Your Not Poor if You Have Something to Give : Relative Wealth
Rob and I often talk about relative wealth. Studies have shown that people tend to feel happiest when they have as much—or more—than those around them. Being at the top end of the economic spectrum in your community tends to feel good. So what does it mean to live in a country where most people hover around the midline?
When I began considering a move to Greece, several friends reminded me, “It’s a poor country.” And by certain metrics, that’s true. Greece is still recovering from the economic collapse of 2010. It doesn’t have the glut of goods we’re used to in the U.S. In stores, housewares, electronics, and furniture often feel low-end to an American eye—especially one accustomed to having access to high-quality goods from around the world, delivered quickly and affordably (at least until Trump disrupted that system).
It’s hard to grasp just how plush life in the U.S. is until you leave. You can pick up a full set of fine porcelain at a yard sale for five dollars, or find solid wood furniture made from exotic woods, Persian carpets, Japanese or Danish knives, and restaurant-grade kitchen appliances with ease. That kind of abundance just doesn’t exist here. If you’re considering a move to Greece, you’ll need to adjust to that reality. The “stuff” simply isn’t here.
But in the absence of all that material excess, something else emerges—a way of life that isn’t so driven by money or industry. The upside? Less stress, less competition, less vanity. And when everyone around you has the same modest stuff, you may discover that you’re not really wanting—at least not after you break your addiction to high-end goods.
Visiting Greece offers a unique feeling of relative wealth. You won’t see flashy people parading around with designer brands. It’s a casual culture, where—much like in Portland, Maine—people generally hug the midline. The cars, clothes, and consumer goods are modest. Here, wealth is felt in the culture, the food, and the warmth of human connection.
Greek culture is slow, leisurely, and centered around food. People gather at all times of day—especially late at night. One mystery I haven’t yet solved: why groups of older men are always gathered at cafes. We’ll pass them on the way to a destination and hours later, there they still are—chatting, smoking, playing games. Whether at beach cafes, tattered tavernas, or huddled on rickety chairs on street corners, this kind of communal presence is everywhere.
Dinner often doesn’t begin until 11 p.m., and people linger for hours afterward, sipping drinks and smoking (yes, they still smoke indoors here).
One of my new favorite drinks is mastiha, an aperitif made from the resin of a tree that grows only on the island of Chios. It’s often gifted after a meal, without being asked for. Other gifts might include cookies, candy, or ice cream. In gas stations or small shops, you’re often offered a little something, just because. It strikes me that in a country many consider “poor,” this habit of giving reveals something profound: people don’t feel poor when they have something to share.
The real wealth in Greece is the food. Because so much is grown and produced locally, wherever you are, you’re eating food from nearby. Seafood, meats, cheeses—most come from micro-farms. Meals are free from the hallmarks of an industrialized food system: no GMOs, fewer pesticides, no deceptive labeling. You can dine expensively if you wish, but you don’t have to. We’ve been served whole fish (always with the head on), likely caught just days earlier, for 20 euros. Portions are large, perfect for sharing: one entrée, a salad, and an appetizer easily make a satisfying meal.
Freshly baked bread is abundant, and the olive oil—and of course, the olives—are world-class. Drinking water quality varies: in larger cities with better infrastructure, tap water is safe, but in many older towns and villages, bottled is best. Still, it’s striking that in this so-called “poor country,” people eat some of the highest-quality food in the world.
Their refusal to rush or overwork themselves shows a deep understanding of what they value. Restaurants often close for a few hours in the afternoon, even if staying open might mean more money. Productivity takes a backseat to presence.
And then there are the beaches—turquoise waters and clean, free public access almost everywhere. If you want a beach bed with shade and drink service, you’ll pay about 10 euros for the day. But between these serviced spots is endless, undeveloped coastline that anyone can wander onto, anytime.
Perhaps the most noticeable value here is the people. You see it in the absence of faces buried in phones. People still call each other. More importantly, they want to be together. They linger in cafés, talk for hours over coffee and homemade sweets, and live in ways that remind you that real wealth isn’t always measurable.
