She wanted to visit some famous writer’s grave.
So we walked up this winding road behind the church and spent the morning moving awkwardly between tombstones, trying not no step where the bodies might lay.
We turned a corner, around a huge monument and found ourselves at a burial. Two gawky tourists in shorts and bulging bags amongst the still, black clad creatures, staring at the ground. They never made a sound, but sidestepped, shuffled together so that we could stand with them.
After the ceremony, one by one, they shook our hands. And then headed back to the village.