Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me

by Meredith Zeitlin

  David Lowell, old, has recently moved on from sifting through mountains of documents to prepping interview questions and becoming a living, mostly breathing caffeine experiment.

  Sources say Ms. Lowell hustled her protesting father to his bedroom after she realized he hadn’t moved from the uncomfortable plastic chair (except to pee) in over ten hours, and probably hadn’t slept in his bed in three days.

  “This is ridiculous!” she is reported to have hollered as he collapsed in a heap on top of the covers. “It’s an article, not the cure for cancer.”

  “Daughter . . . Unsupportive . . . Craft . . .” Mr. Lowell allegedly mumbled as he fell asleep. Reports that he was already in his pajamas are as yet unconfirmed.

  Filed, 2:42 a.m., Athens.

  “You went to Gazi?” Yiota asks on the phone the next morning—well, afternoon, technically. “Did you love it? I’m so sad to never see you for so long. I have only been working all the time. I want to go dancing, too!”

  I laugh. “It was . . . interesting. No, it was really fun. Just got a little weird at the end.”

  “You are okay, yes?” Yiota says, sounding worried.

  “Yes, I’m totally fine. It was kind of cool, actually; this guy Andrew rescued me from—” I hear shouting on Yiota’s end of the line.

  “I am so sorry, Zona, that is my boss yelling, and I have to go back inside. Ugh, I miss our days together! Soon spring break will be here, though, yes? Crete will be so . . .” She mutters something in Greek under her breath. She sounds annoyed. “Sorry again—I’ll text you later!”

  Well, it was nice to hear her voice for a minute, even if we didn’t really get to catch up. Her mention of Crete makes me think of all the questions I still need answers to.

  I stretch out on my bed, still tired after staying up so late. Tony pads into my room with his leash in his mouth. I guess Dad is still knocked out, which is good. I’m used to his disappearing into his work, but I don’t think it’s ever been this intense—maybe because here he’s at the mercy of a translator, so he has to get everything ready before he starts interviewing instead of feeling things out as he goes along. Either way, he definitely needs to sleep and recharge.

  Despite worrying about him, I’m also proud. How lucky am I to have such a cool dad, who treats me like an equal and trusts me enough to focus on his work instead of micromanaging my life like Hilary’s parents do? Of course, she doesn’t have to drag them to bed, but it’s a small price to pay.

  “C’mon, Tone,” I say, clipping on his leash. “Let’s see what’s happening in Athens today, shall we?”

  For the first time since I arrived here, I reach for something besides my keys and cell phone when heading out for a walk: I grab a notebook and pen.

  I haven’t felt the urge to write—or even just write something down—in so long . . . but it feels comforting to have the tools of my trade with me anyway. Just in case.

  21

  “So, tomorrow is my birthday. My sixteenth birthday. My sweet sixteen? A day I thought would have a great deal of significance, or at least warrant some kind of small gathering?” I mention casually to Dad over dinner—sandwiches in the living room—on a Thursday night in late March. I can’t believe how quickly the time is passing here, but suddenly it’s almost spring, with spring break (and Crete) looming ever closer.

  Dad doesn’t look up from his notes.

  “Yes, definitely . . . September 2009,” he mumbles. He makes a squiggly mark on the top page, then throws it on top of about sixty similarly marked pieces of paper on the floor.

  “Nope. Not even close. But good chatting with you.” I grab my book and head out to the terrace to text my GIS friends.

  Father unmoved by birthday imminence. Want to do something tomorrow eve?

  And everyone does. In fact, they seem more excited than I do.

  Ashley says she has a great idea that will be very, very Greek. I’m intrigued and a little nervous, but I go with it. Why not?

  Don’t forget to bring the chocolates tomorrow! she adds.

  Chocolates? What do you mean? Um, shouldn’t someone be bringing me a cake? With sixteen candles and one to grow on?!

  My phone rings. “Zona!” Ashley exclaims the moment I answer. “You have to bring chocolates, sweets, whatever you like, for the whole class. It’s how we do it here—the person whose birthday it is brings treats.” Ashley sounds incredulous. Apparently I’ve been missing some vital information. “People have been bringing things in all year, almost every day for birthdays or name days; didn’t you notice? I know you ate some!”

  “Yes, but . . . I guess I just thought they were being nice?”

  “Nope. I mean, maybe, but it’s your turn to be nice now. Don’t forget!” And she hangs up.

  Greek People Do Things Backward, Result Is Lots Of Candy

  Today was a landmark event for tradition enthusiasts everywhere, when it came to light that Greek people do not give birthday girls cake on their birthdays; instead, birthday girls must bring cake to the masses. Specifically, chocolates or small cakes are shared with classmates or coworkers. This happens both on actual days of birth and on name days, otherwise known as saints’ days. (Greek names are associated with specific saints, and almost every day of the year is devoted to a saint.) This means that free chocolates are on offer pretty much every single day if you know where to look. Plus, people get to celebrate their existences not once a year but twice, which, according to our on-the-ground correspondent Zona Lowell, is “a pretty sweet deal. No pun intended.”

  In a related story, not all names have their own special day, but there is a collective group name day called Aghion Pándon. To no one’s surprise, “Zona”—an unusual moniker—gets relegated to group day. Ms. Lowell declined to comment.

  Filed, 7:14 p.m., Athens.

  The next morning, after giving away my meager savings to my entire class in the form of chocolates, I float through school on a wave of well-wishes and go home for a lovely dinner with my dad. He has not only left his notes-laden desk to prepare said meal, which is being served on real plates with silverware and eaten at the table, but he even showered and dressed to eat! Tony spends the meal happily sitting on my feet. Dad and I share a celebratory glass of raki (an extra-distilled wine from Crete that he loves; I think it tastes like rubbing alcohol, but I have a few sips anyway to be festive), yummy cake from the decadent bakery down the street, and our first real conversation in what seems like forever.

  “So. How’s school?” he asks through a mouthful of chocolate icing.

  “Oh, I dropped out two months ago. I joined a gang and we spend our days looting and pillaging.”

  “Hardy har,” he scowls. “Ugh, Ace. I’m sorry—I know I’ve gone AWOL on you. But I do want to know everything you’ve been up to. I just—”

  “Dad, it’s fine. I’m used to being neglected. You can repent by leaving me your fortune in your will.” I sigh heavily, leaning back in my chair, trying to look forlorn.

  “Young Writer Abandons the Pen, Takes Up Acting?” he says dryly.

  “Actually,” I say, cutting myself another slice of cake, “I wanted to talk to you about that. Seriously, I mean.”

  “Why, what’s up?” Dad leans closer. “You know, if you want to do something other than write, I’d support you no matter what, right?”

  “Yeah, I know—it’s not that. It’s more like . . . it’s not that I don’t want to write. I still think about it all the time. Just, since I’ve been here, I haven’t had the urge to sit down and do it. And I don’t know what that means.”

  “Zona, you’ve had a lot going on. You know, back home that was your thing and it came very naturally to you. But part of being a journalist is knowing when you’re objectively reporting on a situation and when you’re inside the story; sometimes that makes it a better story, and sometimes it makes it not your story
to tell. I’m experiencing that myself, with this piece. It’s hard to frame something so personal—do I include my experiences? Do I not?”

  “But you’re doing it,” I interject. “You sit down every day and work. I just sort of . . . I don’t know.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been doing this for a long, long time. Believe me, kid, when I was your age I didn’t do a damn thing.” Dad tips his head to the side and gives me his lopsided Dad smile. “If you need to just experience things and not write about them for a while, that’s okay. The writing will still be there—maybe you’ll discover a different kind of storytelling that inspires you. Maybe not. But obviously your brain is busy with just . . . figuring things out. And that’s great. I’m really proud of how well you’ve adjusted to being here. Not that I ever doubted a daughter of mine, of course!”

  I laugh, but it feels halfhearted. I want to believe what he’s saying, but it’s hard to let go of the feeling that I’m slacking off somehow. Even though I know that’s kind of silly; I’m a fifteen-—wait, sixteen-!—year-old girl who writes articles, not a real reporter. It’s not my job, or even an extracurricular activity anymore. But still . . .

  “I think it’s time for some presents,” Dad says, tossing his fork onto his empty plate. He gets up and retrieves two wrapped boxes from under his chair, a medium-size flat box and a second tiny box. He hands them to me, singing off-key: “Happy birthday, dear Zona . . .”

  Two presents. I have no idea what they could be; usually Dad takes me to a store and lets me pick out something I can’t afford to splurge on myself, or we go to an exhibit or a show or something. This is new.

  “Well, it’s not every day my favorite daughter turns sixteen, is it?” He smiles and I grin back. “These are both things I’ve been saving for you for a long time. Open that one first.”

  I rip into the bigger one as directed, and under the paper is a shiny gray leather box, plain but pretty, like from the Container Store or something. Inside are clippings from newspapers. Old newspapers. As I sift through them, I realize they’re front pages from newspapers all over the United States and the world . . . all from the day I was born. March 28, 1998.

  “I had a whole network collect those for me, all your biggest fans,” Dad brags, and I imagine all his colleagues and sources finding these and sending them to Dad in the weeks after my birth, and maybe even years later.

  “Dad, it’s . . . perfect. Thank you so much.” I wipe tears away with the back of my hand, a little embarrassed. Dad pushes the smaller box toward me, obviously pleased by my reaction.

  I tear the paper off, and it’s a jewelry box. Inside is a simple gold band. I don’t have to examine it to know that there are initials engraved on the inside: DL+HM. It was my mother’s.

  “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” he says hurriedly. “Or you can. Or you could wear it on a necklace . . . I just thought you’d like to have it. To keep with your things, I mean, instead of with hers. Since, you know. We’re here now and everything.”

  I don’t know what to say. Despite being here and getting to know my cousin, I haven’t exactly developed this grand connection to my mother. I still don’t know her. I’m still not particularly jazzed about meeting the rest of the family. But I know what this gift means to my dad, and that’s the most important thing. I put the ring back in the little box and get up to hug him. “Thanks, Dad—for everything. I’ll keep them all together. Memories from both families, right?”

  He looks relieved, and I know I’ve said the right thing. We clear the dishes and I get dressed to go out with my friends.

  My cell rings and I pick it up without looking at the screen, assuming it’s Lilena calling for an outfit consultation.

  “HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN!!!!!!!” I hear on the other end of the line. It’s Hilary and Matt, and I’m totally surprised. I got hilarious cards from both of them in the mail already, and we usually have Skype chats on (USA) Sunday mornings if we can. “You guys!” I say. “Where are you? Isn’t it, like, one P.M. or something?”

  “We’re in the computer lab at school,” Hil says. “You didn’t think we’d miss calling on your actual birthday, did you?”

  “No, of course not!” I say, trying to put on mascara and balance the phone with my shoulder at the same time. “I just didn’t think you’d call now. I miss you guys.”

  “What’re you doing for the big event?” Matty asks. “Dressing up in a toga and eating fancy yogurt with John Stamos?” Hilary laughs.

  “Yeah, exactly,” I reply sardonically. “How’d you ever guess? No, I ate with Dad—I have to show you what he gave me, it’s amazing—and now I’m going with my GIS friends somewhere, but I don’t know where it’s going to be.”

  “Oooh, is Gorgeous Giorgos going to be there? Maybe that’ll be your real gift,” Hilary coos. (Yes, I have surreptitiously taken pictures of him and sent them to my friends. That’s called undercover work, thank you very much.)

  “Oh my God, I think I’d age twenty years instead of one if he actually spoke to me,” I say, adding another coat of mascara. “Great, now I’m panicking.” I sit down heavily on my bed.

  “Oh, cut it out. Guys like confidence. Just be yourself and say what’s on your mind,” Matt advises. “Trust me. That’s what I did with Scott and now we hang out all the time.”

  “Literally all the time,” Hilary adds. “Not that I’ve ever met this guy, by the—”

  “Now, let’s not go misusing the word ‘literally’ just to make a point,” I scold her. “Matty, stop neglecting Hilary. Hilary, you should be focusing on the Reflector, anyway. You haven’t told me what’s—”

  “And . . . she’s off!” Matt interrupts. “It’s your birthday, woman. Go out. Have a drink. Kiss a guy. Be the story for a change, huh?”

  “Ha, funny—that’s what Dad said,” I say thoughtfully.

  “About Giorgos?!” Hilary squeaks.

  “No, about writing. Because, you guys, I haven’t written a thing since I got here. I’m sort of . . . I don’t know. I just want to at least know things are going smoothly back home!”

  “I’ll send you the new issue later,” Hilary promises. “But Matty’s right. And so’s your dad—go be in the story!”

  After we hang up, I audition all my clothes as potential birthday going-out outfits before deciding on the very first thing I tried on. I get a text with directions from Lilena, say good-bye to Dad, and head out for a birthday adventure.

  22

  A Night At The Bouzoukia: Teens Fête Friend, Greek-Style

  Tonight’s Sweet Sixteen celebration started at a local bouzoukia, which turned out to be an intimate venue featuring traditional Greek musicians, at least one of whom plays a bouzouki, an instrument similar to a mandolin.

  Birthday girl Zona Lowell’s GIS friends surprised her by pooling their resources to procure a table reservation and a ready supply of roses to throw at the stage. Ms. Lowell was amazed once again to discover that the group’s underage status had no effect on their being welcomed or served at the venue, and that the music—while unfamiliar—was fun and catchy. Proving typical of Greek nightlife, the crowd was very into the experience, and even a somewhat reluctant Ms. Lowell was dragged into a circle of dancers.

  Also of note is the attitude of Greek teens to alcohol, which is generally blasé. “It’s so different from New York, where it’s such a thing, you know?” Ms. Lowell remarked. “Who can get it, how much, etc. I’m not really into drinking myself, but it’s still always a concern when it comes to making plans. Here no one really cares, so kids don’t worry about fake IDs. They rarely get drunk or out of control. There’s simply no reason to.”

  Lilena Vobras, a recent Chicago transplant and friend of Ms. Lowell’s, agreed with these sentiments, stating for the record, “I mean, a six-year-old can buy a bottle of whiskey from a street kiosk here. It’s just not a big deal at all, so
kids don’t really abuse it, you know? They’re just relaxed. It’s a lot less pressure to be . . . cool, somehow, because of that. Totally different from my old school, for sure.”

  Things took an unfortunate and very messy turn when some extremely drunk Australians (who did not get the “relax and don’t overdo it” memo) started smashing dishes and yelling “Ópa!” This to the great displeasure of the venue’s proprietors, who thought everyone knew that the custom of smashing plates while screaming is, frankly, antediluvian.

  Filed, 9:07 p.m., Athens.

  After we escape the mania of plate-throwing Australian tourists, laughing like loons all the way down the street, I pause for a second to really feel the evening. Here I am on a pretty big birthday, outside without a coat, surrounded by people I don’t know that well, really, and they’ve all gotten together to show me a great time. I feel kind of, well, special—which, I suppose, is how you’re supposed to feel on your sixteenth birthday.

  And just when I think it couldn’t get any better unless Hilary and Matt suddenly appeared, Nikos says, “Come on, let’s go down to the marina. Giorgos is there with some people for drinks.” And then the five of us are piling into a taxi and speeding toward the hottest guy I have ever seen, who I’ve been ogling for three straight months. And it’s my birthday. I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.

  Maybe I should be up-front about my past experiences with guys: they’re pretty lame. I’ve hooked up a few times, but nothing too exciting. My first kiss was at that same interschool dance where Hilary and I first became friends with Matt. It was awkward and I never saw the guy again. The three of us snuck into a couple of upperclassman parties last year—not my idea, of course—and at one of them I got kind of drunk (the first and only time I’ve had more than a couple of beers) and made out with a guy who tried to hang out with me again after that, but I freaked out that he wanted to be my boyfriend. I barely even remembered making out with him. Not my best display of maturity, I have to admit. Then there was one random but actually very nice kiss with Hilary’s cousin when I stayed with her for a few weeks when my dad was out of town on assignment.