Three years ago, my best friend Brett and I traveled to Ikaria, a small Greek Island off the coast of Turkey. My mom affectionately called it the “roots” tour: a voyage to discover my Greek heritage by visiting my country of origin. While I was hoping to uncover the Kouvaris family royal dynasty, Brett was along for the spinach pie and my great aunt’s famous stuffed grape leaves. As the plane touched down on the island of Ikaria, Brett and I set out to tour the village of Karavostimo, the birthplace of my great-grandfather. Tourism is not part of the Ikarian economy, thus it was quite apparent that we were visitors. Despite his emigration to America nearly a hundred years ago, the natives all knew exactly who my great-grandfather was. We were led to my grandfather’s cousin’s house, where little English was spoken, but the warmth of family− no matter how distant− was well understood. We were welcomed into the house for a lunch of what we discovered to our great dismay to be roasted jackrabbit; we conversed in ninety percent Greek and ten percent English about family history and relatives. When we attempted to find my great-grandmother’s house, a woman walking past us pointed us down what she called a road, but what looked to us more like a narrow goat path. We hesitantly drove down the side of the hill, as far down as we safely could, then we walked until we stumbled upon a corral of goats that recognized us as strangers. We passed through the clearing under the goats’ watchful eyes and continued to look for the house. We finally arrived at a one story home with dirt floors and a white tile with my last name painted on it in blue. “There’s no hidden family history of Greek royalty,” I said to Brett, “We were just goat herders.” Australia better be ready for us because we are definitely ready for Australia! No worries, mate!