As a college student abroad in Austria, I became friends with my sorority sister Piper. She was a quick-witted gal with an enormous sense of adventure. And her determination to make the most out of our trip pushed us past curfew almost every night. Together, we barhopped and partied like we had no responsibilities (or exams the next day). But halfway through the semester, we craved new mischief. So, we jetted off to Greece during one of our free weekends.

Piper and I bopped around the bustling city of Athens with no map or itinerary. We wandered the streets like drifters as we ate, drank, and shopped our school stresses away. From hanging out with other international students to swallowing burning ouzo, we answered adventure’s call whenever it came. And when we saw a sign for the Acropolis, we trekked to visit the temple that had all the tourists talking.

Piper and I made quite the scene climbing up to the Parthenon. As dozens of visitors photographed the sky-high pillars, their attention shifted as soon as they spotted our big blonde hair. It was the ’80s. And like most American girls then, our crinkled cotton candy locks were hard to ignore (even in front of an architectural marvel). Like pop stars fielding paparazzi, we entertained travelers lining up for pictures with our permed poufs. But when the buzz died down, we descended back to reality and took our tresses to our hole-in-the-wall hotel.

Our room featured one squished bed and walls so thin the outside noises seemed louder inside. So, we tried to spend as little time there as possible by distracting ourselves with every ruin and kebab stall we could find. And when we maxed out on sights and gyros, we looked for a sign to lead us somewhere else. It came loud and proud in the form of a Greek island advertisement in a travel agency window. And as if our fingers lost control, we forked over the $25 ferry fee for the best views in the world.

The coastlines of Hydra and Poros did not disappoint. Their beachfront fishing boats and polychrome houses looked like a technicolor dream. We bubbled with anticipation as we floated to shore, watching the small ports’ merchants welcome us with their wares. From handmade toys to woven scarves, crafted pieces grabbed our attention as we stepped on land. And despite my student’s budget, I cobbled together enough cash to buy a satchel from a woman stitching leather outside her shop.

Piper and I had the time of our lives exploring the islands’ fishing ports, villages, and stores. From swooning over international students’ accents to dancing on the sidewalk, we savored everyone and everything we encountered. But my favorite memories came from the foods we tried.

At a small sidewalk café in Hydra, I first tasted feta cheese crumbled on a salad with tomatoes picked from pots right outside. I felt my lips perk up as I unpacked the flavors in each tangy bite. It tasted nothing like the supermarket cheese from home. Instead of a melty mess in my mouth, the salty sheep’s milk held its shape as I savored every crumb.

It wasn’t just the cheese that struck me at that meal. The thick slices of ruby red tomatoes hit me with more flavor than any tomato before. And from watching our server salt each piece, I realized how the flaky crystals boosted each chew. The server told me the salinity came from more than the sprinkling on the salad. It evolved from the fruits’ entire life cycle, starting on branches blowing in the wind from the salty sea. And at that moment, I realized the power behind the world’s most basic seasoning.

Before boarding the ferry back to Athens, I purchased a small bag of sea salt from a souvenir shop. It was the first of the many salt parcels I have collected from faraway lands.

Years later, when I returned to Greece, I focused my travel efforts on digging deeper into its cuisine. With the sensory memory still fresh from my first visit, I approached my tour with the mind of a chef. In the vineyards of Santorini, I observed the vines’ unique wreath shapes (called koulouri) that shielded the grapes from the wind and sun. In Perissa, I picked baskets of cherry tomatoes and turned them into fritters. In Peloponnese, I picnicked with Assyrtiko wine and sesame nut bars drenched in honey. And on the island of Crete, I saw fishermen toss their catches on open fires before saucing them with artichokes and olives.

In every experience, I watched in wonder as Greeks made their masterpieces. And just as I had noticed years before, one of the secret to their savor always seemed to be salt. In Athens, the souvlaki shops tossed crystals on kebabs while rotating them on spits. And when the meat was turned, the salt sparked up like firecrackers. Yet when I tasted the souvlaki, I didn’t sense saltiness—only its inherent juices and flavors.

Piper was my own sprinkle of salt on that first Greek trip. She enlivened my essence and sense of adventure. And in her company, I discovered a more effervescent and appetizing version of myself. She inspired me to independently travel to an unknown land without the help of a chaperone. And even though I had the desire to venture off, without Piper whispering, “Let’s do it,” I might have never listened to that urge. Because of her, that longing grew into an insatiable hunger to explore the world. And what a world there is to see!