“So after he was flirting with my friend, I decided to just give him the shoe,” she explains.
“I’m sorry, the what? The shoe?”
“The shoe, yes, I gave him the shoe—this is an expression. You never heard this, to give someone the shoe?” She looks at me like I’m the crazy one.
Finally it clicks. “Oh—you gave him the boot!” I exclaim. Then we’re both laughing, and the aunts kick us out of the kitchen for being too silly and annoying.
Since I already sent e-mails to Matt and Hilary when I got back from the market, I decide to text my GIS friends to say hi. Lilena and I have exchanged a few messages since my first night here (as she predicted, her mother had to go to a last-minute conference somewhere, so Lilena’s stuck by herself in Kallithea), and she’s fascinated by the stories about my new family.
I really like that Lilena is so interested in what I’m up to, but as usual I wish she’d open up about herself. Whenever I try to find out how she’s doing—how she’s really doing, which I have to imagine is lonely and bored and pretty pissed off—she changes the subject. I don’t push her, though. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want her to feel even worse than she already does.
Hi from Crete, I write to Alex next. My relatives don’t subscribe to the NY Times! May not survive . . .
He sends back a series of emoticons: a newspaper, a sad face, a knife, and—inexplicably—a snowman. The message makes me laugh, and Melina insists on reading over my shoulder.
“Don’t write back right away,” she insists. “Make him think you’re so busy. This will drive him crazy.”
Am I really going to take guy advice from my fourteen-year-old cousin? I muse as I watch her dash back into the house for her phone. Well, I guess it can’t hurt to try it and see what happens.
I wander into the garden to call my dad, but his phone’s off. I leave him a short message saying I miss him and that I’m fine. I don’t want him to worry about me and get distracted from his work. Plus, I’m not sure how to describe what I’m thinking and feeling about all these new people yet—I don’t want to hurt his feelings if I say I like them, or sound defensive if I say I don’t.
I’m almost glad he didn’t pick up.
I get a text from Yiota: How you doing, okay? I’m at the beach with my friends—want to meet us?
The beach! Excellent idea. And I even know how to get there, after this morning’s trip. I ask her which beach, and Thia Angela confirms that it’s on the same road as the one we visited.
Now I just have to figure out how I’m going to get there.
Cretan Cycling Fad Not Quite On Par With Brooklyn’s: A Report
To residents of most major cities, cycling has come to represent far more than a leisure activity; this alternative to fuel-based transportation has seen a rise in popularity and practicality over the last decade, inspiring bike lanes and helmet laws across the globe.
A recent study in a small Cretan town, however, shows this is not the new normal for everyone. Zona Lowell, visitor and novice cyclist, was offered the use of a “terrific bike, excellent condition, don’t worry about it,” according to the bike’s owner. Ms. Lowell, however, seemed hesitant about the proffered two-wheeler, pointing out its distinct lack of safety lights, a functioning gear shifter, or accompanying helmet.
Said Theseus Marousopoulou, the bike’s proud owner, “This bike, unsafe?! It is a classic—this is from 1991, an excellent year, trust me. I’m an engineer, okay? And if the brakes don’t work, you just put your foot like this, see, on the tire [at this point in the interview, Mr. Marousopoulou offered a demonstration] and poof, bike is stopped.” As for the lack of helmet, he said simply, “A helmet is what a good driver doesn’t need. That’s how you learn.”
Ms. Lowell was overheard muttering, “I’m going to die in the street on a white Huffy that was made before I was born. Awesome,” before heading off down a very steep hill.
Filed, 2:14 p.m., Heraklion.
I do not die on the bicycle. In fact, riding it—while definitely very dangerous—is incredibly fun. It feels like flying, with the sweet-salty wind whipping my hair back and the fruit-covered trees zipping by. We don’t have a lot of giant scenic cliffs to cruise along in New York City.
The beach is bigger than the quiet one Angela took me to in the morning. It’s packed with people and chairs and umbrellas, but I find Yiota and her friends pretty easily. I still can’t get over the color of the water—it’s so clear and every shade of green and blue rolled together. I snap pictures of everything, and Yiota and her friends get cold beers, which I decline (I have to ride back, after all), so they bring me the freshest, most delicious orange juice I’ve ever tasted.
I miss sunscreening a huge area on one of my legs, and within an hour it turns bright red and looks ridiculous. Then I see a totally naked old man walking toward us and start freaking out. Yiota’s friend Danae explains to me about nude beaches here and how it’s gross but no big deal. Then we realize the guy isn’t actually nude but wearing a Speedo that is the exact same color as his skin, which is somehow even worse.
It’s just the kind of glorious day you would imagine having in Greece. (Well, except for the creepy nude Speedo thing. Clearly.)
Glorious, that is, until you have to get your stupid one-gear bike back up the hill. Especially if you aren’t exactly a thighs-of-steel-type bicyclist, or even a bicyclist at all. Let me tell you, you haven’t lived til you’ve walked a bike up a giant cliff in the approaching darkness while being barked at by possibly rabid dogs who are clearly harboring a taste for young American girls.
I’ve never been so glad to see a house in my life as when I get back to the complex. I collapse in a sweaty heap on my bed and don’t wake up until Melina comes to get me for dinner.
My loukoumades taste amazing, by the way. Even the wonky ones.
31
After dinner, we somehow manage to get the family—I still can’t believe that everyone isn’t even here yet—into various cars, and the entire group drives down to the town center. This takes a lot less time than yesterday’s guided tour, and I realize the family complex isn’t quite as far from downtown Heraklion as I’d thought.
Yiota is staying with one of her friends for the night, but earlier they talked about maybe coming to the mysterious Happening, too. I think about friends with older siblings back home, and I can’t think of a single event other than, say, Thanksgiving dinner that they’d all willingly attend together with their parents. Which isn’t to say that Americans—or New Yorkers, anyway—don’t love their families, or that Greek kids don’t ever want to get the hell away from theirs. Of course they do. But there’s something here that’s . . . different. Like, spending time with your parents is more important than the embarrassment of being seen with them.
It makes me understand a tiny bit more how hurt my mom’s family must have been when she ran off with a stranger to a country so far away. It doesn’t excuse their reaction, of course. But I never thought I’d even be willing to think about their side of the story.
We park the cars by the marina and walk as a group through the town center, past the fountain with the lions, past the Starbucks, and into the main square. There are about fifty people milling around, looking annoyed or confused or both. We stand in a small huddle, the adults trying to keep the little ones from running off, while Thios Theseus talks to a few people he knows.
“Well, guess what, baaaaaay-beh?” he says to Melina when he comes back, slinging his arm around her shoulder. Then to Ioanna and the group at large, he says something in rapid Greek. My thios Dimitris, the youngest brother, looks furious and starts shouting in Greek. His wife starts shouting back.
Melina leans over to me and explains, “Apparently they moved it! There were maybe three hundred people here before, but everyone is wandering like fools now.”
“I
don’t understand,” I say. “I thought it was, like, a community gathering. Wasn’t it in the paper, or—”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Melina explains as we head back toward the parking lot, the little kids racing one another up and down the brightly lit streets. Except for Dimitris and his wife, no one seems remotely put out. “There were fliers all over town. But, you know, sometimes they change their minds about where to have, or when; it happens. Baba, he is going to call the mayor to complain.”
I laugh, thinking about what would happen if three hundred or so New Yorkers turned up for a show that was moved with no notice. Not a bunch of shrugs and people going to get ice cream, that’s for sure. We stop at a gelato shop, and I notice Theseus on the phone.
“Who’s he talking to?” I ask Melina.
“I told you—the mayor. Baba, he likes to make a point, you know? He’s so embarrassing sometimes.”
We walk on, licking our cones. Thios Dimitris, who has barely spoken to me since I arrived and seems to like me about as much as Labis does, is still arguing with his wife, both of them gesticulating wildly. Soon we’ve left them behind us.
“Are they . . . ?” I ask Melina.
She laughs. “Oh, they are always this way. Fighting and making up. We ignore them mostly.”
“Éla! It’s on the north side, past the marina!” Theseus crows, finally ending his call. He looks as excited as a kid who knows a secret before any of his friends. “Come on, let’s hurry or we’ll miss it!” He dances up the cobbled street past us until he comes even with Ioanna and the other wives.
“Excuse me, laaaaaaaaaaaaaaadies,” he croons in his Elvis voice. “But I need to hold hands with my wife, if you don’t mind!” He takes Ioanna’s hand, then turns back and winks at me and Melina.
I try to imagine my dad holding hands with my mother on this same street, but I can’t quite get there. Actually, I can’t picture him holding hands with anyone—except me, when I was little. I feel sad, suddenly, watching Theseus and Ioanna, so obviously in love after years together. I wonder if Dad ever wanted to date again and didn’t because of me. Or if he’s spent the last sixteen years missing my mom every day, not letting me know because I couldn’t miss her that way, too.
It makes me even more furious that my Greek family won’t welcome him—after all, it wouldn’t bring Hélenè back, but maybe it would give him some peace. Let him feel close to her again. Something.
“Zona, you are okay?” Melina asks, poking me gently in the arm. I nod quickly.
I’m not used to having so many feelings all at once.
I send Hil a quick text: Wish we could talk.
After a minute or so, I get back: In class! Got yr email yesterday, but no chance to w/b. You ok?????
It’s nice to feel connected to her a little. At least Hilary I can be sure of, even if I can’t be sure of myself.
I write back: Yeah, I’m on my way to a Happening. NBD.
• • •
“Happening” Revealed To Be Mandolin Concert; Weird But Cool?
It seems that the annual attempt to gather a world record number of people playing mandolins in one place is a very big deal in Heraklion (at last count, it was 415). As in, seriously, approximately fifteen hundred people of all ages gathered for the yearly event tonight—including two television crews, a Guinness official, and a bunch of kids who had clearly been forced to wear traditional Greek costumes and hand out flowers.
“I guess I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this,” commented Zona Lowell, visitor. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s interesting, and it’s especially intriguing how into it everyone here is. I mean, where I’m from I don’t think you’d see high school kids very excited to go to a mandolin concert with their parents.”
“What kind of stupid kids would miss this?” her uncle Theseus Marousopoulou was overheard remarking to his wife. “Have you ever seen this many mandolins? New Yorkers don’t know about this stuff, that’s why.”
Ms. Lowell was unavailable for further comment, as she was busy watching a bunch of local boys break-dancing on the front steps of what turned out to be the town hall.
Filed, 9:36 p.m., Heraklion.
While the adults are congratulating the mayor on a magnificent Happening or herding up the littlest cousins (some of whom are asleep on their feet), Melina and I sit at a café table with a few of her schoolmates.
“So, what do you think of Heraklion?” Phoebe, one of Melina’s friends, asks me. “Not like New York too much?”
“Oh, I like it a lot here. But it’s definitely . . . different,” I reply thoughtfully.
Melina and her friends laugh. “We aren’t dying to go to mandolin shows, Zona,” Melina says. “It’s more like, our parents want us to be with them, so we do it. In American TV or books every teenager mostly hates their parents. Not so much in Greece.”
“Éla, my parents, they are so annoying,” a boy with a pierced nose says. “They watching me all the time and making me crazy.”
“Everyone makes you crazy, Kon. Greekgreekgreekgreekgreek,” one of the other girls scolds him.
“I guess I just don’t understand why my mother left all this behind if family is such a big deal,” I say. “I mean, I know she tried to get in touch with your family. Our family,” I correct myself when Melina gives me a poke. “And I know she couldn’t have predicted what happened. But the way she just left, knowing how angry they’d be . . . She wasn’t a child. She must’ve known they’d react the way they did, considering how overprotective our grandparents were. So why didn’t she do something to make sure they’d stay connected?”
Melina looks thoughtful. Her friends are riveted. I guess new gossip in a small town is pretty exciting—even at a thrilling Happening. “I guess she was in love, and being . . . wild, maybe. She was not so old. I can see how it seems like you can do anything and fix it later. I’d love to meet a man who swept me away to somewhere else, so romantic.” Melina’s girlfriends giggle. The boys groan. “But, Zona,” she continues, “Hélenè did connect you to us. Because of your name. Didn’t you know this?”
“My name? Ugh, I hate my name. It’s so weird and it doesn’t even mean anything good.”
“What do you think it means?” she asks.
“Girdle or belt, right?” There’s a flurry of Greek as Phoebe tries to explain what a girdle is to Kon. “What, is it supposed to be that I’m, like, belted to the family?”
Melina gives me an exasperated look. “Come on, Zona—do you think your own mother was this . . . how to say it . . . lame? No. In Greece, it is traditional to name grandchildren after grandparents. So, this way if you meet someone named Stefan, you can be sure his grandfather had that same name, yes? So, my grandmother’s name is also Melina—from my mother’s side.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“My grandfather is Konstantinos, like me as well,” Kon offers.
“Wow. Well, that’s cool . . . but . . .”
“But, didn’t you ask what is Yia-Yia’s given name?” Melina asks impatiently.
Oh. I never did, come to think of it.
“It’s Zona, of course!” she says triumphantly. “So you were always part of us, even when you didn’t know it. You see?”
Oh. I am starting to see more clearly, I think.
“If you are not going to be smarter about these things, I will have to give you the shoe.” Melina grins.
And I grin back.
32
When we get home, it’s past midnight. I know my friends in NYC will be eating dinner, but I send a text saying I miss them anyway. I take a picture of myself blowing a kiss and consider sending it to Alex. Not exactly sexting, but it seems bold anyway. Though he did send me a picture of an ice cream cone, so . . .
I’m still mulling it over when I get a reply from Matt (who is apparently not at dinner) asking
me to get on Skype. Since Yiota is with her friend tonight, I have the room to myself.
I log on, and Matty’s image flashes onto my screen. He’s dressed in a black shirt with mesh sleeves, his hair is spiked, and he’s wearing a ton of makeup—liquid liner and glitter on his eyes and some kind of face paint on his cheekbones, like blush, but yellow.
“Whoa,” I say. “Is this your new day look?”
He laughs. “I’m going with Scott and his friends to a dance club later,” he explains, keeping his voice low. “Just trying out a few things. So, how’s your family stuff going? Your e-mail was kind of . . . I dunno, vague. Your uncle Theseus sounds pretty crazy, though.”
I laugh. “Yeah, he is, I guess—but in a good way.”
“So? Are you okay or what? Seriously asking here.”
“Um,” I reply, hesitantly. “It’s . . . interesting.”
“Just interesting?” Matt puts his eye right up to the camera lens, so it fills the whole screen. “ZOOOONAAAAAAAA. This is me, remember? Use your words, please!” He backs away again and waits for me to answer.
I take a breath, and then the words come out in a tumble. “Well, it’s . . . My cousins are wonderful. And I wrote you about my thia Angela, what she said at the beach, so that was an amazing surprise. Then my grandmother is, like, this tiny storybook granny who everyone adores—including me—and I can’t reconcile her at all with the evil witch I’ve imagined her to be for the last decade. But two of my other uncles haven’t been very friendly to me at all, which is uncomfortable, and the other uncle isn’t here for me to meet; I guess he’s sick or something, I don’t know. And no one really talks about my mom at all except to say I look like her, and whenever I mention my dad, they ignore me or talk about something else, which makes me absolutely irate, you know?”
“Totally. So, do you want to leave?” Matty asks.
Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me Page 16
