My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

A plateau has been dug into the mountain, and it holds a burial site with several rows of graves. The blue-hued mountain looms over the tiny cemetery, an old gate with a cross on it barely able to hold back the forest from taking it over again.

  Niki and Isa go on ahead, searching for Stamatis’s grave. I lag behind, looking at the fading photos, noting names and dates. For such a small graveyard, there are a disproportionate number of people born last century who died only recently.

  The girls have found the grave, and I join them. It’s a simple white marble tomb, covered in dried branches and seeds. I brush away the foliage and see that Stamatis died at ninety-eight. The headstone cavity holds a glass with a candle in it, and a small, fading photo of Stamatis from the New York Times. I can’t help but smile at his open, willing expression as he squints into the sun, leaning on his shovel. While his story helped make the island famous for the longevity of its residents, he is buried simply, like everyone else here.

  Unable to find a holder for the wick, I must be content with simply lighting the candle. We leave the oil and wicks behind. Perhaps the next person who comes here will find something to light the vigil lamp.

  As we make our way out of the cemetery, Niki points out the graves of some people she knew. ‘This was my father’s godfather. And this was an uncle. I remember this person, they were this high . . .’ She puts her hand to her chest, remembers the amusing nickname that captured how short he was.

  As she narrates her anecdotes, the names on the graves begin to mean something more than just impressive ages engraved on marble and stone. The people buried here had personalities; they were part of families; they worked their land. Many saw their children leave for distant shores. They experienced several wars, would have faced hunger and political unrest. They cried and laughed, gossiped and feasted. Some lived longer, some less. But they all eventually died, just as we all will. I realise that the thought doesn’t depress me anymore, as it did when my friend Katerina died. This is simply how it is. This is life.

  As Niki and Isa make their way back to the car, I return to check Stamatis’s grave one more time, place a hand on the cool marble and say goodbye.

  Isa and Niki stop outside the new apartment where I’ll be staying for a couple of days in the village of Armenistis. After helping me hitch my luggage up several flights of stairs, they admire the view and the ample kitchen, and smoke a cigarette. Back down at the car, we hug tightly. It feels as if we’ve been travelling together for months, not a little over a week. We have all got something out of this trip, and Niki and Isa didn’t want it to end – but they are now ready to go home to their children – as am I.

  As soon as Niki and Isa drive off, I wonder if I will be lonely here by myself. Perhaps I should try and make my way to the festival that’s on a few villages along, surround myself with people, keep doing things to make the most of my time here. But I catch myself and my need to keep ‘doing’ all the time. I realise that despite how much I’ve enjoyed the company of Isa and Niki, I’m looking forward to having some time to myself, a chance to reflect on all that has happened in the past few weeks.

  It feels comforting to unpack and hang my clothes, do my washing, and gather together the marmalades, honey and ouzo I have bought as gifts. I’m tempted to make a list of who I still need to buy for, but resist – I haven’t made a list in three weeks, and I’m holding off doing so for as long as possible.

  It’s my birthday tomorrow and I imagine eating alone will feel a little lonely. I respond to an email from Urania, invite her and her husband out for a meal tomorrow to celebrate with me.

  I video call my family, keen to connect with them after a few days of hurried phone calls and no wifi. I show them my sea view and around the apartment. George quips that he paid twice as much to stay in a highway hotel in regional Victoria for work recently. It had a very fine view of the carpark.

  George also fills me in on the latest, including a few appointments we need to attend on my return. I get out my diary for the first time in three weeks, scribble the commitments in. Organising my life in this way feels familiar, even strangely comforting. George sounds a little tentative, as if he is worried about interrupting me with the minutiae of our life. Perhaps he thinks now that I’ve had a heady taste of freedom, I might find family life in Melbourne boring.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t get all depressed on you when I come back,’ I say. ‘Unless of course the weather is horrid.’

  He laughs, sounding relieved. ‘So, what can we expect will be different about you?’

  ‘Well, I’m drinking Greek coffee in the morning. Not snacking as much. Eating lots of greens every day. Tell the kids to watch out – there will be wild greens with every meal.

  ‘People mostly move to work their fields or do their housework. As I’ve had no housework, I’ve done a lot of sitting, eating and socialising. With the odd bit of berry picking in between. I’ll be doing a lot more walking when I get home . . .

  ‘And I might put it to the neighbours that we should set up a park bench in our street, like in Theio Spiro’s street! Imagine if every street had a park bench where people could talk to each other?’ I laugh, wondering what the local council would make of that idea.

  We speak for a good length of time and then I hang out some clothes before heading off for a coffee and a spinach pie downstairs. I chat to the owner, whose daughter and friends have just come by the café. She rolls her eyes when they leave, says they’re keen to swim – don’t they know that the water is freezing? Children simply never listen.

  Next, I walk down to the supermarket to buy things I can’t easily find in Melbourne, such as goat’s milk yoghurt; Kathoura, a traditional Ikarian cheese; and a spiced honey sesame cake. I also buy more Ikarian honey, this time with walnuts floating in it, to give as gifts back home. I force myself to put down a bottle of wine with an image of Icarus on it – I must be close to reaching my luggage limit.

  Back at the apartment, I sit on my balcony and watch the streetscape below. The shopkeeper’s children are swimming in the sea, people are calling out to each other from across the street, and bulldozers are trying to fix roads that seem to be forever in a state of disrepair. A rickety truck on three wheels goes by, several mopeds, women with shopping bags. I watch as a man escorts an elderly couple to a car. It’s difficult to feel lonely in a place like this.

  Niki’s words echo in my mind – no one is ever lost in Ikaria.

  Celebrating

  I wake up on my forty-seventh birthday and put some coffee on, then go outside to check on my clothes. It rained last night, and the famed Meltemi, the northerly wind I’ve read about, is blowing wildly. There weren’t enough pegs, and most of my clothes are strewn in a puddle on the ground. I can see a few of my underclothes on the balcony below. A pang of loneliness hits me. At home, my family would be greeting me with cake and coffee in bed, singing me happy birthday. Here I start my birthday by trying to get my soggy clothes dry.

  I go back inside, and feel better after my first sip of coffee. I eat half a tub of goat’s milk yoghurt. A piece of Kiria Stella’s pasticcio is left in the fridge. I sing silently to myself, ‘It’s my birthday and I’ll eat pasticcio if I want toooo . . . for breakfast if I want toooo . . .’ I know I’m not hungry, that the pasticcio is comfort eating. I feel a little sick afterwards.

  I turn on my laptop and already there are several messages from family, and a few dozen birthday messages on Facebook. As I start responding, a video call comes in from George. There’s a bit of fiddling around, and then he and the kids sing happy birthday to me, cut me a green tea cake with candles, don homemade birthday hats. I make a show of blowing out my candles through the computer. They tell me I must make a wish. I wish to return safely.

  After we finish the call, I spend more time on Facebook. A few hours later, I realise the weather has cleared and berate myself. I am on a lovely island and I’ve spent the morning on my laptop.

  I decide to walk to Thea’s and perhap
s finally talk with her about the Blue Zones phenomenon. But first, I will drop in to Urania’s office, just down the road.

  Urania is in, and with her is Ines, a German woman who has big blue eyes and a mop of curly grey hair. Ines is forthright and friendly, and I like her immediately. She tells me she worked with Urania and Isa eighteen years ago and met her Belgian partner while on the island during that time. They are now here on holidays, coincidentally staying a few doors down from where we were staying in Nas.

  Ines and I listen as Urania talks about the island, the projects that should be carried out to make the beaches safer, how signs need to be put up at the thermal springs for those with health problems, how a park should be made for the children. She has come to loggerheads with legal bodies when she’s taken action herself and has retaliated, giving them a piece of her mind. It’s clear her need to make the island a better place is causing her stress. I tell her that it sounds as if she is carrying the island on her shoulders, like the Titan god Atlas.

  ‘Things have got to be done, Spiri. And I don’t have children, so I put my energy into the island.’

  I recognise her stress, which resembles my own during busy work periods. Both Ines and I implore her to look after herself, telling her she will be more effective if she herself is well.

  When Ines says she is heading to the women’s cooperative in Christos Raches, I leap at the opportunity to go with her and see if Ioanna’s workshop is open, perhaps visit Nikos one more time. Now that I am without a car, I am much less mobile. Once I’m in Christo, it’s only a short taxi ride from there.

  Ines is happy give me a lift up the mountain. Saying goodbye to Thea will have to wait.

  We walk past Ioanna’s workshop. It is closed again. Perhaps my fantasy of chatting to her and learning to weave with her may not come to pass – but I have had so many experiences here already, I am not disappointed.

  We make our way to a spring, where Ines fills her bottle with water. Then we sit for coffee at the women’s cooperative. Ines tells me she is very interested in brain training as a way of preventing dementia – coincidently, the things she advocates are similar to the things the Ikarians already do – managing their blood pressure and sugar levels through activity and diet, and keeping their brains and bodies active by doing the things they enjoy as part of their everyday routines. She is considering setting up a business running programs to this effect. She says the problem is that most people don’t want to think about dementia until they have it. But by then, it’s too late for prevention.

  I tell Ines about my interest in longevity, about my observation that the elders on the island have been through many difficulties – hunger, war, deprivation. Ines notes that research shows that overall calorie reduction is a proven longevity factor. I share with her that I had pasticcio for breakfast. She laughs. We agree that the important thing is to live as well as we can for as long as we can.

  I tell Ines about Nikos, and how I’d like to see him again. She waits while I call him, ready to give me a lift back to my apartment if I need it.

  ‘Kirie Nikos, it’s Spiridoula here. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well,’ he replies cheerfully. ‘And much better now that you called. I said to Stamatis not more than a ten minutes ago, “Those nice girls that visited last week, they haven’t even rung me. They’ve forgotten me already . . .” And here you are.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten you. You made a great impression on us. In fact, I’m in Christos Raches and was hoping to visit you. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course, of course. I’ll send Stamatis to get you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take a taxi.’

  We pay for our coffee and the shop attendant rings me a taxi. I chat to the taxi driver, who tells me Kirios Nikos is an old friend of his. When we arrive at Nikos’s house, the taxi driver comes in for a coffee.

  Nikos is waiting at the table – dressed, hair combed, looking expectant. Stamatis wanders in from the garden.

  ‘Dora, Dora mou, where are you?’ calls Nikos.

  Dora duly comes from the kitchen, and Nikos asks her to make coffee.

  ‘How are you, Nikos?’ the taxi driver asks.

  ‘Well, as you can see, not as good as I was,’ he says wryly, casting his eyes to the wheelchair. ‘But let’s not talk about me. How are you?’

  The taxi driver talks about his wife, his children. Not long after, he gets up to go, his coffee unfinished. He looks a little uncomfortable. I get the impression he hasn’t seen Nikos for a while; perhaps he is disconcerted by the wheelchair.

  Once the taxi driver is gone, Nikos turns to me. ‘I’m happy you’re here. I really thought you girls had forgotten me.’

  I tell him Isa and Niki have gone home to their children. I say that Niki intends to call him.

  ‘And you, you’re not leaving again, you will stay here, right!’ He looks to the keys sitting in a bowl. ‘Take your pick – do you want to stay at the apartment next to the house, or the one at the beach?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I reply with a laugh. ‘But I too will soon have to go home to my children, my husband . . .’

  ‘You didn’t tell me you had a husband . . .’

  ‘Oh, I believe I did . . .’

  ‘If things were different, I would be making you another offer . . .’ He looks at me evenly with a whisper of a smile, as if propositioning a woman half his age is the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘My husband is waiting for me at home.’ I too smile, am the first to look away.

  Stamatis and Dora fumble around the kitchen, preparing lunch. There is no question of my not staying.

  I navigate the conversation around to Nikos’s health. He tells me dismissively that he has a brain aneurism, which impacts his balance. It’s not worth removing; the operation is too dangerous for a man his age.

  He adds, philosophically, ‘Kai ta kala kathoumena, kai ta kaka.’ (We must expect the good with the bad.)

  Stamatis brings in four bowls of fava – a thick yellow split pea soup drizzled with olive oil – and some homemade bread and olives.

  ‘We used to eat this when I was a child. It lined our empty stomachs . . .’ Nikos says.

  Indeed, the soup is very thick and filling.

  We talk about the chapel that is nearly finished and I tell Nikos I would like to see it before I leave.

  ‘Stamatis will show you,’ says Nikos. ‘He’s been doing good work out there – reviving the old chicken coop, making a vegetable garden, bringing life back to the property . . .’

  Stamatis talks about his fond memories of visiting Uncle Nikos as a child; how much he still enjoys being here. During lunch, his wife calls; the line drops out and he shrugs. His wife and daughter live in Crete. I can’t help but wonder why he is here. He tells me that working the land makes him feel peaceful and is good for his health. I don’t ask any more questions.

  Finally, by mid-afternoon, I tell Nikos that I should go and let him get some rest. He tells me Stamatis will show me around outside, and then take me back to my apartment.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’ he asks again, dangling the keys. ‘The house is just sitting there, waiting for you . . .’

  ‘Perhaps next time I come. Thank you for your generosity. When I get back to Melbourne, Dorothy, Lisa and I will give you a call.’

  Stamatis takes me outside, and we walk along the uneven ground, across to an old outhouse that was once the main home. At the entrance, an antique stove sits in the sun. Inside, a cooler box like one my grandmother had sits on an old table set on the dirt floor. Simple cast-iron kitchen implements are stacked neatly in corners. This two-room home is much simpler than the one next door, but at more than a hundred years old, it’s still standing. Stamatis winds me around the garden, shows me neat rows of vegetables. He takes me to the original chicken coop, with he says is palatial compared to most he has seen. He has revived the roosting section, and cleared the three-metre run connecting the
chook’s sleeping area.

  He opens the door to the laying section, where a small egg sits, saying, ‘I bought the new chicks, and within a day they had found the run, knew where to lay. Instinct is a wonderful thing . . .’

  Finally, he takes me down to the chapel, a pristine white building that gleams in the afternoon light.

  ‘It’s huge,’ I say ‘I hadn’t expected it to be so big. Nikos must be very proud that it’s nearly finished. What a great legacy to leave . . .’

  ‘Yes, I think he’s proud. And sad. Proud that he did it, but sad that he is getting too old to enjoy it, that it took so long. He doesn’t like not being able to walk as much as he did, doesn’t like that his body is failing him. In his heyday, he and his brothers used to be such flirts . . .

  I can only imagine what a flirt Nikos was in his youth. I see that he is still hopeful that he will have more years of life, but sad too that he no longer feels like his former self.

  We make our way to the car, where Dora joins us so that she can come down and buy some sweets from the shop below my apartment. We make our way silently down the mountain, each of us in our own thoughts.

  Later that evening, I look at myself in the mirror – familiar hazel eyes stare back at me, a mess of wavy brown hair, scarlet painted lips. It’s not often that I stop at my reflection in the mirror, except to hone in on the little lines settling around my eyes and lips. But today, I tell myself that I look okay for my forty-seven years. I think back to the three-word purpose list I made a few years ago. Family. Health. Creativity. My family is well looked after. Soon I will be back with them, where I belong, where I am needed. We are all healthy. And I am lucky enough to be on an exquisite island with the freedom to explore and question and write. I feel vital, content. I slip on a jacket, grab my bag and head out of the apartment to meet Urania and Thodoris for dinner.

  Urania is waiting downstairs, laden with packages. She compliments me on my dress, kisses my cheek and hands me a bowl of koukia (broad beans), she has cooked with wild white fennel and tomato sauce. I’m confused – aren’t we going out to eat? Yes, her friend Marianthi, who runs a restaurant, has some options for us to choose from, but it’s still early in the season, the restaurant is not yet properly open . . . She lets the sentence hang, leaving me wondering if the only thing we will be eating tonight is koukia.