My Big Fat Mediterranean Diet

What's the deal?

Ah, Greece. The land of ancient philosophers, azure seas, and a diet so healthy it makes kale look like a guilty pleasure. Like many Americans, I am always on the lookout for healthy ways of living, eating, and maintaining that all-encompassing work-life balance.

Grilled octopus, fava spread and vlitta

Let me backtrack a bit. People have been asking “Why Greece?” “Why now?” First of all, my husband, as those of you who have been following know, is Greek (and a nationalized US citizen). So as two adventurous souls who have only lived together in the US, we thought at one point we’d end up trying the Greek lifestyle as a couple. But there was something else. Over the past few years, my sleep patterns and behaviors had gotten stranger than a Greek tragedy. Snoring aside, I began developing a habit of kicking, punching my partner, and yelling indiscriminately in my sleep. I’d wake up refreshed, remembering my nocturnal activities in perfect detail, as if they had actually happened. My partner, on the other hand, was increasingly concerned and unable to get a good night’s rest…for, like, 8 years. The tipping point came in December 2022 when I leaped out of bed, heeding a call from a person in my dream. My husband, bewildered, asked, “Where are you going?” I mumbled something about the bathroom, which was false. I was off to save a life. The next day, I did what all digitally savvy, curious adults do: I searched the Internet for an answer to my bizarre symptoms. Lo and behold, I found something interesting: REM Sleep Behavior Disorder (RBD), an extremely rare condition affecting memory, behavior, sleep patterns, and, most disturbingly, 70-80% of those diagnosed, according to the latest research, developed one of three neurodegenerative diseases within ten years of diagnosis—Parkinson’s (most prevalent), Lewy body dementia (which both my grandfather and mother had), or an autoimmune condition(the name of which eludes me). After months of doctors, prayers, and hopes, I received my diagnosis: yes, I have RBD but “it’s very early and you are young.” But no cure for it exists, right? Right. Prolong it? Yes. Doctor after doctor told us one way to hold it off includes a Mediterranean diet.

Deciding to quit our jobs (dare I say “retire”?) and move to Greece was the easy part. (Yes I’m leaving some of the story our for future blogs!) No brainer. If a Mediterranean diet was what I needed, we knew what to do. We packed our bags, put our Florida house on the rental market, gave Goodwill a mountain of stuff, waved goodbye so fast to processed food, our friends, family, and children, and embarked on our journey to the Hellenic Republic, determined to swap belly fat and foggy brains for a set of Olympian abs and energy to go with them. After all, the Mediterranean diet promises heart health, weight loss, and longevity. What could possibly go wrong?

The first week in Greece, it was about 100 degrees. We walked around to various appointments in a jet-lagged fog. Later that evening, my in-laws fixed a perfect meal of fresh fish and zucchini, with cold, refreshing watermelon for dessert. A great start.

Breakfast was a modest affair: Greek yogurt with honey and fresh fruit. “This is easy!” I thought, smirking as I imagined my friends envying my new, healthy lifestyle. Lunches were tomatoes and feta; dinners were a rainbow of vegetables, legumes, and a modest portion of grilled fish or chicken, all drizzled with olive oil, lemon, and oregano. I felt positively smug as I devoured my salads, picturing my cholesterol levels plummeting faster than my interest in Florida politics.

But then came reality. Moussaka, spanakopita, cheese pies, and souvlaki beckoned me with siren songs of cheesy, meaty goodness. “It’s all part of the diet!” I rationalized. I ate much smaller portions than I normally would at every meal. Cheese and bread however became a staple for us at some point. Mini ice creams — especially mini strawberry on a stick— became ritualistic. I was introduced to new kinds of cookies, but in staying away from creamy, flaky, or chocolaty ones, I figured I was doing well. Then I found tzureki, a challah-like bread, braided, but with an almondy-orange undertone. Uh oh.

It has now been one month since we arrived. I am one or two pounds heavier. So instead of my clothes fitting more comfortably, they aren’t loose at all. My love handles are far from being exiled. My belly still resembles a six-pack— of beer.

“How could this be?” I lamented, eyeing the scale with the kind of betrayal usually reserved for tattle-talers. I reviewed my meals, convinced that somewhere, somehow, I had strayed from the sacred Mediterranean path. Less wine, hardly any sweets. No white sugar. Smaller portions. As I wallowed in my waistline, I’ve noticed that many more women my age aren’t thin and robust at all. I’ve taken notice of their slower gaits, wearing two-piece bathing suits without care at 200 pounds, eating and drinking heartily. I began to suspect a grand conspiracy.

But amidst my observations and disappointment, something unexpected happened. Despite the extra pounds, I felt amazing. My energy levels were through the roof, my skin glowed with a Mediterranean sheen, and my mood was more stable than it had been in years.

I started to understand that perhaps the true essence of the Mediterranean diet wasn’t just about fitting into smaller jeans but embracing a lifestyle of joy, community, and balance. Sure, I might have been eating more cheese, honey, olives, oil, and cookies, but I have also been walking and swimming more, laughing more, and worrying less.

By the end of one month, I have gained a new perspective. And a couple of pounds, I still am convinced, are from gaining muscle, not fat. I find myself savoring life in a way that goes beyond calorie counting and carb-cutting. I’m trying not to think about the future of American democracy. Enjoying the sanity of not being bombarded by pharma commercials every five minutes. Reading more. Writing these musings. Naps with my sweetheart in the afternoon. My heart feels full (along with my stomach), and I realize that most times the scales can’t measure what truly matters.

So here we are, savoring every bite. But more importantly, gaining life. And really, that’s why we moved to Greece.