The Greek Persuasion

by Kimberly K. Robeson

  “Don’t tempt me!” A huge splash comes my way, and a water war breaks out as we lose ourselves in the moment, acting like children, splashing, laughing, no worries in the world.

  Twelve T-shirts, ten panties, five bikinis, four skirts, three bras, three pairs of jeans, three cute tops, two pairs of shorts, two sarongs, and one simple black dress. I have been packing for the last three hours, trying to get everything ready for my trip. I am so excited that I almost can’t control myself. Then I start thinking about my mother. I want to finish packing, but my fingers are itching to write.

  Thair’s Story

  Encinitas

  Late May, 2005

  “Thair, are you sure you want to spend the entire summer in Greece again?”

  “Yes, Mother. I’ve told you that so many times already.”

  “But remember how you came back last time? So thin and unhappy. I just don’t understand how a woman can travel alone for so long. It’s just not healthy. It doesn’t seem safe to me either.”

  “Mama, don’t worry. I’ll give you the name and number of the pension where I will be staying. I looked up the village online, and it’s a quaint place right by the sea, just about two hours from Athens. It’s called Kamena Vourla. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, it doesn’t sound familiar. Is it north or south?”

  “It’s north. I saw some pictures and it looks charming, a village that is nestled between the mountains and the sea. The website boasts over twenty cafés and restaurants right on the seashore.”

  “Thair, why do you have to go for so long? I just don’t understand.” For the last few years, she seemed to understand her daughter so little. Why did Thair want to go to Greece? Because she loved it there, even if her last visit was tumultuous, this time it would be different. She was different. Still, the third degree from her mother continued. “So where exactly will you be staying?”

  “I rented a room with its own private bath and balcony in what seems to be an older woman’s polikatikia. I spoke to her several times on the phone, and I have to say, she reminds me a lot of Yiayia. She was a bit short, grumbling in Greek, cutting me off a few times, but she did finally answer all my questions. She rents four rooms, but mine is the only one with a balcony that overlooks the town’s beach. Nothing too fancy, she said, nothing like the islands, but she told me I could drive to a pebbled beach called ‘Aspronairi’ that was only a few kilometers away that had clear, blue water. Kyria Akrivi said that breakfast was included, and since I was alone, she wouldn’t mind including me in her family’s lunch for an extra charge. I told her that would be nice, and then I could get my dinners out if I need to.”

  “Thair, it sounds fine, but why do you have to go for more than two months! Can’t you just go for a few weeks?” She said this with desperation in her voice.

  “Mom! Why are you giving me such a hard time? In fact, why don’t you come with—?” But before Thair could even finish the words, her mother said, “Thair, can I please say something else?”

  “No.”

  But Phaedra continued anyway, “Thair, I just think two weeks, even a month is a vacation, but over two months is like you are escaping from something … from someone. It just seems that ever since you and … you and … well, since that thing with … that woman … ended, you always seem to be alone.”

  “Mom, that’s a funny thing for you to say. I thought you, of all people, would understand that doing things alone can actually be quite fulfilling.”

  “Thair, please, don’t compare me to you. I’ve had a good, full life. I just want you—”

  “Mama, please stop. I am really looking forward to this trip and—”

  “Agape mou,” Mother. Daughter. Cutting each other off, each wanting to have the last word. But Thair had not heard her mother call her ‘my love’ since she was a child; it was the one phrase that took her words away, feeling like a little girl again. It was the same soothing phrase she had heard from her grandmother throughout the years in different situations. When she fell off her bicycle, gravel mixed with blood, puss pouring out of her leg, her yiayia held her, cleaning her injury and telling her gently, “Agape mou, not cry, you a big girl, fifteen, a woman.” When she left Greece and hugged her yiayia at the airport, her grandmother used those words again “Ah, agape mou. You write to your yiayia, okay?” But Thair never wrote. She did call every so often, but during the long school year, she never wrote. It was one of the few regrets she had in her life.

  Now her mother was using those tender words, and she knew she had to listen. Phaedra’s voice remained placid, “Agape mou,” repeating those words that tamed Thair, “I want you to go, to have a good time, but I am just worried that you may be escaping. When you were a teenager and unhappy, you always wanted to go to Kythnos. I think you persuaded yourself into believing that you could only be happy in Greece. Yes, most of the time you came back vibrant, but then you became sad so quickly. You can’t escape your problems by going away. I am sorry, honey, but I have to tell you how I feel.”

  For some reason, Thair was not agitated with those final words; more so, she felt relieved. It was as if her mother had said something out loud that she had been thinking: she had told others, Rick and Emily and Angela, she was happy, but was she really escaping?

  Suddenly, an uncontrollable lightness streamed through Thair’s body. It was as if a dam had been broken, the little Dutch boy had pulled his finger out of the hole. A flood of emotions and words came out, “Mama—you need to hear this. First of all, ‘that woman,’ as you call her, is named Jessica. And, yes, when we broke up, I did spend a lot of time alone. Frankly, I was devastated; in fact, I was a bit devastated when Ravi and I separated as well as when James left me. In all three relationships, I questioned myself, like I was just not meant to be loved. I did care for all three of those people in such different ways. But can I tell you something? And I am not saying this to make you feel guilty. Remember that story you used to tell me when I was a little girl about Zeus, and how he separated these ball figures, and how we now roam the world looking for our other half?”

  A meek “Yes,” came through on the other end.

  “Well, I guess I took that story to heart. And just like the thousands of girls who grow up with this unrealistic image of Prince Charming, or the idea of a Soul Mate, or in my case, the Other Half that Zeus rudely separated from me, I have spent my adult life looking for this other person to complete me. I have always imagined meeting someone who will truly complement me and all I want from this life. James was a kind soul, and I learned so much from the time we spent together, talking about art, painters, ideologies, the concept of right and wrong. It was such a tranquil, positive relationship, made me learn so much about my career, made me a better teacher, a better human. But damn it the magic—I hate to use that word—was not there.”

  “Logos, ethos … pathos.” Thair heard her mother say as if she were in her own world.

  “Exactly, Mama, our relationship was too cerebral. A good guy, and two of three weren’t bad, but he knew, even before I did, that we were not each other’s Other Half.”

  “What about Ravi, Thair? He was such a handsome man with such a wonderful family …”

  “Talk about pathos. The passion was intense. And I know you adored him and pictured us together with two kids and a house on the hill. You know, I saw him about a year ago, and I was drooling like a teenage girl. I still think he is gorgeous, and yes, another good one, but not for me. Did you know he wanted me to quit my job and be a full-time mom?”

  “But, Thair, is that so bad? Do you think there’s a chance—”

  “As I was saying, I don’t want a life with him. Can you please try to understand me?”

  “I am trying, agape mou, but it’s hard. I guess you and I are so different. All I want is for you to be happy.” She hesitated, then asked, quite surprisingly, “The woman. Jessica. Do you still … care for her?”

  Thair paused. Her mother had never asked about Jessic
a. Not since that terrible fight. Her heart swelled with love for her mother. Yes, they were different, but this was the first time in a long time that Phaedra was, at least, trying to understand her daughter. “I know this is hard for you, but, yes, I loved Jessica. Probably more than James and Ravi put together. We had so much in common, but, unfortunately, neither of us wanted to compromise on something very important, and this tore us apart.”

  Thair heard a gulp, then her mother said, “It was my … fault.”

  “Mama,” Thair said more gently, “there were other issues.” She didn’t know if she had convinced her mother, but today was not the day to talk about children. Thair usually avoided the kid issue with Phaedra because she knew it was the one thing her mother still longed for—a grandchild. Thair wanted to have this conversation with her mother, be truthful, but she knew that days before her trip was not the right time.

  Before her mother could say more, Thair added, “Okay, no more deep talk after this, but can I tell you the best part?”

  “What?” another quiet response.

  “I am happy to the core of my being. I guess I did not think that people who are single could really be content. And now I believe it. I think there is a different kind of happiness when one is in a good, loving relationship, but there can be genuine happiness in being alone, too. So, I just want to say thank you.”

  “Thank you for what, Thair?” Phaedra responded sounding confused.

  “Thank you for asking me if you thought I was trying to escape. I didn’t want to face that question because I, too, had wondered if I was returning to Greece to find something that I just can’t find in the US. But because of your comment, now I am certain that I am going there as a whole woman.”

  “Oh, sweetie, Doxa to Theo,” her mother said and sighed.

  “Yes, Mama, thank God! Every day I give thanks for my health, my mama’s,” Thair thought she heard a slight sob but she was on a roll, “for my security, my pay check, and that I am an American woman who has choices. A woman who has a wonderful Greek mother who has also given me another country to call home.”

  “Baby, you’re gonna make me cry.”

  But Thair couldn’t stop, it was as if her entire adult life finally made sense: “Mama, Greece is a country that warms me, welcomes me. It’s a place I can go to and relax; Greece is my sanctuary away from a hectic American lifestyle, but the US is where I belong … at least now. When people are comfortable with themselves, then anywhere can be home.”

  “Are you done, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Well, then I am happy for you, too.”

  I looked at what I wrote: “anywhere can be home.” I don’t know where those words came from, but I guess they are true. I do love my condo, but the feeling of comfort that has embraced me lately is not from a physical roof over my head for which I own the Title (though it certainly helps); the real sense of serenity has come from accepting who I am as a person—appreciating my strengths and forgiving my faults. This comfort has also stemmed from giving Zeus the boot, a relief to not be looking over my shoulder anymore. I know there will be days when I will long for a partner or some intimacy, but it is no longer a priority in my life.

  I jump up from my swivel chair and, with a renewed energy, continue packing.

  Part III

  Peace

  25

  Athens, Greece

  Monday, June 6th, 2005

  The airplane touches down at Venizelos Airport in Athens with a bunch of Greeks clapping their hands excitedly upon arrival. It makes me smile. I have been on countless international flights and only in Greece do passengers show their appreciation with hoots, hollers, while their hands pound together like Neanderthals when the tires hit the tarmac. Greeks are happy people, loud, opinionated; the older men are hirsute with a distinctive body odor; the yiayias round and love to gossip; the younger generation is so much different, still loud and loquacious but also svelte and sophisticated, and all of them—young and old—have a cigarette in their hand. As we slow down, I can see a few women dig in their purses, looking for their pack of Camels, making sure it’s at the top and ready to be opened the moment they are out of the plane and in the airport. Men pat their pockets, ensuring that their cigarettes have not mysteriously disappeared on the twelve-hour flight from New York City.

  While the airplane is still taxiing, a few elderly Greeks have already jumped out of their seats and are pulling down hand luggage from the compartments above as the flight attendant tells them to “sit down immediately.” Her tone is just short of rude. She is Greek too, her strong accent giving her away. When they continue to stand, she switches to Greek and, in a harsh voice, commands them to sit down. The entire scene is almost comical. In the US, a flight attendant has to use sugary politeness even with boorish passengers for fear of being sued: here, anything goes. I love that about Greece and its people. They may seem a bit barbaric with their grand gesticulations and resounding voices, the way they communicate that makes it seem like they are arguing when in fact they are in total agreement. All this, ironically enough, gives me a sense of peace. They seem to be so in touch with their feelings: say what they mean, mean what they say. They lack falseness, pretense, something so pure and honest about these people, their culture. My culture. I am somewhere in between two cultures, somewhere in between two sexualities. I exist, just like Hamlet’s “to be or not to be,” and I choose to be. I am no longer trying to fit into one or the other; I finally learned to appreciate all aspects of my life and feel thankful that I was given this gift to be open. And as the saying goes, have an open heart, not just an open mind. No longer is the “grass greener on the other side”; sometimes it’s damn yellow on both, but now I finally have the ability to appreciate, regardless of inadequacies. Taking in the good with the bad, the easy with the difficult, the beauty with the beast. Open. Truly open.

  The pushing starts and there seems to be a race to get off the airplane. I sit calmly and watch the mayhem; again, the scene strikes me as a bit humorous. We are then crammed into a bus and brought to the terminal. I see a few individuals put the cigarettes in their mouths, and even though signs in the Greek airport say “No Smoking,” almost everyone, including the tiny yiayia, has already lit up, and soon my lungs are gasping for air while the passengers puff in unison. I stand in the “FOREIGN” line and enter with my US passport, since I have never got a Greek one, so my allocated stay is for a maximum of three months. Years ago, I had tried to get a Greek passport but was told at immigration, “If Father is Greek, it take six months; your mama, need five years.” I never pursued it since my Blue Magic Passport takes me almost anywhere I want to go.

  Thinking about the conversation with the stinky man at immigration years ago still incenses me. Overt gender discrimination. That is one of the negative aspects of Greece: most women over forty still treat their husbands like kings, there for their every beck and call; men still seem to control the wife, the home, the bank account. Many married men have lovers, often swearing on their children’s lives about their fidelity. But when there is proof, they better watch out! The wife will cry and shout and scream and beat him with a frying pan, (then serve him dinner a few hours later, made with that same pan!). Of course, these are all generalizations. Women now work outside their homes and demand more respect, but with employment comes more stress, more responsibilities, and more divorce. It is no longer acceptable for men to have their honey and money on the side. Men have to help with some household duties and they don’t like it. It’s not just the US where things are changing.

  I talked about all this on the airplane with a Greek mother and daughter who sat beside me and became my drinking companions on the flight. As bottomless, free wine was poured into plastic glasses, our animated discussion drew a few casual glances, then downright stares, as we teasingly compared men to dogs.

  “Just feed them, rub them where it counts, and they will be happy forever,” Eleni said.

  I chuc
kled and added, “I think the problem is women try to cram forty-eight hours of work into a twenty-four-hour day, and doggie doesn’t get all the rubbing he wants, then doggie-not-so-happy. So doggie runs away and smells the neighbor dog’s ass and humps it to be happy again.”

  The three of us were laughing hysterically as we talked about this—our comparisons mostly in jest, but laced with truth.

  I was tired when I got onto the flight but with the animated conversation, I was soon wide-awake. It felt good to be speaking Greek again and in the company of a bright woman and her not-so-old-fashioned mother. Eleni is a podiatrist in Brooklyn, and her mother had been visiting from Larissa, a city with village-like attitudes. I told them that gender inequalities have always interested me, and I was toying with the idea of researching the changing roles of women in Greece and possibly writing some articles.

  What I didn’t tell Eleni and her mother was that I secretly wanted to finish my “stories” that I had started more than five years before. Despite my desire to write, I have already decided that there is not going to be any pressure on this trip. If I want to write, I will. If I don’t, I won’t. This trip is going to be all about “R and R” and certainly some sightseeing. Although I spent every summer of my life in Greece until I was twenty-two, I have seen very little of the mainland. There are so many places I have seen on documentaries or read about on the Internet that I decided this year to stay in a village on the coast and rent an economical car to go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

  Online I stumbled upon a site that had pictures and a description of a mountain town called Metsovo that sits at an altitude of 1,200 meters. Green landscapes with beige stone houses and red roofs made me think this village looked more like Switzerland than Greece. The website went on to say, “Metsovo promises to show life in Greece from another era.” With that I was sold. On that road trip, I would also go see Meteora. Since I was a young girl, I have always wanted to see the remarkable churches that are perched high on mountain tops. When I bought my favorite band’s latest CD, called Meteora, my interest to see the real Meteora was reawakened. For the last few years I have been playing the song “Somewhere I Belong” over and over again on my long drives to school and back. The lyrics have hauntingly spoken to me, words about healing and inner strength. I am finally healed, and I did it all by myself.