My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

  ‘Have fun. Lots of it. I ate, drank, smoked, had sex. Have lots of sex if you can get it . . .’ she continued, her eyes twinkling. ‘And be sure to let go of anger. Don’t waste time being angry. Sometimes it’s hard. You can’t help it. But anger isn’t worth it.’

  Feasting

  Our old brown kitchen is being taken apart piece by piece, its bulky brown mass being placed into the back of a trailer. Even though I have complained about its crooked cupboards, its poorly sealed sink and stovetop and its ’70s-inspired colour, part of me is sad to see it go. Her go. I can’t help but think of her as an old dame. A little tawdry, well worn, life battered, but a dame regardless. I’ve found myself keeping her extra clean the last few weeks, almost wanting to apologise that I haven’t quite appreciated her enough. I realise now that she has served us well over the last decade since we’ve been in this home.

  I think about how I have spent so much time in her, angsting about what to put in the many hundreds of lunchboxes I’ve packed for my children; preparing slow-cooked roasts with lemony potatoes for countless family meals in her rickety old oven with the wonky hinges. I remember Dolores and I spilling food colouring on her resilient old surfaces as we tried to reproduce cakes from the Women’s Weekly Birthday Cake Book; George has kneaded hundreds of bread loaves on her strong back; and Emmanuel cut his culinary teeth in her hardy griller by making cheese sandwiches that invariably left their oily footprint all over her. She took it all without so much as a whimper.

  The next day, Phil the cabinetmaker arrives first thing in the morning to install our new kitchen. Even before he’s put his tools down, I’ve got the kettle going.

  ‘Have you had breakfast? Would you like a cuppa?’ I ask.

  Despite having packed away all our utensils and cups in anticipation of the new kitchen going in, my inner Greek host can’t help herself. I feel compelled to offer sustenance, just like my mother and grandmother before me. In Mum’s case, any workmen who came to do a job would be offered a sit-down luncheon meal, often with crumbly shortbread biscuits or honeyed cakes to follow. In Mum’s village, she tells me that helpers who came to harvest olives or help till the soil could always expect to be fed, no matter how poor the host. Often the workers were not paid, but they could always count on a meal.

  ‘Just a cuppa would be great. Coffee. White. No sugar please,’ says Phil as he downs his toolbox.

  After finding some instant coffee in a box, I apologise that I don’t have any biscuits to offer him.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I stopped saying yes to sweets when I do jobs,’ he says. ‘When I reached 100 kilos, I decided it was time to start saying no.’

  I raise my eyes, surprised. Phil looks slim and fit. I ask him how long he’s been doing this job.

  ‘Nearly forty years. More than twenty years with this company,’ he replies. ‘I can’t complain. I like my job. The sun is shining. And I’m alive.’ He smiles widely. It’s only 7.30 in the morning and I’m wondering where Phil gets his energy from.

  He eyes the job in front of him. ‘Your floor is very crooked.’

  ‘Is it going to be a problem?’ I ask, alarmed. I’ve been hankering for this new kitchen for so long I don’t want it to be lopsided.

  ‘It’s a First World problem. It’ll be alright once I’ve had a cigarette.’

  I follow him out with my cuppa. I’m a story addict and I have a feeling I’m going to get my fix this morning.

  He asks me what I do, and I tell him I’m a writer and a teacher. ‘I write websites, reports, that sort of thing. That’s what helps pay the mortgage. But I also write books.’ I shrug almost apologetically, as if that’s not a real job.

  ‘Writing is my passion. Perhaps I’ll write a book sharing the secret about how to live to a hundred!’ I add, watching for his response. I’ve starting gauging people’s reaction to how they feel about living a long time.

  He pulls a face, as if to say that the idea doesn’t appeal to him much at all. ‘Better to have seventy good years than live to a hundred and feel miserable. My father is eighty-six. When he was eighty, his doctor said he should cut down on the fags, not drink so much. I said to him, “Dad, if you want to have half a bottle of wine with dinner, go for it.” My mum is still whipping around the garden. If she gets tired, she sits on her push chair. It’s all about quality, not quantity.’

  He points to his heart. ‘I’ve got a machine in there. I’d be dead without it. When I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy a few years ago, they gave me three months to live. It shook me up, but it didn’t stop me from doing anything. It was my own fault.’ He holds up the cigarette. ‘But I still rocked up to work each day. And I’m still here now.’

  I smile, tempted to say he might give up the cigarettes, but I have a feeling Phil has heard it all before.

  Sure enough, he grins as if he knows what I want to say. ‘I’m not giving up the fags and the booze. I did get sick of being fat though. That I had to change. I threw the crap food out of the pantry, stopped eating the Tim Tams at night. If it’s not in front of you, you won’t eat it. I mean, you don’t want to take it to extremes. You can’t eat this, you can’t eat that. That’s boring. For me it was easy. I decided to say no every time someone offered me food on the job. It’s been two years now and the weight has come off without even trying, without going on stupid diets . . .’

  Phil takes a final puff of his cigarette, drowns the last of his coffee and goes back into the kitchen to grapple with the crooked floor.

  The next day, Emmanuel asks, ‘When are we going to have noodles?’.

  ‘It might be a bit hard to cook noodles without a working stove,’ I reply. The electrician still needs to come. The countertop still needs to be put in. We won’t have a functional kitchen for a few weeks yet.

  ‘Not your noodles. The ones from the shop. You keep promising.’

  Somehow the noodles from the take-out down the road are more alluring than the garden variety I cook at home. I suspect it has something to do with the copious amounts of oil, sauces and MSG the shop adds. And the fact that I add tons of vegetables to my noodle dishes.

  We’ve had no sink or indoor stove these last few days. George and I wash dishes in a bucket outside and we’ve set up the camping stove to cook on. But with Emmanuel’s soccer on tonight, I can’t get my head around cooking. I cave. Bring on the MSG.

  Our closest shopping strip offers more than a dozen take-away options, despite its small size. Dolores and George choose to have fish and chips. Emmanuel has his favourite noodle dish and I order a vegetable noodle soup which is so salty I can’t finish it. Instead I nick chips from George’s plate. We decide to watch what’s on television, so we don’t bicker about what movie to download. Somehow, it’s easier to agree when there’s not a lot of choice.

  I spend most of the next day loading everything I packed into boxes back into the kitchen cupboards – and realise that we probably only use a quarter of them. I put aside the three-dozen small Greek coffee cups (I can’t imagine having that many people come to drink Greek coffee), cull the many party platters my Mum has passed on over the years, debate whether we need that awkwardly shaped apple corer that was advertised on one of the telemarketing shows.

  Dolores helps me, rejoicing in throwing away all the miscellaneous cups, saucers and plates. There’s something liberating about shedding and culling.

  After we’ve finished, she offers to make pasta with pesto for dinner. I’m grateful to her – it’s a relief to take a break from cooking. I try not to worry about the fact that we haven’t eaten anything that vaguely resembles a vegetable today, or that this is the third time we’re having pasta this week. Instead, I down a glass of wine, relieved that everything fits into our new kitchen.

  The next day, we meet Mum and Dennis at Papa Gino’s, our favourite pizza and pasta restaurant in Lygon Street. The first time George came here was when Dolores was three days old. He brought her here while I recuperated from surgery after her birth, drinkin
g a glass of house wine and celebrating being a father over a spaghetti marinara. We’ve been coming as a family regularly ever since. Dolores prides herself on never having ordered anything other than gnocchi bolognese. It hasn’t changed a bit over sixteen years and that’s how she likes it. The owner greets George like an old friend and takes our order.

  When the food arrives, it’s clear we’ve over-ordered, what with two large pizzas, salad, a parmigiana that fills the whole plate, two bowls of pasta and drinks all round.

  All the time we are eating, Mum worries. ‘This is so much food. You’ve spent too much. Can I pay? I could have cooked at home, it wouldn’t have cost you a cent . . .’

  ‘Mum, please. Just enjoy it,’ I say.

  Over dinner we do the usual when we go out – eat, laugh, tell stories, bicker, then eat some more.

  We ask to have some of the food wrapped to take home and then make our way to Brunettis, a Melbourne institution, for coffee and sweets. There we order drinks and ice-cream, which Mum and George can’t finish. I am not at all hungry, but pick at Mum’s leftover ice-cream because I can’t bear to see it go to waste. All the while Mum shakes her head. So much excess. So much money.

  By now, I have to agree with her. We’ve parted with more than $150 and I feel sick.

  The next day, I go shopping at our local greengrocer and stock up on vegetables, pulses and nuts. The bill comes to $100 – enough to feed the whole family for several days. I start preparing some vegetables to make a big batch of baked spring rolls. It’s time to get back on track. Again.

  In the early days of my infatuation with Ikaria, I subscribed to the Blue Zones newsletter and an alert for the latest update now pings in my inbox. I follow the link, which tells me it’s okay to drink wine in moderation, and in company. It reminds me that the Ikarians drink their wine with a splash of water.

  I do a quick mental calculation. It’s been some two years since I read about the Ikarians. In the last year Mum has had a stroke and I’ve started a busy new job. Each member of the family has their own preoccupations – school, work, sport and various hobbies. The dinner table is our meeting ground most nights as we swap and share news about our day; argue and make up again. The last year has passed very quickly.

  I see I have time to do the longevity test before I head off to work.

  The test comes up with a life expectancy result of ninety-seven years. I smile. Eating well, moving lots and having small daily rituals for connection has become an integral part of my life. But despite the good result, something is still niggling at me.

  As work has got busier and I’ve taken on more teaching, there’s even less time to relax. Every minute is stretched to within an inch of its life. I’ve had a few migraines in the past few months. The idea of scheduling time in to calm down stresses me out. I’ve never been one to sit still for long.

  I think back to the Ikarians and their laidback attitude to time. While I’ve come a long way, perhaps there is still more to be learnt from them. Now that Mum is doing so much better, and the kids are older, I wonder if the time has come to put the trip to Ikaria back on the agenda?

  Later in the week, George and I take an evening walk. It’s late summer, and a cool breeze offers some respite from the heat of the day.

  Amid the comfortable banter about the kids, gardens and cleaning out the garage, I raise the topic of going to Ikaria again. George turns to me, looks at me searchingly.

  ‘You need to do this, Spiri. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be alright. When do you think would be a good time?’

  I hesitate. ‘Um, I haven’t thought that far. Are you sure? What about the kids? Work? You’ll need to take some time off . . .’

  I’m not sure why I’m resisting this. I have George’s blessing. And I know he and our children will be okay.

  I suspect the only person standing in my way is me.

  Over the coming weeks, our dinner conversations go back and forth about the logistics of how to make a trip to Ikaria happen – or rather, how the home fires might be stoked in my absence. George tells me to stop fretting. In his mind, he has it all sorted. He says my responsibility is to go to Ikaria; his is to manage the home while I’m there. He will cut down his fulltime work to three days a week. Outsource one or two meals a week to the same company that delivers food to his parents. Maybe even get a cleaner. And by the way, how many loads of washing do I do each week?

  On the one hand, I admire George’s attitude – if he doesn’t have the time to do it himself, then he will pay someone else to do it. Simple. But on the other hand, I can’t help but be offended that the things I do each day might be outsourced so easily, paid for with the swipe of a credit card. That what I do for free someone else can do for money, without my emotional attachment to the rituals of our daily life

  For their part, the kids baulk at the idea of outsourcing meals. Dolores offers to cook three times a week to avoid it. Emmanuel says he will cook once a week – he could do fried eggs, or perhaps grilled sandwiches. Dolores had looked at me as if to say, ‘We’ll survive, Mum, but hurry back.’

  It’s settled then. I’m going to Ikaria.

  Preparing

  My friend Angela’s brother, Alex, has kindly offered to introduce me to a couple who live in Melbourne, but are originally from Ikaria. At Alex’s suggestion, Sotiris and his wife, Vaso, have agreed to talk to me about the island and its people. This might help me to decide when to go, and where to stay.

  Sotiris has a shock of thick white hair, chiselled features and huge light-coloured eyes that meet mine appraisingly. His stance is confident, and he gives the appearance of height, even though he is more stocky than tall. It’s hard to tell how old he is.

  We shake hands, his grip firm. I note his forearms are taut with muscle and have prominent veins, the arms of a labourer. I am not sure whether to speak in Greek or English, or whether to call him Sotiris, or use the more formal Kirie, Mr Sotiris. I think he falls somewhere between my age and that of my parents.

  I end up introducing myself in Greek. ‘Me lene Spirithoula.’

  ‘Welcome. Spiridoula, where are your parents from?’ It’s a question I’ve had from Greek-born Australians all my life.

  They were from near Kalamata, I tell Sotiris.

  ‘I was in the army in Kalamata, I got my first haircut there.’ He smiles at the memory.

  His wife, Vaso, comes up behind him. She is shorter and rounder that her husband. She kisses me warmly on both cheeks, welcomes me to their home.

  We take a seat and Vaso heads off to the kitchen, saying she has just prepared us a small meze, a snack. She proceeds to bring out plate after plate: grilled mushrooms, cheese pie, dips, several different types of pickled vegetables, cheese and bread. After placing a bottle of ouzo and a canister of ice on the table, Vaso pours little shots for us and herself. Sotiris takes a beer.

  Sotiris was born in Ikaria, Vaso in nearby Samos. They migrated to Australia more than forty years ago. They still travel to Ikaria every second year to visit their siblings and their parents, who are in their nineties. Sotiris finds a map of the island and points out where he grew up in the upper village of Therma, the site of Ikaria’s hot springs.

  We talk about his work in heavy construction, inserting metal rods into the concrete pillars of new apartments. He tells me he is sixty-seven but still manages to keep up with the young blokes.

  When I ask about his early life in Ikaria, he replies: ‘In my village, we grew everything. We even grew our own lupines (black-eyed peas) and lentils. We had our own animals for meat – hens, pigs, goats. We would sell the meat to the butcher to make a bit of money and we would just keep the entrails for ourselves. What could you do when you had very little money? We used the whole pig, everything except the bristles. Before we had a fridge, we would pickle the pork in fat and salt. We ate wild greens and herbs, grew our own fruit and vegetables.’

  He shrugs. ‘What can I say? The air was clean. There was no stress. It was a different
lifestyle.’

  He pulls out a calendar containing photos of the island, dated 2010. We flick through it, noting the beautiful beaches, the little churches and barren mountainsides. He shows me carefully framed photos of the island from 1913. A fridge magnet that says, ‘Clocks and stress have no place in Ikaria.’

  On a small map, he points to the windy roads that connect each village and town. ‘There were no roads then like these ones now,’ he says, tracing them with his finger. ‘On the rare occasions when someone would come down to the main town from one of the inland villages, they looked wild. As a kid, I thought they were from another planet.’

  I ask Sotiris and Vaso if they have any kids or grandkids, and Vaso pulls out a wedding book marking their daughter’s wedding day. I flick through it, admiring the young bride and her entourage.

  ‘You should show them our wedding album,’ Sotiris says, ‘it’s huge!’

  It takes me a few moments to realise he is joking, poking fun at the fact that at most they probably only have a couple of wedding photos. Times have changed. Sotiris came to Australia with a half-filled suitcase; his kids are growing up in relative comfort.

  When I tell Sotiris I am considering going to Ikaria in the springtime, he pulls a face. ‘It’s still cold. You won’t see as many people out. All the weddings happen in summer – by necessity they are outside, as there are no large indoor venues. Why don’t you go in July? There are a lot of festivals on then. We’ll be there. We’ll show you around. We won’t leave any stone unturned. It’s very hard to get around without a car, if you don’t know anyone . . .’

  He plies me with another serve of mushrooms.

  I thank him and tell him I will think about it.

  ‘And, don’t tell the old people you’re there to find out why they live a long time,’ he continues. ‘After they did research on longevity there, a few of the elders died. The other elders thought that the researchers had put the evil eye on them, and stopped talking about why they lived so well and so long.’