My full name, which is quite a mouthful, is Helga Jonina Margret Stefansson, and I am a walking contradiction. I was born in Winnipeg to Icelandic Canadian parents, which means my DNA is essentially composed of Viking resilience and prairie politeness. But for the last forty years, I have called Piraeus, Greece, my home.

I live in the tension between three worlds: I have Icelandic blood that craves the sun but Icelandic skin that wants to hide from it, Canadian habits that involve apologizing to inanimate objects I bump into, and a thoroughly adopted Greek spirit that has learned to argue with passion and eat supper at 10:00 p.m.

If you are thinking of visiting my adopted home, here is how to navigate it without losing your cool – or your Canadian manners.

Timing: when the marble starts to melt

The Greek climate is perfection for nine months of the year. However, mid-June to mid-September has become a trial by fire. When the mercury hits 45 degrees, even the ancient statues look like they need to go inside for a nap.

My father, Baldur Stefansson – known back home as the “Father of Canola” – was a man of science. He used to say that human beings weren’t biologically designed to function in temperatures higher than those of their own bodies. Of course, I never had the heart to point out the flaw in his logic: What about Winnipeg, Dad? Were we designed to survive -40 degrees with a windchill that could crack a windshield?

This raises a larger historical question: what possessed our Icelandic ancestors to settle on the Canadian prairies? Yes, they were offered free land. Yes, circumstances were difficult. Apparently, my ancestors fled the volcanoes of Iceland only to decide that the frozen marshes of Manitoba were “just right.” Perhaps my moving to Greece was my way of finally settling the score with the thermometer.

My tip: Visit between mid-September and mid-June. You’ll actually be able to walk the Acropolis without feeling like a piece of fried cheese.

The art of Greek driving

Driving in Greece is not for the faint of heart, the easily startled, or those who prefer rules to be consistently interpreted. In Winnipeg, we stop for pedestrians. In Athens, pedestrians are not seen at all or, at best, as obstacles in a video game.

In city traffic, stop signs are occasionally treated as philosophical suggestions. Turn signals are used sparingly, perhaps to preserve them. Motorcyclists rarely even pause for red lights, and if you hesitate, drivers behind you may provide an energetic soundtrack of horns and commentary.

I confess that all too quickly, I absorbed some of these driving tendencies. Late one night, I was driving with my usual Canadian “after you” temperament. I came to a red light and actually stopped. However, a few seconds later, I grew impatient and – out of sheer impatience – I rolled through it.

Naturally, a police officer appeared instantly. He looked at my Canadian license, looked at me, and asked with genuine curiosity: “Would you have done this in Canada?”

“No,” I whispered, my prairie guilt blooming across my face.

He sighed, handed back my license with a look of profound paternal disappointment, and said, “Then get out of here!” He didn’t give me a ticket; he gave me a lecture on character. It was the most effective “shaming” I’ve ever experienced.

The advice: Do not rent a car in Athens. Use the Metro. It’s clean, efficient, and keeps your blood pressure at Icelandic levels. Save the driving for the countryside, where the roads open up – and the rewards are immediate: beaches, seaside tavernas, cafés that persuade you to sit and reconsider your life. Historic sites such as Delphi, Meteora, and Ancient Olympia are comfortably reachable – especially for Canadians who have driven across Saskatchewan voluntarily.

One word of caution: at blind curves, Greek drivers sometimes choose that precise moment to overtake another vehicle. The customary solution is to honk gently before entering the curve. It is both practical and effective.

From stranger to family member

Greeks can sometimes look weary. If you’re the five-millionth tourist they’ve seen that week, you might get a gruff response. Don’t take it personally.

When I arrived in 1986, I was an outsider. Then my husband, Michalis, left for his 26-month compulsory military service, leaving me alone in a new country. His circle of nine friends – plus their spouses – didn’t just “check in” on me. They became my siblings, my protectors, and eventually, aunts and uncles to my son.

How to break the ice: speak to your hosts. Whether at a hotel, an Airbnb, or elsewhere, ask about their families. Greeks are deeply family oriented. Share a little about your own family. Ask where they eat locally, what they would recommend that is not in the guidebooks. When people feel seen and useful, you cease to be just another tourist and you become their valued guest.

Language: if you can say Íslendingadagurinn

Greek is hard. The alphabet looks like a trigonometry textbook. But here is the secret: Greek is phonetic. Unlike English, where “tough” and “though” make no sense, Greek letters always sound the same.

If you grew up in the Icelandic community in Manitoba, pronouncing Íslendingadagurinn, you already have the tongue-muscles for Greek. When you try to speak the language, the locals will treat you like a conquering hero. Even a simple Kalimera (Good morning) opens doors that stay closed to those who don’t try.

But be forewarned: the word nai, which in Icelandic (nei) means no, means yes in Greek.

The island soul

You must go to the islands. We have a small house on Skopelos, and getting there is an odyssey of its own – a long drive north, a ferry, a hydrofoil. But as an Icelandic Canadian, I know that anything worth having requires a bit of a trek.

Closer to Athens are Aegina, Spetses, and Hydra, each reachable within a couple of hours; they are lovely. Farther afield, Paros, Milos, and Crete are also wonderful. Santorini remains breathtaking, though now rather crowded and correspondingly expensive. Beauty attracts attention.

My recommendation: Take a ship to the islands. Don’t fly. There is magic in watching the mainland shrink until you are surrounded by nothing but a deep, impossible blue. It’s the same feeling of vastness you get on the prairies, just reflected in water instead of wheat.

A warning about Greek mothers

Greek food is an act of aggression – a delicious, buttery, lemon-soaked ambush. It is varied, abundant, and delicious. There is something for nearly every palate, and vegetarians – even vegans – are well accommodated.

Be sure to try street foods such as souvlaki, cheese/spinach pies, and koulouria (sesame bread rings); they are inexpensive and satisfying. Among traditional dishes, do not miss baby goat with artichokes in egg-lemon sauce, fish soup, slow-baked chickpeas, lemon potatoes, taramasalata, dolmades, fried zucchini, tzatziki, feta with honey in phyllo pastry, and dakos, to mention just a few. And what we call “Greek salad” abroad is simply “country or village salad” here.

Meals are not hurried. Plates appear gradually. Conversation lengthens. Someone insists you try something. Then insists again. In my early days, I tried to use my polite Canadian “No, thank you, I’m full.” In Greece, this is interpreted as: “I am desperately ill, please bring me three more helpings of moussaka and some honey-soaked feta immediately.”

My brother Paul once visited and learned this the hard way. He tried to be polite. He ended up eating enough lamb to power a small village for a month.

The Golden Rule: When a Greek mother or grandmother puts food in front of you, eat it. If you truly can’t, tell her you have a medical condition. It’s the only excuse they will accept.