The old men at the kafenia would sit for hours, pushing stones laconically across the board to the sound of rattling dice, puffing on their pipes and taking long sips of retsina or ouzo while they waited for their opponents to go. I was fascinated by them, and would linger near the stone wall and watch them for hours, even when Anna tugged on my sleeve to try and get me to leave. Eventually, she would give up and wander off, and left to my own devices, I would sit until dusk, when my father would collect me and take me home for dinner.

At first, I was afraid of the old men. They were blustery and weathered, with heavy brows and layers of faded clothing covered in heavy coats. They spat emphatically and nodded to indicate a negative, or threw their heads back with a loud “tsk” when an opponent did something particularly foolish. They gestured broadly, and every new arrival was greeted with a chorus of mockery and lewd suggestions until he settled down at a table to eat olives and wait for a seat at a board to open up.

Yannis, the owner of the kafenia, started giving me small sweets and mezze while I waited, and eventually I took up residence at a corner table, watching the old men and sometimes coloring or practicing my painstaking lettering, or puzzling through the front page of the newspaper. The old men ignored me, as day by day I inched closer, froghopping from table to table to watch until finally, one day, a third chair was pulled up for me by the oldest of the old men so that I could watch their game, and every afternoon, I was greeted with a cry of “ai, koritsimou,” and one of the old men began to teach me the rules of the game, the rolling of the dice and the moving of the pieces and the rules of the doubling cube.

Hesitantly at first, I began to chime into the commentary, and, finally, one day, I was handed the dice and a stack of black stones and I was allowed to set up the board and play with Stefanos, who refrained from trouncing me for three or four games until I gained confidence with the doubling cube and lost most of my allowance and cried “ai gamitsou!” And the old men laughed, and laughed.

When we left Greece, the old men ceremonially presented me with a small portable backgammon set, with points painstakingly burned into a piece of tanned goatskin, smooth black stones from the harbor, and carved bone dice. I don’t know what happened to it; it may have been left in New York, or perhaps it was lost in the Pakistani International Airlines luggage fiasco, but in the ensuing years, I found backgammon opponents here and there, although the game isn’t nearly as popular here as it is in Greece.

Last year, I acquired a new backgammon set of my own, a gift from a friend, and every time I set up the heavy diecast metal markers, I hear the click of stones and the rattle of dice, smell salt and tobacco smoke and feel the old men in the kafenia around me again. Sense memory can be a powerful thing.

Edit: Evidently, this post was chosen as a Best of Holidailies. Thanks to the readers panel.