We park the car near the big marina, where lots of massive ships are docked; Melina explains that some are ferries like the one Yiota and I took to get here, and some are day boats that take tourists to various islands. I can’t believe I’ve been in Greece for over three months and still haven’t seen one of the famously gorgeous beaches.
I ask Melina which is her favorite, and she lists a few she’s been to. “But they’re all beautiful, you know? Different sand, maybe, but the clear water and the sun . . . it’s a beach! The beaches here are nice, too, right near our house!”
I make a note to ask how to get there—if I can’t visit Santorini or Mykonos, I can definitely go somewhere local, right? Pretty sure a big part of celebrating Easter is having a nice, even tan. I definitely read that somewhere.
We keep walking. There are about a million cobbled streets that fork off the main road, and down each one is a café or bar with people sitting and reading or smoking or having coffee and playing cards, just chatting and enjoying their time together. Melina tells me they sit there all day long, and maybe never even order anything. I tell her that we do that in Athens, too, but it would never fly in Manhattan.
She laughs. “In New York you take things too seriously. In Crete we just live.”
Nail Salon Filled With Fish Tanks Alarms Passersby
In Heraklion today, visitor Zona Lowell was confronted by an unfamiliar and vaguely disturbing sight.
“The place looked just like a nail salon, but there were fish tanks all over it, including on the floor. Big tanks with bright blue water. And thousands of tiny fish inside!”
Her cousin Melina tried to explain: “This is, em . . . this is like a place where they do your feet nicely, yes? But first you put them in the tank and the fish eat the dead skin off. To make smooth, you know? I’ve never tried it, though. Too, em . . . creepy. Creepy, right?”
Ms. Lowell seemed to have trouble digesting this news [Ed. Note: pun deliberate]. “You’re not serious,” she was reported as saying. “You’re telling me there’s a place where you can get a fish pedicure and you’ve never been inside?! Oh my God—we have to go right now. Bring your dad. This is too weird to skip.”
At press time, Melina was still adamantly refusing to let fish chew on her feet.
Filed, 2:13 p.m., Heraklion.
Thios Theseus stops to talk to every single person we pass and point out every crack in the sidewalk, just like on the drive here. On the main street—the high road—there are mostly typical stores, just like in Athens (when we pass the Starbucks, Theseus lets out a grunt and Melina whispers to me, “He hates the Starbucks. Don’t even ask to go in.”), and also little gift boutiques and clothing stores. Everything inside is perfectly nice, but looks slightly out of date. It’s like the styles here are five or six years back from NYC, or even Athens.
There are also quite a few empty storefronts, or shops with metal gates pulled down over them, covered with graffiti.
“Is it because of the economy?” I ask.
“On Crete we aren’t affected so much as in Athens, really,” Melina says. “We make so many things, you know, and don’t rely so much on this kind of, em . . . commerce? But—you know, some businesses just close, I guess.”
“Well, that’s good. For the people on Crete, I mean. Not so good for the people in Athens.”
At this point, Thios Theseus has stopped to talk to yet another person he is apparently best friends with. I’m starting to wonder if he’s the unofficial mayor of this place.
“It isn’t so bad anymore, at least here,” Melina continues. “People are learning how to live this way. Greeks are very strong people. Don’t worry.” She smiles. A few yards away, Theseus is jogging back up the street to rejoin us. “I dare you should ask my father to go into Ben & Jerry’s.”
“Ha! Yeah, right,” I say.
“Girls! What are you whispering about? I can’t trust you for a minute.” Theseus smiles, joining us and kissing Melina on the top of her head. Seeing them together makes me wish my dad could be here, too. He’d love exploring this new place with me.
“I’m telling Zona about the Greek economy,” Melina says. “Maybe her father will want to interview me for his book, yes? Me and not you?” Melina teases him. Theseus doesn’t respond, but at the mention of Dad, a darkness passes over his usually sunny expression. It bothers me.
“Yes, you’ll have to meet him. He’s amazing,” I say. “He’s won two Pulitzers.” Ugh, now I’m bragging about his awards—Dad would hate that. But I can’t help it. Why don’t they want to get to know him, to just try?
There’s a chilly silence as we go around a corner.
“Ah, Zona, this is an important place. It is the 25th of August Street Promenade, which is a long story, and here is Lion Square, which has a very famous fountain. But no one can ever tell how many lions there are—six? Four? What is the answer, do you know?” Theseus is back to his usual self, but Melina reaches for my hand and squeezes it lightly. I let the uncomfortable moment slip away.
“Uh, how many?” I ask, squeezing back.
“Five! There are five!” Theseus crows delightedly. “But for some reason, Zona, no one can ever remember this. Ask anyone you see on the street and you’ll see—it’s a mystery. And tomorrow night, we will come back near here for a Happening. You will love it. Everyone comes—old, young, babies, even cynical teenagers like you two, yes?”
I decide not to risk asking what a Happening is—what if it’s even more confusing than the bus system? Better to wait and see.
29
The next morning Yiota’s mother, Thia Angela, invites me to go with her to the market, and I gratefully accept. In the beautiful white light of the morning, a quiet trip for two seems like a perfect idea.
Last night all the cousins crowded into the main house again for another giant feast of Lent-approved foods, and while I’m getting more used to being surrounded by relatives, it’s still overwhelming. Plus, I’m always very much aware of the coldness from Thios Labis and some of the other older relatives. It’s nothing they do or say; it’s just that they don’t really interact with me much at all. Even Thios Theseus changes the subject every time my parents come up.
It was a really fun night, though—don’t get me wrong. Theseus played and sang some of his favorite Elvis songs, and each of the little cousins recited a poem or sang or performed something. It was really sweet. Before I knew it, it was three A.M. I don’t know how they do this every night. I, for one, am exhausted.
• • •
As we drive down to the market, I tentatively ask Angela about the bus system, in case I actually want to try using it.
She laughs. “Oh, no—was Theseus explaining to you? You’ll go one time and be fine. He just likes to make everything complicated. It’s one bus, or take a bike. You know there are beautiful beaches right here, yes? Come, I’ll show you on the way, then you’ll know how to get there. And of course Yiota or Melina will go with you.” She turns the car at a small fork in the road.
“So, you just go straight here, then around this bend—it’s all flat, really, once you get down this far, if you are biking—and then turn in here where it says ‘Public Beach,’ you see?” There is a second sign made of old driftwood that says bikini plaz. That makes me think of SpongeBob SquarePants, which makes me laugh.
“It’s funny, the sign? Well, it’s old, you know. Like Greece!” Angela smiles at me.
“No, I was just . . . Never mind. Do you guys come down here a lot?”
“Oh, yes!” She stops the car in a small lot and we get out. She leads me down a little path that goes through a sort of tunnel and then opens up again at the beach.
It’s my first real glimpse of the beach in Greece, and oh my God, is it incredible. The sand looks like beigey-pink powder (unlike coarse yellow Coney Island sand, which scratches your feet to pieces). The water
is an opal: blue and green and white and constantly changing. I catch my breath.
“I know, can you believe how beautiful? I look at it my whole life and I still cannot believe.” Angela sighs. We are leaning up against a wooden beam on the deck overlooking the sand. The only people in the water are a gorgeously tan woman and a naked toddler who is squealing with excitement as her mother dips her over and over.
I wonder if my mother would have taken me here.
“I love this beach,” Angela muses. “It’s nice and quiet, and the water is warm and, you know, so clear and blue. Sometimes I come at seven and spend the whole day. For only two euros, you can have a chair and stay all day if you want. I take my nap here, read . . . I used to bring my children when they were little. Now Yiota likes the busier beach, or she goes to Santorini with her friends, but I like this one.”
“Where are your other kids?” I ask.
Angela looks wistful. “Well, my oldest, my daughter Christiana, she lives in France with her husband and their children. They visit sometimes, but they are too far away to me. And my sons, Vasilis and Kostas, they are living in Athens. Vasilis, he will come with his wife for Easter—their children, they are here, you met them—but Kostas is very busy, so you maybe will not meet. They are all much older than Yiota, you know? Yiota was our . . . I don’t know in English how to say. She was . . . a surprise.” Angela laughs, but then cuts herself off. “Zona, I know your thios Labis has been a bit . . . cold to you.”
He hasn’t spoken a word to me since I got here, actually, I think.
Of course I say, “No, Thia Angela, I—”
“Éla, Zona, I am not blind. But I also know more of this story than you do. You understand, I was already married to your thios then, I knew Hélenè since she was a little girl. She was like Yiota, a surprise for your grandparents. Yes?”
“Okay,” I say cautiously. This seems like big secret sharing time, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it. But she goes on.
“Labis, he is the oldest, fourteen years older than your mother. And your pappous, your grandfather, he was . . . not a very warm person, you understand? Not a bad man, but very strict, and Hélenè was the only daughter, and she was very, em . . . very spirited and curious. Always teasing her brothers, always making new friends and wanting to explore everywhere.”
I try to picture my mother as a little girl, running around this place, in the fields and on the beach. It’s too hard.
“When she gets older he is more strict with her, but she wants to go out, have fun. Your thios Labis was her trusted friend, almost another father to her, yes? She confided in him. He thought his father was too strict. We used to help her sneak out sometimes, or stay with us in our little place so she could meet her friends. Yiota was a baby then—Hélenè would help us with her, though I don’t think Yiota remembers. So we said . . . Well, we wanted her to be happy, she was so beautiful and so much . . . energy, so much love of life—”
“So,” I interject, “when she ran away with the horrible American, Thios Labis blamed himself, right? He thought if he had listened to his father, none of it would’ve happened. So now he can’t forgive himself or my father or me?” I’ve seen this movie. Come on, life. You can do better than that.
“Well, sort of this way,” Angela says. “But more like he cannot forgive her. Because he thought what she loved so much was Greece and her life here. It never crossed his mind that she would leave, not ever. And when she met your father, who was much older—older even than Labis!—and so obviously in love with her. You know, she had many admirers, many boyfriends; she teased them all and it was a game—not a mean game, but the way a teenager is. Labis thought . . . and when she left, when he realized she was serious, he was so hurt. Like he had failed her, as a brother, as a father. As a friend, as a Cretan. I am not explaining well, I’m sorry.”
“No, you are. It’s just . . . I’m not used to talking about my mom very much, and I’ve done nothing but talk about her recently. It’s just . . . a lot.”
“Can you try to give your thios a chance? He is a wonderful man, and he loved Hélenè so much. I think it’s that you are so like her . . . He doesn’t want to risk loving you since you are going away. I know, it sounds simple, but it isn’t. He was very strict with our girls after that—oh, did they struggle with Labis’s rules, especially Christiana, the oldest. I think sometimes, maybe this is why she moves away.” Angela pauses, thinking. “Anyway, Labis has lived with this pain for many years, and then one day finds out about you. It is hard for us, too, this news. I think he always hoped that maybe Hélenè was still alive, in America, that one day she would write another letter, come back.”
I’m quiet for a while. I don’t really know what to say. I hadn’t stopped to think about the fact that finding out about me also meant finding out, for sure, that Hélenè was gone and the possibility of seeing her again was gone, too.
But it still isn’t enough. “I just don’t understand why. Why they didn’t write back, why they didn’t try. Not ever. How could they . . . do that to her? If they loved her so much?”
I can feel hot tears springing up in back of my eyes, and it makes me furious. Because I know it’s not really about my mother, this woman I never knew; it’s about the principle of the whole thing. The hatred directed at my terrific dad for no reason by people who don’t even know him. The frustration of never knowing why my mother’s family gave up on her. The dichotomy of my sweet Yia-Yia and the woman who deserted her youngest child.
Angela sighs. “I don’t know that I have good answers, Zona,” she says. “Like I am saying, your pappous was a very . . . a traditional man. He didn’t speak any English, he did not have interest in America or Americans, he was Greek through and through, and that was it. He did not approve and he told Hélenè so with his silence. Yia-Yia didn’t question her husband’s choices; she was traditional also.” Angela sees me about to interject and puts her hand on my arm firmly. “I’m not saying they were right, Zona, just that . . . this was the choice they made. Not because they didn’t care. They thought it was the right thing. And then, years pass and nothing . . . but at that time also, there was no Google, no e-mails, no Facebooks. You couldn’t just find someone so easily—especially in a different country, in a different language.”
“Come on, Thia Angela. People have been finding other people without the Internet for hundreds of years—my dad does it all the time! And besides,” I continue quickly, “Theseus lived in America, didn’t he? He speaks English, why didn’t he—”
“Theseus is different story,” Angela confesses, looking away. “Him, I think maybe . . . I think he was afraid to look. Or maybe even he did and didn’t admit it to us. Because he didn’t want to believe his sister . . . that she had passed. That they could never fix their father’s mistake. Everyone’s mistake.”
We sit together in silence, watching the waves and listening to the birds wheel over the sand. I can’t think of any more questions. At least, not right now.
“Angela,” I say finally, “you never lived in America, did you?”
“Me? Oh, no! Why?”
“How is your English so good?”
She laughs. “My English? Ochi, is terrible! I try, but thank you. So, to tell—I learned some in school, and then my kids, when they learn, I learn more and we all speak together. I think it is important, to learn. In case . . .”
“In case . . . what?”
She puts her hand over mine on the wooden beam and presses it firmly. “Just in case.” We watch the water for a few minutes in silence, and then we walk back to the car, her hand still wrapped around mine.
30
This Just In: Cretans Unfazed By Crowds
During today’s trip to the open-air market in Heraklion, a place to which she is expected to return on a regular basis during her vacation, Zona Lowell discovered that the Cretan people are not big believers in the s
o-called “personal space” much beloved by Americans. In fact, Cretans will trample over one’s sorry ass if one doesn’t move. (This practice is in direct contradiction to the habit of stopping a car in the middle of a supposedly two-lane street to have a chat with random passersby.)
Equally upsetting was the discovery that sometimes a slow-moving American teen (taking a look around at the endless stalls and food and people and yelling that is a lot like the Union Square Greenmarket in NYC but just more) will get hit in the leg with a walking stick by a mean, wizened old woman dessed head to toe in black. Said teen didn’t even see said woman because she was so tiny and scrunched over . . . and yet quite handy with a stick, as it turns out.
Other things for sale in the market besides every kind of fresh fruit and vegetable imaginable include spices, fish (they clean it for you!), homemade cheeses, honey, beans, rice, and newly made raisins still on their stems. In a related story, freshly caught calamari have actual eyes. They are terrifying. Ms. Lowell bought some to scare her cousins.
Filed, 8:30 a.m., Heraklion.
Before he met my mom, Dad lived on what he calls “bachelor cuisine,” and after they got married, she did all the cooking and he gained twenty pounds. After she died, he went right back to his old ways (which became my ways), so this is really the first time I’ve ever made (or helped to make, anyway) a big meal from scratch. No microwave. No box with instructions on the back.
We chop. We peel. We boil and mix and bake and then, after a very long time, we’ve made a giant meal that could feed an army, but will only actually be family dinner. And man, does it look good. I personally made three perfectly shaped loukoumades (fried balls of dough soaked in honey, with sesame seeds on top) all by myself after only messing up five. I Instagram a picture of them immediately and am excited when Lilena, Ashley, and Alex “like” it almost right away.
I show Melina a picture of Alex from the online class directory, and she tells me about a boy in her class she thought was going to be her boyfriend but then started acting like an idiot.
Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me Page 15
