My Ikaria

by Tsintziras, Spiri;

  As we walk up the stairs to the restaurant, Urania points to the whitewashed floor underfoot that’s designed to make the terrace look like cobblestones. She tells me this is her work, done when Marianthi first opened the restaurant and couldn’t afford to decorate. She points to the sign with the restaurant’s name, ‘Baido’, and tells me the artwork is hers too, the name her brainchild. She explains that the word baido stems from the Fourni islands she grew up on and refers to the time in the month when there is a full moon, and the two days either side of it. Traditionally, this was a time when the islanders wouldn’t go out to fish because they could be seen by pirates – instead, they feasted and partied for all three days.

  We take a seat outside, and soon Thodoris joins us. Marianthi brings wine, beer, water and sits with us to chat for a few moments, then takes our order. Several things on the menu aren’t yet available as they’re not in season. We put the menus aside and Marianthi tells us what is available. We order grilled meats, a fresh salad. Along with Urania’s koukia, we will have enough to eat.

  When the drinks arrive, we toast – to birthdays, to the upcoming summer season, and to bioma.

  ‘What’s bioma?’ I ask.

  ‘It literally means “life”. But it implies more than that. It is the sum total of life’s experience; it means to live life fully, passionately.’

  I try the word out in my mouth. It suits the night, this experience, perfectly. It’s cool on the terrace, the wind is rustling the vine above my head, the sea is now a dark mass in the distance and I’m surrounded by new friends.

  Urania pulls out a package. In it is a soft cotton scarf in my favourite colours, red and white, interspersed with soft shades of pink. She’s packed Ikarian olive oil soap within its folds. I put the scarf on, bring the soap to my nose, berate her – I did not ask her out to dinner so that she could bring me presents. She had done so much already.

  Our food arrives, and Simone wanders up to join us, ordering herself some food too. The conversation turns to the small synchronicities and coincidences that seem to happen on the island. Someone stopping to give you a lift just when you need it; coming across a friend on the street you’ve just been thinking about; a work opportunity arising just when you want it the most.

  Urania makes eye contact with Marianthi, who brings out homemade cake. On it is spelled out Hronia Polla Spiri in tiny chocolate buttons. ‘Many years to you, Spiri’.

  Several days ago, I had not met Urania, or Thodoris, or Simone. I am touched and overwhelmed by their generosity, their thoughtfulness. Urania has given me considerate gifts, taken the time to make me a cake, come out with Thodoris after a long work day just so that I didn’t have to celebrate my birthday alone.

  As I blow out my candles, I think about generosity. Spirit. Bioma. I feel a strong sense of connection to these people and this place. I experience a heady feeling of having enough.

  Leaving

  Early the next morning, I run into Simone on the street as I am heading for a walk to Thea’s to finally say goodbye to her. Simone invites me to a regular evening yoga class she runs with a small group of local women, held at the home of one of the participants, whose house is set atop a hill, several kilometres from the port town of Evdilos. As has been my inclination during this trip, I agree to go, wanting to take each opportunity that arises.

  By the time I walk to Thea’s place several kilometres away, the sun is high in the sky, the sea sparkling azure blue. I am tempted to veer off the path, to make my way across the rocks and immerse myself in the Aegean one more time – but I hold back, my more sensible self not willing to take the risk of slipping on the wet rocky path, or even drowning in this isolated, turbulent stretch. I’ve made it this far. I am now just days away from returning to my family.

  Outside Thea’s Inn, I run into Ilias. He makes me promise that if I ever turn my interest in Ikaria into a book, I will mention him. He jokes that I should write that he hunts wild goats in the middle of the night and always walks around splattered in blood.

  Inside, I meet Thea and we sit down and talk more about the longevity phenomenon on the island. Thea believes it isn’t helpful to be anxious about every little thing you eat or measure every little step you make. She is not at all surprised I have had such a good experience on the island, as I am good to people, so they too are good to me. I remember Kirios Nikos saying, ‘If we have love inside us, we can send it out.’

  Theia tells me to stay in touch, that she doesn’t really want to say goodbye, as she knows this won’t be the last time I visit the island. As we embrace, she leaves me with something her philosopher husband has said. ‘The answer to a longer life is quite simple: “If you add life to your years, the years will come to you.”’

  Later that evening, as Simone and I are driving up the mountain to her class, she talks more about her belief in using yoga and meditation to work towards connecting the body with the soul, about helping participants move away from their brain and down into their hearts, into their bellies.

  As we speak, Simone talks more about how she came to all this. She tells me she was in a serious accident some years ago. There is a palpable sadness in her voice when she talks of this time, her grief still teetering just below the surface, and I get the feeling her accident may have wiped out her promising career. She speaks about how she used the practice of mindfulness to help her rebuild her body, her heart, her life. She adds that living on the island has really helped.

  After nearly two weeks on the island, what Simone is saying makes complete sense. I’ve allowed the island to lead me, each day, heading out to do one thing, and finding myself doing another. Tonight, once again, I feel I am in the right place.

  As we take yoga mats and blankets out of the car, Simone refuses to accept payment for the class, saying that it is a gift for my birthday. On the terraza, I follow the yoga moves as best I can. Simone commends me on listening to my body so well, taking each yoga move only as far as I can, knowing my limitations. I realise I’ve become better at looking after myself in recent times.

  I ponder how far I’ve come since the doctor’s visit some years ago, less anxious about doing things right compared to others, more focused on doing them right for my own needs, for what my body tells me.

  As the music plays, Simone talks us gently through a meditation to finish the session. Meanwhile, the elderly woman in the whitewashed house behind us is talking to a neighbour about the price of tomatoes, the evening news a backdrop to her lament. A dog nearby scratches the earth, a goat bleats and a scooter interrupts the rustle of wind through olive trees.

  I lay still on my yoga mat, my mind calm. Every now and then I open my eyes to see if the sun has set, raise my head just a little. But mostly, I let Simone’s words wash over me, and try to feel them in my body rather than in my head.

  ‘Now you are sinking into the island, you are becoming Ikaria, you are letting the island, mother earth herself embrace you . . .’

  I hear the neighbour across the path leave. I follow her gaze in my mind, wonder what she makes of five women laying on bright mats, covered in blankets, listening to soft tribal beats. No doubt she will peg us as tourists or foreigners, though three of the women in the group are Greek and live on the island. They are the new generation of Greeks, who are taking something from their forebears and making it their own in the best way they know how, just as I am.

  The next day, as I get ready to leave Ikaria, I take a final look at the sea from my balcony, and make an omelette with the last of my eggs, adding spinach and Kathoura cheese. Then I carefully wrap my gifts of local honey and homemade marmalades into my clothes. I go to the sweet shop downstairs to pay for my room and buy a bottle of cognac to give to Urania and Thodoris. I realise as I chat with the elderly owner that even she has made me feel at home. I’m sad to be leaving Ikaria, but I know that it’s time to go home to my family, to my everyday life.

  Urania takes me to the airport along with a few other passengers who are flyi
ng out. As we wind through the mountains, I say goodbye to the trees and the sea and the rocks and smile at how much the island has given me after only two short weeks.

  I have learnt so many things since ‘meeting’ Stamatis Moraitis in the New York Times article. I’ve come out the other end eating more simply and cleanly most of the time. I feel more generous and spontaneous, more alive. I’ve become more social again, have more energy to do the things that are important to me. I’ve become more curious, more engaged with what is going on around me. And I’ve learnt to be kind to myself when I don’t always meet my own high expectations.

  More and more I’m thinking that the answers I was seeking are not just about living longer, but about living better each day, as mindfully and as lovingly as possible. As we drive along, I silently thank the island and its people for giving me so much.

  Returning

  On the flight back to Australia I feel completely relaxed. As well as visiting beloved Greek relatives, I finally made it to the fantastical Ikaria, ‘filling my cup’ physically and spiritually. I am ready to return home.

  George, Dolores, Emmanuel, Mum and Dennis are waiting for me at the airport. I hug the kids first, tears rising unbidden to my eyes; I hold onto each of them long and hard. I kiss George firmly on the lips and hug him tight. My mother watches us, her look saying, ‘See, this is what really matters.’ There is a palpable sense of relief in her eyes that I have made it back. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tight too, relieved that nothing bad has happened to her while I’ve been away. I kiss Dennis on both cheeks. I am delirious. It feels as if I’ve been gone for years.

  We make our way out into the cold winter night to the car, talking non-stop, catching up on the snippets of news it was hard to convey during our brief Skype conversations with their erratic internet connections.

  At home, I am greeted with the aroma of baked food. George has made ross il-forn, his signature Maltese rice and beef dish. Mum has brought a pot of chicken soup and a tray of pasticcio. The house is light, warm and impeccably neat; the kitchen bench and sideboard dotted with vases of flowers. I smile, grateful to my family for stoking the home fires in my absence. How could I ever have doubted them?

  We sit together around the table, the familiar lilt of conversation in Greek and English washing over me. I am struck once again by how good it is to be home.

  Mum and Dennis soon leave and the kids slowly get ready for bed. I have a shower and join George in bed, where we hold each other tight and don’t let go.

  ‘We managed. But we really missed you. Like really missed you,’ says George, his voice catching with emotion.

  I hold him even tighter and say, ‘You seem to have managed beautifully. I’m home now. Safe and sound. And I’m here to stay.’

  We talk well into the night and then I hear his breathing settle into sleep. I lie awake a little longer, aware of my own breath, the faint beat of my heart, the heaviness of my limbs as they sink into our warm bed. I mould myself into George’s sleeping back, and as my eyelids close I think, this is more than enough.

  I’ve been back home several weeks now, and winter has settled in again. The lawn is wet and muddy, the fruit tree branches stark in the waning evening light. I’m enjoying transforming George’s autumn pumpkins into winter soup; baking the last of the quinces into warming breakfasts. I’ve quickly taken my place back in the rhythms of family life and have returned to work.

  My book club reconvenes and we’re in the study discussing Ben Lawrence’s City of Thorns, a book about the world’s biggest refugee camp. Only Jill, a self-confessed book nerd, has read it to completion. Georgia, who recommended it, is absent; she’s just come home from surgery and needs to be with her family. I’m halfway through the book, slowly reading the stories of nine people who have been thrown together in a dusty, tent-strewn town in Kenya’s Dadaab. It’s a challenging read, taking me uncomfortably away from the cosy confines of my own life. I don’t want to rush through it in my usual fashion. The author has invested several years of his life to make sure these stories are told; I want to honour his effort, honour the experiences of those in the book.

  The electric heater is on, and soft music is playing. There are three bottles of wine on the desk behind me, cheese and crackers on the table in front, a bowl of strawberries. I’ve made an orange, almond and semolina ‘halva’ cake from ingredients I had to hand so I wouldn’t have to head out to the shops today.

  My fellow book clubbers are all seated. I’ve just finished pouring them wine and am poised to pour myself a glass.

  ‘So, what is the secret to long life?’ Sarah-Jane asks in her characteristically forthright manner.

  ‘I don’t know that there is one secret . . .’ I reply, causing Sarah-Jane’s shoulders to slump a little. It’s not what she wants to hear.

  ‘Okay, just let me sit down and I’ll tell you . . .’ I take a breath and get ready to divulge the secrets to having a long, enjoyable life in a few pithy sentences, to summarise my last three years of yearning, learning and travelling to learn about longevity.

  ‘If I had to say one thing, it would be that we need to keep moving everything, as often as we can for as long as possible – and in a way that is as natural and pleasurable as possible. I mean keep moving your body, your brain, your gut, even your sexy bits if you can . . .’

  I tell them the story of 95-year-old Nikos propositioning me so smoothly and subtly that I’m still not sure if it was for marriage or sex. Everyone laughs.

  ‘And it’s also important to have a strong sense of purpose,’ I continue. ‘I saw older people getting involved, giving advice, talking to young people, helping out. Even if they couldn’t do things as fast as young people, they were still out there . . .’

  Heather nods. She has her very elderly mother over each weekend and gives her things to do so she can keep being active.

  ‘We need to keep exercising our social skills too – find ways to keep getting out there, talking and connecting without having to think about it. I love that in my uncle’s street someone had installed a park bench where neighbours congregated each night.’

  ‘I’ve seen retired Italian and Greek men do the same thing at my local shopping mall,’ says Leah.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen elderly Chinese men congregating at my local shopping centre. That’s got to be a good thing. And there’s something about the need to exercise our generosity, our giving impulse. It doesn’t have to be about donating money; it might be giving your time, simply considering someone’s needs, cooking something to share. Despite the difficult economic situation in Greece, so many people I met showed filotimo, an elusive word that is hard to translate but roughly means generosity to others.

  ‘I believe older Ikarians survive longer because they ate, and still eat, so much plant food. And they eat less overall than we do here – there’s so much research to suggest that eating moderately can help us live longer, with fewer chronic diseases. So many older islanders experienced hunger as children. They seem to sit down to one big, social meal a day. The other meals are small, and snacking is relatively absent.’

  I refill glasses. Heather breaks open a packet of crisps. I reflect that while I’m eating less than I was three years ago, it’s still a challenge to eat moderately, to stop when I am nearly full, particularly when I’m faced with my Achilles heel –salty chips.

  ‘And then there’s how we respond to stress. I met a lot of Ikarians who work hard; but they have a different attitude to time, seemingly making the most of each moment, appearing to live more in the present.’

  Leah asks if it’s hard to be back.

  ‘I’m glad to be back. I really missed my family – and it felt like the right time to return. I’m trying to maintain something of the more relaxed, communal mindset in my days. My lists now are quite small, and they often include ringing people, moving, taking a bit of time out. And I’ve resigned myself that I’m probably going to put more loads of washing on than I will have hot br
eakfasts in my lifetime – thankfully George has continued to contribute since I’ve been back. I try and look at housework slightly differently now – it keeps me active, gives me a chance to think and daydream.’

  We talk about the desire to have a long life. We agree that while it’s probably a natural human instinct to want to live longer, it’s best if most of that time can be spent feeling useful, having a sense that we are valued, that we can still contribute; and to have a good enough level of health to be able to enjoy the time.

  ‘I did find that my questions naturally started evolving from talking about what leads to a long life to what leads to a good life.’

  I look around. We are all women in our late forties or early fifties. We are all doing our best to raise families, balance work, look after ageing parents, and keep body and soul together as we navigate the day-to-day business of living. Who knows which of us will be here in thirty or forty years’ time? I feel grateful that we are here now, connecting, talking, laughing.

  After I see the women off, my eye canvasses the back wall of our study, which is lined with several floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with a messy array of books and knickknacks collected over a lifetime. My gaze stops at a small display of photos of Katerina cuddling much smaller versions of our children, their eyes squeezed shut with pleasure; Katerina and I doing a Greek dance in the forest; Katerina looking wistful in the last few weeks of her life. I silently tell her the latest.

  The kids are growing up, Katerina mou; they’re keeping me on my toes, as they should. You would be proud of them. And I’m doing okay too; still creating, still cooking, still engaging with my life as best I can each day. I’m still trying to tame my restless spirit, still trying to let go of things that don’t really matter in the bigger scheme of things. You’ve left a wonderful legacy; you remind me not to rush through things, not worry too much about the future, to try to enjoy each moment.