What to do with an old broom? The truth? Last night I dipped the straw in kerosene, lit it, and threw the broom from the front porch in a high arc, like a burning spear or falling star. WooHa! It landed in the snow. Why did I do this, you ask? Just for the hell of it, I suppose. I’d never done it before, so why not? Somehow putting it in the garbage seemed a waste of an opportunity. (If you do this, it’s a good idea to have snow around. And don’t aim for trees.)
The new broom is fecund with opportunities, especially if you are alone. It can be used to play air guitar with rock and roll on the radio. Or as an air bass with bluegrass music. A new broom makes a good dancing partner—nobody gets hurt when you do deep dips or swing it over your shoulder.
Of course, there are other uses for a broom. It’s a versatile tool. A weapon against weird bugs, spiders, and mice. Excellent cobweb remover. Good for poking things out from under places you can’t or don’t want to put your hands—under beds or from behind the washer. I’ve often used mine for coaxing small birds down from the rafters when they’ve flown inside the house by mistake. Brooms are superb for doing balancing tricks to impress small children. (I can do it on my chin.) And now, of course, I can look forward to the flaming spear event at year’s end when the broom wears out.
On reflection, I see this new broom as my symbol of an existential need to clean house mentally and spiritually at this time of the year. To sweep away small sorrows, to throw out small grievances, to clear off the clutter of irrelevant things-to-do lists from the workshop of my life.
All too soon the new broom will become the old broom from use. The fuss and mess and bother of my life will accumulate again. It’s a cycle. Maybe that’s the deeper reason I took such pleasure in lighting the old broom and throwing it in the evening darkness out into the snow, marking the cycle, punctuating the possibilities of a new year with primitive fireworks. WooHa!
(Tell a friend and word gets around and strange things happen. In the first week of the New Year the local Moab newspaper printed a picture of a group of people setting their brooms on fires in the parking lot of the local radio station on New Year’s Eve. Friends of mine. The caption said the broom burners claimed it was “an ancient medieval European tradition.”)
45
Intersection III
Each year for more than twenty years I have spent several months on the Greek island of Crete. Why Crete? I might say it’s because I like history. More than six thousand years of human events are piled up there. I could say it’s the beauty of the landscape—mountains, sea, and beaches. But the main incentive to return again and again is the people—the Cretans. I have binding connections with them, their view of life, and their way with strangers.
What are Cretans like? Like this . . .
46
Asbestos Gelos
My Cretan connection began the summer I was wandering around Europe alone while waiting for my wife to finish her medical residency. No particular agenda—just doing what came next. I went to Crete to see the famous archaeological digs at Knossos and to look in on a graduate school program at the Orthodox Academy of Crete. When I was ready to step off the paths beaten down by tourists, I went to a small village at the western end of the island—a fishing village at the end of the road: Kolymbari.
I found a room for the night and rose before the sun the next morning to go running. The day was already hot, so I dressed only in black running briefs and shoes. (It’s relevant to the story to note here that my hair and beard were white even then.) My route took me past the main kofeneion (coffeehouse) of the village where men sat outside socializing. They ignored me. I was surprised. They seemed surly, hostile, and unwelcoming.
Later, when I mentioned this to my landlord, he said, “Oh no, Cretans are very welcoming to strangers—it is an old tradition—philoxenia. But in your case the men at the kofeneion did not know what to make of you. For one thing, your hair and beard make you look like a priest, but they have never seen a half-naked priest running through the village in what looks like his underwear at that hour of the morning.”
“Oh.”
“No problem. Smile, wave, say good morning in Greek: Kalimera—kah-lee-mare-ah. You will find them friendly.”
“Right.”
(Pause.)
See this from the point of view of the men at the kofeneion. They have been gathering here at dawn for years without disturbance or distraction. Suddenly, without warning, the white-bearded, half-naked priest flashes by.
“What the hell was that, Yorgos?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Tourists get weirder every year.”
The next morning I set off running with goodwill toward men in my heart. Ready to greet the villagers. The men at the kofeneion see me.
“For the love of Christ, Yorgos, look. Here he comes again.”
_________
Hold the moment. As I said, my appearance was a bit of a surprise in the first place. Then there is the fact of my miserable language skills. During the night my brain changed kalimera (good morning) to calamari, which means “squid.”
And then there was the problem of waving. I did not know that Cretans wave with a gentle gesture of an upheld, closed-fingered hand, backside out, palm in. I didn’t know that the All-American hearty wave—arm extended, fingers open—is equivalent to giving Cretans the finger—“Up yours!” in other words.
To continue: Here I come. Running by the kofeneion, I shouted, “Calamari, Calamari, Calamari,” and gave my most enthusiastic open-handed wave to all.
The Cretans heard, “Squid, Squid, Squid” and saw “Up yours!” From the priest in his underpants.
Well. They fell out of their chairs laughing. And shouted “Calamari, Calamari, Calamari” and enthusiastically waved “Up yours!” back at me. More than pleased, I ran on—thinking that these are truly friendly people after all—my kind of guys.
The men in the kofeneion could hardly believe what had happened. “What planet did he fall off of?” they wondered. And of course they did what you and I would do next. During the day they told their friends about the bizarre stranger’s dawn appearance. And when their friends didn’t believe them, they said, “It’s true. Come see. Have coffee in the morning.”
And sure enough, here I come again. I did notice that there were quite a few more men having coffee than yesterday.
“Look, Demetri. I told you. Here he comes. Shout ‘squid’ at him and give him the finger and see what he does.” So they did and I did and so on. Funny, rowdy laughter all around.
As I ran on by, I turned and gave them the All-American sign for “OK”—thumb and forefinger forming a circle. They laughed even harder and gave me the “OK” sign back.
Wonderful!
Word gets around.
“You’re kidding. No, come see.” The next morning, even women and children were there to greet me.
But that same morning, just after I passed the coffee-house, a middle-school English teacher stopped me in the street. Serious young man, visibly upset. “Excuse me, mister, you are making a jackass of yourself, and those idiots at the kofeneion are helping you. You should all be ashamed. You are setting a bad example. What will the children think?”
“What’s wrong? What have I done?”
“In the first place,” he said, “no self-respecting Cretan man would ever go out of his house and into the village dressed as you are. Immodest.” He went on to distinguish between calamari and kalimera, and explained the fine points of correct waving.
Finally, he wanted me to know that the sign for “OK” in America was the sign Cretans use for telling someone to stick their head up their own rear end. A road-rage gesture in Crete. A serious provocation that could lead to shots being fired. He conceded that good friends might use it as a perverse joke. But strangers? Never!
I felt bad. I glanced back at the men at the kofeneion. Sheepish grins. Now they knew I knew. And I knew they knew. And so, now what? I walked away puzzled: Should I leave t
he village, find another running route, apologize, what?
But I couldn’t ignore one unambiguous fact: the laughter.
What had happened was funny. The laughter was real. Actually, my best American best friends and I would have reacted in the same way. These Cretans still seemed like my kind of guys.
During the night my brain sorted out the problem.
At first light it was clear in my mind what to do.
I donned my running shorts and added to my costume a T-shirt with the blue and white Greek flag on it. Here I come.
Solemnly, the coffee drinkers watched me approach. No gestures. As impassive as the first morning.
“Look, here he is again, Yorgos. What do you think he will do now?”
“Is he angry with us?”
“Who knows?”
To prepare for this occasion, I had asked my landlord how to insult Cretan men in the way that’s permissible only among good friends—the grossest thing—trusting they know you are kidding.
“Call them malackos—masturbators—and slap the palm of one hand on the back of the other hand, with arms stretched out in front of you. It is, shall I say, a suggestion of masculine inadequacy.”
As I got to the kofeneion, I slowed down.
I stopped. Faced them.
A tense moment. Friend or foe?
I smiled. “Calamari.” Then I waved, American style: “Up yours!” And growled malackos at them while slapping my palm against my wrist. To push matters closer to the edge, I made a circle with my finger and thumb. And stood there grinning, but with heart pounding—afraid I just might get the hell beat out of me.
The kofeneion erupted with laughter and applause. A chair was provided. “Come, come. Sit.” Coffee, brandy, and a cigarette were offered. And with their minimal English and my feeble Greek we retold and reenacted the joke we had made together—from their point of view as well as mine. Above all, they thought my way of handling the situation—the in-your-face-with-humor—had Cretan style. Arrogant. Only a true friend would be so audacious.
I was, after all, their kind of guy—and they were mine.
It seems there was an opening for Village Idiot, and I filled it.
That was the beginning.
For a long time they knew little about me except that I was a fool and a laugher who understood something about the humor and social courage of Cretan men. To me they became friends with names like Yorgos, Manolis, Kostas, Nikos, Demetri, and Ioannis. To them I became the Americanos, Kyrios Calamari—the American, the honorable Mr. Squid.
As I say, I have been going back for more than twenty years. They have included me in the life of the village—feasts, weddings, gossip, baptisms, wine-making, and olive harvests. My clumsy Greek amuses them still.
I return each year in part because I expect laughter—from their timeless jokes and stories that are often raw and reckless and wicked. Jokes about old age and sex and war and stupidity—jokes that mask fear and failure and foolishness. Their laughter is not cautious. Without this laughter the Cretans would not have survived their travails and tragedies across the centuries. Cretan laughter is fierce, defiant laughter—an “Up yours!” to the forces of death and mystery and evil.
They have a word for this laughter: Asbestos Gelos.
(As-bes-tos yay-lohs) A term used by Homer actually.
It literally means “Fireproof laughter.”
Unquenchable laughter. Invincible laughter.
And the Cretans say that he who laughs, lasts.
And they have been around a long, long time.
47
Being There
Crete. Spring. The fine kind of day that called me to take the long way home from a shopping trip to the nearby town of Chania. Away from the seaside road, up through the coastal hills, on through a rocky gorge to the village of Vrissos, and all the way up to the edge of the mountain snow. The road was new and relentlessly switch-backed on a bearing farther east instead of west. Not a way home for me.
I was lost. On a road that was not on my map.
Coming to a small village I stopped across the road from an old man leading an old goat—(or an old goat leading an old man—it was hard to tell who was in charge or if it mattered to the man or goat).
I got out of the car and called across to the old man:
“Poo ee-meh?” (“Where am I?”)
_________
The old man and the old goat considered me with puzzled amusement: “What kind of question is that?” Kindly, slowly, as if speaking to a child or an adult with mental limitations, the man pointed to where I stood and said:
“Leepon, eh-kee.” (“Well, you are over there.”)
Carrying my map with me I went across to stand beside the man and his goat. “Oshee, oshee. Poo ee masteh?” (“No, no, where are WE?”)
With amused pity the man considered me. Placing one hand on my shoulder and pointing at the ground with the other, he tenderly explained:
“Ee-thoh.” (“We are here.”)
Yes.
I showed him my map. I indicated the empty space where the village and the road should be. I showed him my route—with no road. He scratched his head—this man who probably knew every dirt track, donkey path, and gully in this mountain valley—and asked me with amused vexation:
“Keh poo to vreekehs?” (“Where did you get this map?”)
“Athens.”
_________
He laughed. “Athena?” He laughed and laughed. He said “Athens!” in a way that implied they know nothing useful in Athens—they do not know where they are or where we are. The classic Greek democratic disdain for authority. The old man re-explained all this to his goat. And laughed. Even the goat looked amused. Clearly I was a hopeless case.
So I thanked him and went back to my car.
“Poo pas?” (“Where are you going?”)
“Then-kseroh.” (“I don’t know.”)
The old man laughed again. He smiled and waved and began talking to the goat as if to explain that this was the first thing I had said that made sense. If I didn’t know where I was, how would I know where I was going?
Obvious.
Neither he nor his goat is lost.
They are there.
48
Olympics on a Smaller Scale
“It is not the size of the stadium that counts,
but the spirit of the play.” So said the philosopher,
Epictetus, in the first century AD.
Although verifiable records only go back to 776 BC, the Olympic Games have been a part of Greek life since there were Greeks. And it remains easy to enter into the Olympic sporting spirit. Like last night.
Some Cretan friends and I drank a fine wine. A dark, almost black, red wine—Aghiorghitiko grapes from Nemaea in the Peloponnnese region, near Corinth. In a playful spirit after a glass or two, we were inspired to initiate the first Greek Bug Olympic Games.
The main event was the Rolling-Down-Hill-and-Walking-Away contest. Each one of us found one of those little fast-crawling armored pill bugs. We touched them gently to make them roll up into a ball, and then using a piece of paper, scooped them up, held them in line at the top of an inclined cookie sheet, and let go at the count of three. The bugs rolled down and out onto the stone floor. The first bug that got up and walked away was the winner.
Place your bets!
My bug, Hercules, won five times in a row. A Gold Medal Bug. I went to find a very tiny olive leaf to crown the victor, but by the time I got back he was gone—too shy for the glory, I suppose. Humble bug. Class act.
Hercules reigns! Wherever he may be.
Harmless fun in the spirit of competition, which pervades all Greece this weekend. These small-scale Olympics were a warm-up for tonight’s big event. All Greece will shut down at 8:30. The two top soccer teams will go at it in Athens. Panathinaikos and Olympiakos Piraeus. If you are not there in front of the TV, you will have nothing to talk about in the village tomorrow.
If the Turki
sh air force attacks Greece tonight between 8:30 and 10:30, the prime minister will say Greece cannot come to fight right now, but in two hours, half of Greece will be really mad and ready to kill, so maybe the Turks should pick another day.
Saying it’s only a soccer game is to misunderstand how seriously Greeks take any sporting contest, small or large. I went off with my friends to the Argentina Taverna to support the local favorite, Panathinaikos. I tried not to step on any Olympic Bug competitors as I went out the door.
Afterward. A 2–2 tie. Sufficiently satisfying to all because the game was played hard and well, with elegant passing and footwork. Beautiful! Everybody won.
Epictetus would have been pleased. As he said, speaking of skillful ballplayers: “None of them considers whether the ball is good or bad, but only how to throw it and catch it. For where a man has proper reason to rejoice, his fellow men have proper reason to share in that rejoicing.”
49
Irrational Actions and
Incoherent Utterances Experienced
During Oracular Ceremonies
of Prophetic Importance
The ancient Greeks had a single word for that: klidona.
And Klidonas is the name still given to midsummer celebrations around the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, June Twenty-fourth, which coincided with last week’s summer solstice.
In the Old Days the festivities began the evening before, with bonfires in village squares. Music, dancing, singing, and the drinking of wine prevailed. The dried wreaths of flowers that had been collected on the First of May, were thrown into the fires. As the fires burned down, everyone jumped over the embers, while making wishes. The jumping was done in couples or with close friends and family. Afterward, some of the ashes were taken home and scattered around the front doors of homes. These are the rituals of fortune and magic.
What On Earth Have I Done? Page 9