards a nearby hillside. Ripe watermelons were everywhere. He made a cutting gesture. Another gift. He strode with us among the melons, picking out an enormous specimen, far too large to carry on a pack. Without hesitating, he cut the watermelon from the plant and then split the fruit in half. He handed over the watermelon and gave me his knife before walking away. Sandra and I sat down in the field and gorged ourselves on the watermelon under the midday sun. Juice ran down our chins. 
A couple hours later we arrived in Thesssaloniki. We strolled through the city, marveling at Aristotle’s Square, remnants of the ancient Greek, Roman, and Ottoman civilizations along with hundreds of other tourists. Yet the magic was gone. This was too easy. Where was the bare-chested Greek ready to toast to our good health? Where was the Greek hang gliding team ready to ferry us down a mountain so that we didn’t have to face the shepherd dogs? Where was the gentle old Greek restaurant owner telling us about his long ago crush on a German girl? Where were the Macedonian-speaking Greeks offering us Raki and sausages? These are the sorts of people we were lucky enough to to meet on the backroads between Durres and Thessaloniki. 
People everywhere we went asked us why we had decided to walk the Via Egnatia. Easy. We walked so that we could talk to these same people. Getting out there on foot literally opened doors. This trip required us to trust people, to ask for help along the way. We were never let down.