My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

  When I explain what he’s said to Mum, she smiles. ‘Thank you. You a very good doctor.’

  On the way out, she says, ‘See. I told you it was nothing. I hope the koulouria are okay.’

  I hope so too.

  After I drop Mum off, I realise the tightness around my head is gone. When I get home, I open the oven door cautiously, expecting the worst. I see that the residual heat has cooked the koulouria perfectly. I ring Mum, and she is pleased. We will both sleep well tonight.

  The next day, I take a walk to our local cemetery where Dad is buried. We moved into the suburb soon after he died. After months of looking at homes on the other side of town, the right home became available in the area. Superstitiously, I felt that Dad had helped us find our home from beyond the grave, perhaps so that I could more regularly light his candle and tend to his grave.

  The ritual of lighting the vigil lamp on his tomb is calming; making sure there is oil in the glass, lighting the wick, placing it carefully back into is holder; putting flowers in the vase, lighting the incense and waving it back and forth over the gravesite. Usually I find myself silently talking to Dad, mostly to reassure him that I haven’t forgotten him, that I still love him, even if I don’t quite come often enough. Today, I silently tell him my news.

  I’m finally going to Ikaria, Dad. I know you probably won’t approve, because I’m leaving the family. But I do think you’ll understand the need to be true to something that feels important. Yes, I’ll be safe. Don’t worry.

  I know my father was proud of me, and that still gives me courage. I touch the top of the gravestone reassuringly, as if Dad can really see me and be comforted by my action.

  Now, apart from finalising several work projects over the next two weeks, making sure that the family has everything that they need, and packing myself and my belongings to take an overseas trip, I’m ready to leave.

  Arriving

  As the plane touches down in Athens I feel a mixture of guilt and elation. Guilt at leaving my family behind in Australia; elation at being in the country where my parents and ancestors were born, where I still have several relatives. As I walk across the tarmac, I am struck by the familiar smell of diesel, one I always associate with my first heady days in downtown Athens some twenty-five years ago now. Being here feels like a homecoming of sorts.

  In the terminal, Theio Spiro, my father’s brother, materialises from behind a column before I’ve even picked up my luggage. Somehow, he has managed to bypass security. It’s been seven years since I last saw him, and he is portlier, greyer, his moustache now reminiscent of my grandfather’s. I fear that I might see my father in his features and start crying, but Theio is too plump and sunny, where Dad was angular and serious. He is with my first cousin Semina, who hugs me tightly. I get teary, but for different reasons, thinking back to my farewell embraces with George and the kids at the airport in Melbourne.

  Theio introduces me to a middle-aged woman, an airport security controller who happens to be his next-door neighbour. I don’t need the loudspeaker blaring instructions in Greek on how to claim your baggage in an orderly fashion to know I have arrived in Greece.

  In the car, after catching up on how everyone is and what they are doing, we get to the crux of what’s important in Greece at this moment. The economy. How difficult things have been. How Greeks are still trying to make the best of an untenable situation. How trade has almost stopped completely. Semina, who works for a multinational telecommunications company, is one of the lucky young people who has a job. In fact, two of the four members of my uncle’s family work. This is cause for celebration.

  As we drive out of the airport carpark, Semina asks about kangaroos, bushfires, floods. She talks breathlessly, quickly; her long black hair and big brown eyes moving constantly. It’s hard for her to get her head around the sheer size of Australia – she is astounded at the idea of it having three time zones.

  At home, my aunty Eleni has prepared lunch – baked potatoes, Italian lettuce salad with pomegranate seeds, cheese pie, a few pieces of grilled kabana. Theio Spiro opens a bottle of Greek wine, and they ask me more questions about the family. I pull out my phone to show them some photos: the kids, our backyard, the wood-fired oven George has built. A bit of the village in the city. They are impressed.

  After a while, I start to fade, and they send me off to bed. Although I have been awake for more than thirty-five hours, I lie there, wired, thinking about how far I am from home. There is a pervasive sense of unreality, and I feel teary again – I am a grown woman, but I feel vulnerable, like a child. I know that sleep will help, but I toss and turn.

  I wake a few hours later to my uncle’s voice at the door, talking to someone about whether to wake me or leave a note. I get up and he asks me if I’m up for an excursion with the next-door neighbours. It appears his security controller neighbour hasn’t eaten since breakfast and has invited them out to eat souvlaki at Mount Lykavitos a little out of Athens. I throw on some clothes, smiling to myself – we are in Greece, and these are the very spontaneous happenings that it is famous for. Despite the financial crisis, some things will never change.

  That night, I lie in bed late, tired and overwhelmed by the events of the day, Greek words streaming through my brain, images of shops flying past, groups of people sitting at tables eating. I feel an ache for my family and am suddenly conscious of how far from home I am. How am I going to get through a whole month without my own family?

  The next day, the first day of May, I wake early with jetlag, but last night’s worries have dissipated. My aunty sends my uncle and I out into the warm morning sunshine to pick flowers for a wreath to put up beside the door. This practice is supposed to bring people closer to nature and to celebrate the ‘coming of May’ my aunt explains. The month of May was named after the Roman goddess Maia, meaning midwife, nurse and mother in Greek. The tradition has its roots in ancient times, with May dedicated to Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, and her daughter Persephone, who would return to her mother during that month, after spending the winter with Hades in the underworld.

  My uncle asks if I’m up to visiting his and my father’s sister before lunch. Of course, I say. He doesn’t tell my aunt we’re coming, choosing instead to surprise her. I ask if we can stop somewhere to pick up some sweets. We pull into the carpark of one of the many bakeries we have passed. It is piled high with rustic loaves of bread, and rows upon rows of sticky baklava, syrupy cakes, biscuits and all manner of sweet delicacies. Despite it being a public holiday, it is open: my uncle says that bakeries are open every day of the year. Clearly, Greeks can’t do without their carbs.

  Theia Eleni appears on the veranda, looking a little bewildered to see me. She looks older, her face more reminiscent of Dad’s, I think with a pang. She kisses both my cheeks, asks after the family, and soon disappears into the kitchen. My cousin George and his son are washing the car across the road. They greet us warmly, then excuse themselves to finish the job.

  Theia Eleni comes back with Greek coffee, plates and forks for the cake.

  She sits next to me and laments that her husband, Panagioti, my uncle, has passed away since she saw me last.

  ‘He is gone, and I am all alone, Spiridoula.’

  ‘At least you have your sons across the road, your beautiful grandchildren,’ I say.

  She nods. ‘Yes, my grandkids keep me going.’

  My cousin Sakis appears from the house he lives in next to his brother. He kisses me and looks at me closely. I wonder what he makes of the changes in my face. I think back to the first time I came to Greece, when we would spill out of nightclubs together in the early morning hours. Or sit on this very same veranda, talking into the night. Twenty-five years have passed since then.

  As I eat my cake, I look towards Theio Spiro, who is gently advising my cousin about managing their father’s estate. I think how naturally he has stepped in to fill the hole now that Panagioti has passed away.

  Despite my cousins being middle-
aged men, with responsibilities and families of their own, it’s comforting to know they still have a father looking out for them, even if he is not their own. No doubt it makes my uncle feel needed, now that he hasn’t got paid work to occupy him.

  When we return home, my cousin Semina has plans for me. She wants to show me Athens, to make sure I have a good time in the few days I am here.

  ‘You don’t want to just hang out with the oldies!’ she jokes.

  I laugh. I am fifteen years older than her, and some twenty years younger than her parents – midway between her generation and theirs.

  We take the underground train into the city, and soon we spill out in the sunshine at Constitution Square. We are hit with a cacophony of sound: tourists, seagulls and vendors who are peddling everything from bread rolls to garish floral head arrangements to celebrate May Day.

  We make our way across the square and upstairs to a rooftop bar that looks out to the Acropolis.

  Semina and I debate whether it’s too early to have a drink, and decide on coffee. She notes that in Greece, drinking is part of enjoying company, eating food, having a good time. It’s not an end in itself. She tells me she worked in Silicon Valley for a time.

  ‘My time in the US was good, but it was all about work. You got home at night exhausted, and then you started again the next day. Got drunk on the weekends, ate lots of take out. We had to show our colleagues there was a different way of doing things, made sure they went out during the week, enjoyed the moment, joked and laughed in the office. I work hard here, but at least we have this . . .’ She waves her hand across the outdoor bar. People, sunshine, life. And the Acropolis.

  ‘Why would you want to give this up?!’ I ask.

  She laughs. Why indeed?

  Later than evening when we get home, I find my uncle sitting with his neighbours on a bench diagonally opposite his house. The bench was built by one of the neighbours. When I asked if he needed a permit from the local council, my uncle scoffs. ‘If they want to, they can come and take it away.’

  We sit on the bench, and I watch my uncle debrief the day’s events with an elderly gent, talk to another neighbour who walks past with her dog. Just as we’re about to go in, a teenager and his dad join us, and we stay a little longer. By the time we return to the house, the sun has gone down on this, the first day of spring.

  The Ancient Greeks said, ‘Pan metron ariston.’ Everything in moderation. If you live a life of extremes, you lose balance. Everything is necessary, even problems.’

  Theio Spiro and I are having a breakfast of rusks, tahini, honey and black coffee. Like many Greeks, he normally skips breakfast, but is partaking in the ritual to keep me company. As the caffeine takes effect, Theio Spiro fires up to the task of telling me what makes for a good life.

  ‘If you expect everything to be pleasant, it just doesn’t happen. You can’t live without problems, Spiridoula. In Greek, we have a saying: “He who is happy is in his own world.” As if he is too stupid to experience life properly. We humans like to be troubled, we’re masochists!’

  I laugh. Sometimes happiness feels so elusive. The more one strives for it, the further it seems out of reach. Theio’s philosophy is much more pragmatic.

  ‘All you can hope to do is solve your problems so that they don’t cost you psychologically,’ he says. ‘And each day, to have some pleasant moments.’

  He takes another sip of his coffee. Spreads a second rusk with honey. His wife is not here to berate him about eating too much.

  ‘You know, later tonight, I might have a different philosophy. This is my feeling over coffee this morning!’ he continues, laughing in a self-deprecating way, as if to commit to a definitive opinion would cost him psychologically.

  After breakfast, Theio Spiro dons his reading glasses and fires up his little laptop to continue searching for specialty camera shops. He is looking for a charger to suit George’s retro-style camera. In the flurry to leave Australia, I’d forgotten to pack it.

  It’s not the first time he’s helped me in the past few days. He’s found the right SIM card and best data deal, so I can use my mobile phone in Greece; solved why the wifi connection won’t allow me to video call the family; and helped me decipher online bus timetables to prepare for the next leg of my journey to the south of Greece. I think back to my early travels in Greece, when I would write letters back home, and make occasional phone calls from payphones. With the more sophisticated options available to me now, there’s no going back, but part of me hankers for the ritual of stepping out and making phone calls from the local square, for the more considered work of laying down ink on paper. Writing the words felt more meaningful than quickly typed obligatory updates on Facebook.

  I watch my uncle, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, moustache quivering in concentration. This is a man who grew up in a village without a phone, now earnestly trying to master the vagaries of the internet. It makes me think about my own father, who passed away twelve years ago now. What would he make of me sitting with his brother? I think Dad would be proud that their bond, formed more than half a century ago, has stretched across the seas and over time. It’s meant that Theio has naturally, and without question, stepped in as father figure for me these past few days I’ve been in Athens. He and my aunty have fed me, given me a bed to sleep in, and now he’s armed me with his take on what makes for a good life.

  I feel buoyed. I’m ready to start the next leg of my journey, to visit my Theia Kanella and catch up with more cousins.

  Connecting

  As the bus pushes through and under the mountains, entering the smaller villages of the southern Peloponnese, I feel myself relaxing. I’d forgotten how pretty the white stone houses set back from unsealed roads were, trellised roses and jasmine lining their front yards; the busy village squares, tavernas filled with stooped men playing backgammon. On being flagged by old women laden with shopping, or teens returning from school, the bus driver stops by the road. We whiz past sheds piled high with animal feed and fertiliser.

  My cousin Dionysios picks me up from the bus station. His is darkly tanned, unshaven, his movements energetic. His lifts me completely off my feet in a bear hug and talks to me in English. He needs to practise, he says. I laugh and tell him I need to practise my Greek.

  I sneak into my aunt’s house, and make my way into the kitchen. Theia Kanella, dad’s sister, comes around the door. She has grown her hair long, and tied it back in a bun like my grandmother used to do. Her face is thinner, and seems much smaller than the last time I was here. She is a little frail – but she looks right somehow, as if this is how an older woman who has been widowed, who has raised kids and grandkids, and who has worked very, very hard, should.

  I told myself I wouldn’t cry when I saw her, but I can’t help it. We sit on the settee in the kitchen, and I hold her hands as she talks. I don’t trust myself to speak without sobbing. She composes herself before I can, and she talks while I just sit there. One of her other sons, Stathis, turns up and her eighteen-year-old grandson, Achilleas, eats and watches us, his face unlined, curious, beautiful. He places his plate on the sink, banters with Uncle Stathis about girls, kisses us on the cheek and leaves to go home to study for his exams.

  Stathis fusses around us, making coffee, cleaning the already clean bench top. His hair has grown down his back, grey and wavy. ‘Spiridoula mou,’ he calls over his shoulder, ‘I am a fifty-year-old bachelor living with his widowed mother in her seventies.’ He throws the dish cloth around in mock disgust at the blow that life has dealt him.

  ‘Do not be concerned if you hear us bickering – we fight a hundred times a day.’

  I am not concerned about their bickering, as this is what oils Greek households and keeps them healthy.

  Stathis sets us up at the table in the garden. He places pillows on the chair for his mother and brings us coffee. We talk about who has died and who is still going since my trip with the family several years ago. I drink the viscous black coffee, blink i
nto the midday sun, find it hard to believe I am here.

  Later, Theia Kanella shows me her garden, an expanse of vegetable patches she has created from several metres of land that was laying idle. There’s not much at this time of year she says – some leeks, onions, silverbeet, peppers and the first of the tomatoes.

  She says Stathis was upset with her when she started clearing the space.

  ‘You should have seen what was on this field, rocks, hard dirt, things we had dumped. Stathis was livid that I, with my rheumatoid arthritis and lung problems, was clearing a field. But I said, “Leave this to me. There are some things you simply don’t know about.” My aunty has grown up on the land; she is an expert at clearing and planting, nurturing and bringing life forth from the earth.

  The garden is now at the point where they hardly ever need to go shopping for fresh produce. Along with cutting down on meat, the garden has helped keep their living costs down. My aunt’s pension has been cut. Stathis has been out of work for several years, his once thriving business a thing of the past. Dionysios is now living with them on his modest policeman’s pension. It’s hard.

  Stathis has prepared lunch and we go inside to eat. He has a pot of vegetables stuffed with herbs and rice, greens from the garden sautéed with onions, stewed chicken pieces with vegetables, and chicken livers. There is the requisite feta and olives, bread drizzled with olive oil and oregano. We toast with wine and each of us takes what we like; my aunt is fasting, so she avoids the meat and cheese; Dionysios favours the chicken; Stathis and I stick with the vegetable dishes. I tentatively sample the chicken livers, but they are too rich for my taste.

  Dionysios knows I am travelling with his ex-wife to Ikaria. I tell him that I feel a little awkward about it. He tells me he’s good with it, asks if there is anything I want to know about Ikaria from the time he was stationed there as a policeman. He says he started out in the island’s capital Agios Kirikos, then in the small mountain village of Christos Raches. I ask if there was even anything to do there as a policeman.