Ancestors’ wedding, circa 1929. (Author’s Collection)
My great-grandparents, circa 1900. (Author’s Collection)
The cliffs of Kastellorizo. (Author’s Collection)
I eventually came back down to have an early dinner. Everyone I met was charming. The few restaurateurs tried to hustle me in but I was in no hurry. As I settled at one restaurant a woman approached me who had known my mother very well. “You look so much like her.” I smiled and sat at her simple café overlooking the bay.
It was sad when she spoke of my parents and the kind of people they were. My father, who after my success finally accepted me, apparently loved talking about my career. As though his influence was a guiding force. What I really escaped was his lack of embrace. But I shared with those who listened how much my journeys in life made my father feel that some part of him succeeded through his son. What the hell, it changed him late in life for the better. I know that if parents don’t want you to go beyond them in fear of losing you, you have to make a shift, leave them behind and be true to your own self. Then they will be able to see through the maze when success follows you. As Milton Katselas used to say to me, “Out-create them.” And by having success, it broadened their vision and certainly mine. And so I finally came to peace with myself, and was able to let my father go, gracefully.
The next morning at dawn, I caught a small boat to take me to the Grotto. As I stepped onto the boat my driver greeted me. Before long we motored out and I could see the clarity of the water below where my father as a young man had gone diving, bringing up hundreds of sea urchins and sponges in small nets. It’s just phenomenal what we remember.
A short while later we traveled around the rock and observed its historic remains. I was reminded what history had passed by these monuments. Age-old battles, domination by the Greeks, to the Crusaders, Turks, Italians, French and finally back to the Greeks. We had left early in the morning because when the tide is high the Grotto disappears. We arrived and entered the cave’s narrow entrance, and there was that water, so blue it almost appeared artificial. It was aquamarine. So beautiful, I dove in and felt the silky water that my father had described when he was having one of his good days. The light piercing through the cave created a magical atmosphere. I kept thinking how my parents had swum here in their youth. And now here I was, swimming in their memories.
I eventually climbed back into the boat and headed toward the hotel. At dusk I began to walk along the different paths and take in the symmetry of this land and how many of its inhabitants lost their fortunes during the early 20th century and made their way to America and Australia. I grew up believing that we were part of an enormous heritage of royal connections, and that if you were not from Kazzie (the nickname of the island) you were not a Greek, but a foreigner. All this self-importance about the kind of history you came from and the lifetime it took to remove its imprint. But I learned to understand it better as I grew older and my eyes became clearer.
I heard a flute playing in the distance and finally spotted a shepherd rounding up his goats and sheep at the bottom of the hill. Not much has changed here, unlike America where every day brings change and little time to realize success. It was a serene scene. I imagined holding my father and mother’s hands and leading them up the hill, being young again when there was time to laugh and enjoy afternoon Greek coffee where an old woman would read your fortune.
But they have gone now.
As the sun took its leave beyond the horizon, I felt them slip out of my hands and disappear to wherever that next stage of life may be. I miss them dearly—and for the first time realized how difficult it was for them to leave this tiny paradise and venture to an Anglo country where they put their pride aside to start at the bottom, doing labor work where little fantasy was left for them in that great and newly developed country called Australia.
I left the following day having a better sense of my parents by visiting their place of birth and the stories that unfolded when I was young. Their little Kastellorizo with its remains, its old and new inhabitants, and those who left, brought their children back to witness their heritage and by doing so kept their culture alive. As the boat was pulling away I couldn’t help but quietly sing a melody that my family had taught me, with the sound of my mother playing the mandolin echoing in my mind. A smile warmed my face as I felt the magic that only faraway places can give you, especially when you have connected to your past and you shift into new beginnings. It’s as if the island had been a myth. My quest of exploring it was fulfilled by being there in the present and letting go of the outmoded thoughts. Kastellorizo had now become real.
NeoClassical house on Kastellorizo. (Author’s Collection)
It seems that all the journeys I have taken were places to hide, to forget, to escape, and eventually discover some meaning hidden behind the walls I chose to climb. And by having climbed over them and embracing the mystery that was waiting to be revealed, dangerous or not, it helped me weave a fabric that I would wear for the rest of my life, and in the end bring me closer to the God that lives through me.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
—Cavafy
Arriving home to family and relatives.
Crown St. Primary School in Sydney, where it all began.
My parents in my Los Angeles home.
My sister Connie and Mum.
My grandparents, George and Polexeni Kiossoglou.
My cousins with Uncle Bill and Grandfather George in humble times.
Mum, left, and Uncle Bill during early 1940s.
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Copyright © 2014 Thaao Penghlis
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-6319-0
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 23