The Greek Persuasion

by Kimberly K. Robeson

  I am so excited to see this historic site, and I plan on rocking out to Linkin Park in my rented car as I drive the many hours to get there. I also read online that from Kamena Vourla I can easily drive to Delphi, too. I have been there once, but it was so many years ago.

  While I’m standing in line, images of these places make a movie before my eyes, and instantly I am a child on her first trip to Disneyland. Despite my good mood, I am having a hard time breathing as clouds of cigarette smoke float around me. A bunch of people hover around an upright ashtray in the corner of the room, and when a chunky Greek woman in front of me reaches the man in the immigration box, she yells to the people in the back of the room while waving her arm frantically in the air, “Ella! Ella!” And now instead of one person in front of me, an entire Greek clan has gathered—all with blue passports. Normally this would irk me, but today nothing can get to me. I’m just so excited to get out of this airport and begin my adventure. As I stand there twiddling my fingers, shifting my feet back and forth, laced with this excitement is something relatively new in my life: a sense of peace.

  One hour and counting, I finally make it through the lines to get my suitcase. When I exit, I see families kissing, tears streaming down faces, vigorous hugs, Greeks talking one over the other; absolute joy from all involved. No one is there to greet me. But it’s okay. No jealousy, sadness, or emptiness courses through my veins, just adrenaline. I look around, trying to find a sign for taxis when Eleni comes over and gives me her business card, telling me that the phone number and address of her family’s home is on the back, and if I want to see “real” village people, I should come visit. She says this with a hearty laugh (that reminds me a bit of Jessica), gives me a few kisses on the cheek and departs. Maybe I will visit, who knows? Slipping the card in my wallet, I go outside where I see several taxis lined up. Since I will stay put in Kamena Vourla for a while, I decide to save some money and get there by bus and rent a car later.

  Within minutes, I am on my way to Liossion Station. I think about taking an airport bus to the main bus station—I read online it’s about 3 euros—and seriously regret not doing it when the taxi driver tells me I owe him 35 euros for the short trip. Once I get out, I pull my heavy suitcase behind me, no gallant Greek to help, just atavistic men huddled like cavemen around an ashtray. I ask a few bystanders about tickets and, finally, a yiayia dressed in black from head to toe points me to a line. I stand in the queue, hoping that she was right, and I am not wasting time. After three people in front of me get tickets, I reach the woman behind the glass, a tired-looking woman about fifty-something with a cigarette hanging from her lip. She asks me where I want to go with such an attitude I instantly feel like I did something wrong. I respond that I want to go to Kamena Vourla. She yells the price, and I give her my money as she throws me a ticket. Before I can say anything, she says the equivalent to “NEXT!”

  But I don’t move. Now with a stronger, annoyed voice (Peace has temporarily deserted me) I tell her that the ticket says Lamia and I want to go Kamena Vourla. The rude, wrinkle-mouthed woman screams at me again, saying that the village, Kamena Vourla, will be about half an hour before the final destination of Lamia; I just need to keep my eyes open and listen to the man who yells the destinations and get off at the right time. Great system. Lugging my suitcase, I find bus #32 and see a line forming. An older man with chest hairs popping through his shirt grabs my suitcase and before I can ask what he is doing, he screams, “Pou pas?”

  “Kamena Vourla,” I reply. He does not look at me and throws my suitcase into the bottom of the bus in the luggage compartment. Then he hollers at another woman and I am reassured: he’s not mad at me. Oh yeah, I am in Greece. No American niceties. Greeks are not rude: they are just Greek. Moving more slowly because I can feel the jetlag settling into my tired bones, I get onto the bus, find my seat, and plop down. Feeling totally exhausted, I think it’s safe to sleep for a bit because Kamena Vourla is about two and a half hours away. The seat beside me is empty, so no fear of engaging in any conversations. Thank Zeus.

  All of a sudden, the bus comes to a halting stop, and I am jarred back from my dream world, realizing that I don’t know where I am or what time it is. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, ah, on the bus, in Greece, going to Kamena Vourla. I look out the window and see that we have stopped. I have no idea how long we have been on the bus. I ask a woman sitting in the row over how far to Kamena Vourla, worried that we have already passed it. She takes on a motherly tone when she hears my accent, telling me that we are still an hour away and this is a rest stop, but if I want to go get food or go to the bathroom, I had better move fast because once the bus driver is ready, he waits for no one. My stomach is growling and the tyropita that the little boy is munching on in the next seat over looks too good to pass up. I jump out of my seat, get off the bus, go to the bathroom first, then make it into the bakery-restaurant-corner-market thingy. The smells tickle my nose, a mixture of fresh bread mixed with deep olive oil. A slight hazelnut, Nutella scent tops it off (the boy in front of me has a moist chocolate croissant). There are still a few people from the bus in line, so I’m confident that I will not be left alone in the middle of what looks like nowhere.

  Back in the bus, I am revitalized. Looking out the window excitedly, munching on my tyropita as flecks of crispy phyllo dough land on my jeans from the cheese pie, I sip my Coke and smile like a stupid American. A cute gent, a few seats away, catches my eye, but he turns quickly when he sees me. I realize he’s probably in his early twenties, and as a woman in her thirties, I have to admit, I just don’t attract them like I used to, don’t have that mysterious, young foreign girl allure anymore. But it’s okay. I still feel thrilled to be alive.

  As the bus moves along, I stare out the window while the warm air blows my hair around, enjoying the country side, thinking it looks much different than the islands; mountains hover to the left and every so often, on a steep mountain turn, I can catch the blue of the Aegean coastline to my right. The houses are varied, some small wood homes, some stucco houses that remind me of Californian residences; other bigger, brick homes on the mountainside look more lavish. I see big warehouse-type buildings; some stretches of land, then a few more company buildings can be seen in the distance. Finally, the bus slows down and it seems we are entering the middle of a small town. The matronly woman on my left points to me and tells me we have arrived: “Imaste sta Kamena Vourla, agape mou.” Agape mou. My love. Instantly, I feel welcomed. She doesn’t even know me. For as fierce, loud, and as rude Greeks come across, there is unequivocal warmth to them also.

  “Efharisto,” I reply, thanking her as I pick up my purse and quickly collect my rubbish. Then a piercing, “KAMENA VOURLA!” is heard from the conductor-like man and a few people stand quickly, including the handsome lad. Before the bus comes to a full stop, people are pushing their way to the front. But no one seems offended; it’s just their system. The young man is first in line, waiting anxiously, leaning on one foot then the other. From the window I see a girl, who looks barely fifteen, standing under the green awning wearing a bikini top and a miniskirt; a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy white miniskirt. Long, brown hair falls on tan, sleek shoulders and big, black bug-eye glasses sit on her perfect face. Her body swings nervously from side to side; every so often she stands on her tiptoes trying to look into the bus that has yet to open the doors. Whooooosh. The doors open, and the blazing heat is let in. I see the man-boy and girl staring excitedly at one another. He pushes past the conductor, hops off the bus; she runs to him, flings her arms around his neck, and gives him an (almost) indecent, tongue-filled kiss. I find myself hunched over, staring from the bus window, ah young love.

  I can’t say it warms my heart, but neither does it make me jealous. More than anything I think, gosh, how many times will she feel that way? That exhilarating anxiety, the endless minutes of not being able to wait to hold her lover. I also wonder how many times her heart will be broken. How many suitors will revert to
frogs after those luscious kisses? My thoughts sound a bit negative, but I see myself more as a realist now. I almost (just almost) feel her pain when she realizes he’s not The One (for whatever reason). But then I tell myself: she has to go through it. There is no other way. And then a remarkable thought enters my mind: What if he is The One? What happens when one is tender and young and innocent (okay maybe not so innocent with that long lizard-like kiss), and finds his or her perfect half? Do they recognize the other as being The One? And can everlasting love really be found at such a young age? Could they be that rare couple who fall in love before twenty, get married, have children, stay happily married for fifty years, and then die within six months of each other because neither can bear to be on this earth without the other? Hmm … ?

  I don’t think so.

  Then I think … maybe?

  Who knows?

  This newfound tranquility makes me believe that anything is possible, and even if I haven’t found my ideal, that doesn’t mean bug-eyed girl won’t find her misplaced half. They continue to embrace when I hear Mr. Conductor shouting at me: “Kyria, PROHORA!”

  A woman behind me is pushing, and I realize I’m the one holding up the line, so lost in thought, eyes glued to the window. He screams again: Lady, MOVE! When I get to the bottom of the bus, I think: shoot, my suitcase! I look up at him, explaining that I need my suitcase, and he replies I should have been listening earlier because he asked if anyone had any luggage. I apologize, wondering if the bus will just drive away with all my belongings; a slight sense of fear momentarily takes over before I hear myself yell again in typical Greek fashion, “E validsa mou PARAKALO!” My suitcase PLEASE! Almost pummeling an old lady on the bus’s stairs, he gets out, pulls out a magic key, pops open the bottom of the bus, and yanks out my heavy suitcase and throws it on the ground. Before I can thank him, he is back on the bus, and it is pulling out of the makeshift station. The helpful woman on the bus waves at me, and again, I am comforted. As I stand there with my purse, a laptop bag, and my newly-scratched Samsonite, I see two men that look about one hundred years old playing backgammon; three others sit around them, drinking coffee in miniature cups that look more like a child’s tea set, and in their other hand, each one has a cigarette. An ashtray, full of cigarette butts, decorates the table as does a pile of newspapers. I walk up to their table, but am non-existent, so I decide to go into the café where the bus has dropped me off and inquire about my residence. The woman at the counter ignores me too; I finally get her attention on the third “Excuse me!” I know customer service is not Greece’s specialty, but this is getting ridiculous. I am now certifiably grumpy and tired, and I just want a bit of help.

  With no more feigned politeness, I slam a piece of paper on the counter and ask where I can find Kyria Akrivi’s pension. She stops putting chip bags away and finally shows me her yellow smile. She tells me to take a seat, that she will call a taxi to take me to Kyria Akrivi’s place. I ask if it’s that far and can I walk, but she just looks at my suitcase and keeps dialing. Within a few minutes an elderly man pulls up in a grey Mercedes. Great. Not a regular taxi, but a Mercedes! They are already “grabbing my ass”—a Greek expression meaning to take advantage of the stupid tourist. I don’t feel like fighting, so I say efharisto and get into the car. I later find out that all the taxis in town are Mercedes because supposedly they are such solid cars and cheaper to maintain, so my first assumption was wrong; they weren’t trying to take advantage of my derrière or my wallet. The driver takes me to, what literally feels like around the corner, a beige five-story building with a huge garden that overlooks a little bay. The setting is quaint. It’s about 5:30 p.m. and the beach is full of people. Yiayias with skinny legs and round bellies are taking a dip while men with equally round tummies sit together on the shoreline throwing stones into the water. Mothers stand in knee-high water as their toddlers, wearing inflatable arm rings, jump and float around them. The sun is still shining brightly, and it’s hot, quite warm for the beginning of June.

  Stelios, the taxi driver, stops and beeps his horn loudly as a woman comes out of the building. My heart drops through my rib cage and into my kneecaps. I cannot believe her resemblance to my very own, dear yiayia. She is wearing a flower apron over a black dress that tells me she is a widow. (I later learn that I was mistaken, and that she had lost her son to a tragic drinking and driving accident.) Her pepper-grey hair is pulled low in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her black shoes are soiled with mud; she is wiping her hands on her apron as she approaches the car. She says something brusquely to Stelios, but I can’t make out the words because her back is turned to me. I go to pay him, and he says, “Oxi,” gets in his taxi, and drives away. I later learn that Stelios is my keeper’s first cousin through marriage, and there is no way she is paying him to drive me eight blocks to her house. I soon find out that everyone in this village is somehow related, and no one ever really expects to get paid. Uncle Yannis goes into his niece Maria’s café, has a dessert and coffee, then leaves, having spent not a single euro, but knows that Maria’s daughter will be in Yannis’s sister’s bar that night for a few free drinks. Dimitri’s yiayia goes to the local grocery store and gets her milk for free, but then Dimitri knows the grocer’s wife’s next taxi ride is free. It’s an interesting system, and I wonder how many disgruntled family members are out there, who never get an equal payback. But I guess it works. At least it did this time for Kyria Akrivi’s guest since I didn’t spend a dime or a drachma or a euro now.

  After Stelios drives away, Kyria Akrivi does not greet me, just grabs some keys out of her apron pocket, and tells me to leave the suitcase; someone else will bring it up. I say that I can get it, but her look tells me I better leave it right where it’s at. So I do. I follow her up black and white speckled marble steps. Kyria Akrivi huffs and puffs as she walks me up four flights; just when I think we are about to arrive, there is another set of stairs about half the size, metal, that circle dangerously to another floor, steps so small that my foot barely fits on them completely! At the top, there is a wooden door with the number “2” hanging on it, lopsided, so it looks more like a letter from the Greek alphabet. She instructs me how to open the door: a pull, she says, then stick in the key and turn, pull again, then a slight push with the hips. And another push if it doesn’t open. While she is talking, a laugh escapes my lips. She looks at me angrily, instantly silencing me. Great. I guess I am not making the best first impression. From her point of view, I may seem rude, laughing at her door-opening system, so I apologize telling her I was thinking of something else, but she seems less than interested in what I have to say.

  The door finally opens, and I see a tiny room with a huge balcony. The single bed is made of wood with a thin mattress on top; crisp white sheets adorn the bed, tightly tucked in at all corners, a ceiling fan swirls above, and a small desk with a thatched chair are squeezed into the corner of the room. I see a minuscule bathroom that looks incredibly white, as if Mr. Clean has just been there. A white shower curtain encloses a stand-up shower that is barely big enough for me even though I am only 5’6”, and a small white toilet that looks almost child-sized sits in the corner. A long silver chain hangs from the ceiling, the way to flush I presume. I am already feeling a bit enclosed, so I walk out onto the balcony, and then—almost instantly and without knowing exactly why—a few tears come to my eyes. It is ideal. There is a large swing with sun-bleached blue pillows, a plastic table with four chairs, and the entire area hosts about fifty potted plants that make it look like a garden in the sky. Green everywhere, only a cold concrete floor peeks through. I realize it’s not really a balcony, but a roof, my own private rooftop, complete with a large awning and a little Eden. It’s perfect. I can see the sea below and feel a slight breeze. I could stay here forever.

  “Einai telio.” I tell her how perfect it is, and she smiles sheepishly. Then like a drill sergeant, she tells me the rules:

  1) Towels are washed twice a week, more than that and the
re will be an extra charge.

  2) Bedsheets once a week. Every Monday it is my job to strip the bed and put them in a pile outside my door; otherwise it will be two weeks without fresh sheets. (I have the option to change them more than once a week, an extra charge of course.) She says a Bulgarian woman cleans the room every other day unless I say otherwise.

  3) Breakfast is between 8:00 and 10:00 a.m. After that, too bad. Not even the option for an extra charge to get served later. She says she is out between 10:00 and 12:20 p.m. every day and cannot be reached. (Her shopping time? Daily swim? I know not to ask.)

  4) Lunch (extra charge has already been discussed through correspondence) is at 2:00 p.m. Sharp. Not on Greek time, she tells me, British time. If I cannot make it, I need to tell her twenty-four hours in advance; otherwise I will be charged.

  5) I can have my lunch in my room or in the family dining area with the other guests or her family. If I choose to take the food to my room on a tray, I will be responsible for bringing the tray and plates back to the kitchen.

  5) I can come and go as I please, but NO GUESTS in the room after dark. (I dare not ask if there could be an extra charge if I want an overnight guest!)

  6) I can drink and smoke cigarettes, but nothing illegal on the premises. (I assure her that I am completely against any drugs, but she is already on number seven.)

  7) Lastly, she says, and most importantly, she wants me to be comfortable (then she forces a smile), and if I need anything, just to let her know (there would be an extra charge I am certain).