Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me

by Meredith Zeitlin

  When told of the incident, Lowell’s elder cousin Yiota Marousopoulou laughed until she cried. “Glass in the windows? Up until three years ago, there wasn’t even a real toilet. It was just a hole! That was only put in so tourists would rent the cottage!”

  Zona Lowell offered no additional comments, except to state that she will not be consuming liquids until she is safely back in civilization.

  Filed, total darkness, the middle of nowhere, Crete.

  You know what’s less scary but just as upsetting as wall monsters and toilet moths?

  ROOSTERS.

  I finally fall asleep after the horrifying bathroom incident, and about two seconds later the local roosters start having some kind of sing-off, their individual cries getting progressively fancier and louder.

  It goes on so long, I start wondering why roosters crow—wouldn’t it make more sense for them to rooster? Do crows rooster?! I’m slowly becoming delirious, so I put a pillow over my head and try to lull myself back to sleep by calculating exactly how many hours I have left before I can return to Heraklion.

  • • •

  I am yanked out of a dream about windows with glass in them by a pounding on the door. I bolt upright and call out, “Yes? Kali—hello?”

  I hear a string of grouchy Greek and more pounding, which tells me that Pro-Yia-Yia (and her stick) is up and ready to hang out. I crawl out of my green mosquito net, slip on my jean shorts, and head outside.

  Pro-Yia-Yia is in the garden, and on the big stone table is a spread: boiled eggs, honey, feta, tomatoes, fresh bread, olive oil, olives, cucumbers . . . plus some things I can’t identify but feel fairly certain are Greek delicacies.

  “Wow, Pro-Yia-Yia! This looks amazing! Efcharisto!” I exclaim, smiling hugely and waving my hands around in a way that I hope conveys my gratitude.

  She glares at me and nods her head. Doesn’t she ever smile? I find it hard to believe she actually wanted me to come here, because she seems like she’d rather be alone with her plants, frankly.

  She gestures to a plastic lawn chair with her trusty stick and I sit. Then she piles more food than I could eat in a week onto my plate—but I’ve gotten used to that by now. I wait while she slowly eases herself into a similar plastic chair (she refuses my offer of help with an angry sucking noise), and then we dig in.

  It’s delicious. I try some of everything.

  Except the olives, of course. Because I hate olives. Always have, always will.

  Pro-Yia-Yia is working on her third boiled egg, nibbling her way around with limited teeth and fierce determination. I take a break from stuffing my face to look around at the river and trees. It really is beautiful out here. Boring, with no Internet access, no cell service, and no one to talk to, but glorious to look at. A very nice place to have breakfast.

  I’m jerked out of my reverie by Pro-Yia-Yia, who is tapping a fork against my plate next to the pile of uneaten olives.

  I wave my hand and shake my head, saying, “Oh, thank you, Pro-Yia-Yia, but I don’t like olives. Do you want mine?” I hold the plate out to her and receive another tap of the fork and a string of angry Greek words.

  She mimes picking up an olive and putting it in her mouth, then points at me. She says more things I don’t understand.

  Why, oh, why wasn’t cousin Markos invited to breakfast so he could explain? I will seriously throw up if I have to put one of those in my mouth. But then I think that she probably grew these olives herself. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Or get hit with her stick.

  I look gloomily down at my plate and then back at Pro-Yia-Yia, who is watching me with her evilest eye. I have a feeling I will either have to eat a revolting olive or be sacrificed at the top of a hill.

  The olive is about the same size as a chocolate-covered almond. Maybe I can pretend that’s what it is and get it over with.

  I pick it up, mentally hold my nose, and bite. It’s . . . salty. It feels fleshier than I expected, and a bit juicy, and only medium terrible. I think I may actually survive this. I sneak a peek at Pro-Yia-Yia, who is watching me. I put the whole thing in my mouth, chew around the pit, and swallow.

  I did it.

  And I don’t even feel like puking. Pro-Yia-Yia slaps her hand on the table and says a bunch of stuff, then nods so sharply, I’m worried her head will fall off.

  I’m actually considering eating a second olive, just to see what she’ll do. Can I win her over with my bravery? Earn a tiny smile, perhaps?

  Three olives later, the answer is still no.

  35

  Later in the afternoon I’m reading outside on my iPad mini and trying to figure out how to mime “Where is there an Internet connection?” to Pro-Yia-Yia when she appears beside me. She’s holding a basket of figs and prickly pears and a loaf of homemade bread.

  “You want me to slice that up for you, Pro-Yia-Yia?” I ask politely. Since our breakfast this morning, I’ve been asking if she needs help with anything and she keeps shooing me away, puttering around in the house or the garden.

  “Markos,” she says, holding out the basket. I take it from her, and she points up the stone steps and toward town. “Markos,” she says again.

  “You want . . . me to bring it to Markos?” I say. I take a few exaggerated steps away from her. She nods and claps her little hands, and I feel proud of myself. (I try not to think about the fact that I used to feel proud of myself for things like writing a thought-provoking piece on the state of women’s reproductive rights in America; now I’m thrilled to get a nursery-school game of charades right. Ah, well.)

  “Sure!”

  She turns on her heel and heads back to her cottage. Finally, something to do! And town must have an Internet café and cell reception, right? I can send some e-mails, see if anyone has texted me . . . plus ask Markos some valuable questions, such as, Did I do something to piss off Pro-Yia-Yia, or is she always like this? And, Do you think there is a ghost living in the guest cottage?

  I stuff my things into my backpack, slap on my sunglasses and flip-flops, and head up the chalky path. There is a row of stone houses similar to Pro-Yia-Yia’s (but falling apart) lining the hillside; they’re clearly unlived-in and uninhabitable. It’s so weird how all these houses look like actual Greek ruins, what I thought I’d see in Athens. I guess they are, technically, Greek ruins—but not famous ones where Hercules and Plato used to throw orgies and invent government or anything. They’re really beautiful—so quiet, and sad. My favorites are the ones where leaves are starting to grow up from the stones, like nature is taking over again. I wonder why these places are all crumbled and empty. Is it the economy, or did people just leave? I wish I had someone to ask.

  It’s so incredibly frustrating to not be able to communicate, and I feel moronic for not having picked up more Greek in the last four months.

  At the fork in the road I turn right and there I am—town, or what passes for it. Why is it so deserted? It’s tiny, sure, but picturesque . . . and yet the streets are empty.

  I go to the bakery and the woman in red is there again (in a blue shirt this time). She’s probably my cousin, too, and I don’t even know her name. I feel bad. “Kalimera,” I say, even though it’s actually afternoon and not morning.

  “Yassas,” she says, smiling. (I know that one—it means “hello!”) She looks at me expectantly.

  “Um, is Markos here?” I hold up the basket from Pro-Yia-Yia

  “Oh, greekgreekgreekgreekgreek,” she says. I shake my head, frowning. She puts a finger on her chin, thinking. “Other town,” she says slowly. “Markos . . . other town.”

  “Markos is in another town?”

  She looks at her hands, then calls to someone in the back room. A guy comes out—another cousin? They exchange a few sentences in Greek, and then he says, “Markos next town. Is . . . this way,” and points down the road.

  “Oh,” I say.
“Uh . . . should I . . . go there? And do you guys have Wi-Fi?”

  “You go . . . Markos,” the man says again. He says a word that I’m guessing is the name of the town.

  “It’s just down the road,” says a woman’s voice behind me in accented English. Australian maybe? I turn around and see a woman with gray hair but a young face, wearing a long colorful skirt. “I can give you a lift, if you like?” She speaks in fluent Greek to the man at the counter, then turns back to me. “There’s a café there with Wi-Fi, too. It’s a much bigger town than this one.”

  “That would be terrific, if you don’t mind,” I say. “Thank you so much!”

  I do realize I’ve only been without Internet access for about two days, by the way. But I can’t help getting excited by the word Wi-Fi—I’m losing my mind without it. I’d never make it on a deserted island. I guess I really am a city girl at heart.

  I take a second to consider whether it would be a terrible idea to get in a car with a stranger, but she seems nice enough—plus my cousins (all the people at the bakery are related to me, I’m almost sure of it) know where I’m going, and with whom. It’ll be fine. Right? She must sense my thoughts because she says, “Don’t worry—everyone gets rides from people here. It’s completely safe. The buses are very sporadic, though it’s pretty close if you want to walk instead.”

  “No, no, a ride would be great, thanks. Sorry—I’m from New York, so not really used to hitching rides.”

  “You’re from the city?” she asks as she loads her bag into the car. I open the passenger door.

  “Yep,” I say, climbing in beside her with Pro-Yia-Yia’s basket. “Where are you from?”

  “South Africa, but I’ve lived here for over twenty years.” She pulls away from the curb and continues down the main road. “I came here on my honeymoon and never left.”

  “Wow, that’s so romantic.”

  “Well, not so romantic—my ex didn’t like it as much as I did!” We both laugh, her boldly and me hesitantly. “It was too small for him. But I love it—the simple life, everyone neighbors, easy days . . .”

  “It is . . . small,” I say carefully, not wanting to insult this nice lady. “The streets are all so empty. Are the people inside napping, or . . . ?”

  “They’re napping, or working in other towns nearby, or just having a coffee in their kitchens. There’s no rush here. People take their time; they enjoy everything. It’s a very magical place,” she says, pulling to the side of the road outside of a small general store that looks an awful lot like the bakery. In fact, for a “much larger town,” this place looks almost exactly the same as the one we just left. “Your cousin is in there. Have fun!”

  “Thanks!” I call as she pulls away.

  I go into the store, locate Markos, and ascertain that the only Wi-Fi connection here isn’t working. He gets me a soda and we sit together for a few minutes.

  Teen Learns $$ Truth About Family Matriarch

  At an impromptu sit-down meeting today, Zona Lowell learned about the differences between Greek and American financial security, inside sources report.

  “Apparently Pro-Yia-Yia is insanely rich,” Zona said, clearly surprised. “The wealthiest person in the whole family, and she controls all the money—but she lives like it’s the eighteenth century! Apparently these cottages are over two hundred years old and, except for the plumbing, haven’t been updated at all.”

  Zona’s cousin, Markos Pelonis, tried to explain: “Here it is land that means wealth. She owns [the young man spreads his hands wide to indicate a large amount] very very much land, and many olives, grapes . . . for make oil, rakí, wine . . . Also many houses of people on her land. New houses, yes?”

  Zona was even more shocked to learn that Athénè Pelonis’s direct descendants—with the exception of Zona’s own grandmother, who as the only daughter went to live with her husband’s family—all live in a modern complex a few miles away that actually belongs to the family matriarch. “Why doesn’t she live there, too? She’s a million years old, for God’s sake!”

  Once again, it was Markos who illuminated her: “She doesn’t want to. She likes how she lives, how she grew up as a child. It’s what she wants. My father, he had to insist on the electric lights outside!”

  Zona seemed stumped, but impressed. She wondered briefly about the contents of the old woman’s will, but felt pretty certain that Athénè Pelonis was destined to outlive them all.

  Filed, 1:46 p.m., the middle of nowhere, Crete.

  After Markos goes back to work, it becomes clear there’s nothing to do in this town but watch him stack boxes or walk back and forth wondering where all the people are. At least back at my little cottage I could take a lovely, very Greek, midafternoon nap.

  But first I have to get there. And my South African friend is nowhere to be seen.

  I start walking, waving my cell phone around until I actually get a faint signal. I call Dad, hoping to finally get through.

  “Hello?” he says. “Ace, is that you?”

  “Dad! I’ve been trying to call you for days—where have you been?” I’m so relieved to hear his voice. I have a thousand things to tell him.

  “Something’s been going on with the cell service over here—everything’s a mess,” he explains, sounding annoyed and very far away. “Believe me, I’ve been trying to reach you, too! So how’s it going? I got your voice mail. Are you . . . okay?”

  I think for a second before I respond. “Yes,” I finally say. “It’s exciting and interesting. But also weird and overwhelming. Mostly everyone is great, but—”

  “Hello? Zona, can you hear me?” Dad is shouting into the phone. I look at the screen—one measly bar.

  “Dad? Dad, I’m here!”

  “Zona, if you can hear me, try to call me again later, okay, kiddo? I miss you. Tony misses you, too. We love you! Have fun!”

  “I love you, too!” I shout, not caring if anyone hears (not that there’s anyone around to hear). “Give Tony a kiss from . . .” But the connection is gone. I sigh. “Wish you were here, Dad,” I say quietly, shoving the phone back in my pocket.

  I plug my headphones into my trusty iPad mini and keep walking. I enjoy the distracting music and think that walking isn’t actually so bad, even in flip-flops—a beautiful, cloudless, sunny sky, flowers everywhere, only the occasional maniacal driver blazing around a curve and forcing me to jump into a hedge . . . and anyway, it’s something to do. I figure I’ve got a solid two hours or so before it starts to get dark, and if I can’t walk three miles by then, I need one of those old lady walking sticks myself.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m bored. You know what the worst possible shoes are for walking three miles along a questionably poured highway? Flip-flops. I’ve scraped two of my toes on a rock, and I have about fifty mosquito bites. I’m sweaty. This sucks. Man, was I this pathetic back in New York? I don’t think so—I mean, I walked everywhere and never thought twice about it. But here it’s like all this nature is destroying me, slowly but surely.

  Also, I have to admit my feelings are a little hurt. I mean, that lady said people in Crete offer rides all the time, that it’s a regular thing to do, just to be friendly. How come all these cars have gone by and not one has stopped? I’m cute and nice! I consider putting my thumb out, but that seems too desperate—I don’t think I can take the added layer of hitching rejection.

  Then a Jeep-like car slows down at the crossroads. There’s no light there, so the driver either wants to offer me a lift or ask for directions. I hope it’s the former, as I haven’t seen a sign that indicates I’m even close to my destination.

  I approach the car and the guy rolls down the window. He’s swarthy and has a big mustache and tiny squinty eyes in a big face. Hmm. I had hoped it would be a nice woman driver.

  “I hope you don’t want directions, because I’m the wrong person to ask,”
I quip, wondering if he even speaks English.

  “Where you go?” he says.

  I tell him the name of the town and he looks confused, which isn’t exactly reassuring. He reaches over and opens the door for me to get in.

  Which maybe isn’t such a great idea. But I remember the South African woman has lived here for twenty years. Surely she wouldn’t give bad advice to a new girl in town, right?

  This is how women end up hog-tied in shallow graves, Zona, says the wise field reporter in my head. Hello?! What is the point of being up on your true crime reading if you aren’t going to utilize the information? Do you want to be a serious journalist or cover local bake sales?

  He starts driving. “Where you live?”

  “With my pro-yia-yia. Athénè Pelonis?” I use the name like a shield, thinking maybe he knows her or lives on her land, even. As in, Don’t screw around with me, pal. I’m connected.

  He just grunts. “No, no . . . where you from? France?”

  Well, that’s sort of flattering, actually. Odd, but definitely a compliment. “No, New York. United States,” I clarify. Another grunt. “This is really nice of you, sir. I really, um . . . appreciate—oh! That’s the place, just stop—”

  But he doesn’t stop.

  “Sir, wait, I need to go there, my cousin . . . Stop!”

  The man looks at me, grinning—evilly?!—but still doesn’t stop. “New York, I have not been,” he says.

  I’m feeling a little panicky. He’s not going very fast, but he’s still driving and clearly ignoring me. Oh, Zona, Zona, you dummy—you need to listen to your instincts!

  “Sir!” I say more loudly. I wonder if I could jump out like in the movies. I can’t reach for the handle preemptively, though, or he’ll guess my intentions and maybe lock the door. Then I’ll be screwed. “Sir, please stop—I have to be back there. STOP.”

  “You want stop here?” He is still going. Then, finally, he slows down and stops. “Why, you sure? Right here?”