“The Sea of Olives,” Bettina says as we drive through a forest of olive trees that spreads from the water right and left across the flat land and up the mountains to their tops. We ascend precariously to Delphi, and I understand what a mountain town is. My room overlooks the deep valley, the infinity of olive trees, the small town of Itea hugging the bluest inlet of the Gulf of Corinth. I wonder if I should ever leave my balcony up here. I don’t feel the awesome authority of Pythia, but I feel, knees on the railing, arms out, palms up, something.