I thank her warmly, and she exits the room without so much as an adio. Yes, she definitely reminds me of my grandmother.
I don’t really feel that tired because of my catnap on the bus, so I want to change and go down for a dip, but my suitcase is still in the garden. I decide to go down for it, but before I can, I hear a light knock. I open the door, and a boy, about eleven or twelve years old stands there with my suitcase, sweating profusely. It looks almost as big as him. I feel guilty that I didn’t bring it up myself and telling him to wait, I get a euro from my wallet. He seems pleased with his tip and skips away down the metal, twisty stairs.
I find my favorite daisy bikini that must be over a decade old and too small, but I fit my widening thirty-six-year-old booty into it. I look at the one and only mirror in the room that hangs above my bed, showing me from my waist up. I guess in all my tranquility, I still have an ego, so I jump on the bed, and turn around to see my backside. A few dimples here and there, a little muffin top, the skin much saggier than last time I was in Greece. I remember reading somewhere that the average woman in America has between twelve and sixty negative body-image thoughts per day, so I decide right there and then that every time I critique my puffy eyes, my wrinkles, or my fat, I will counteract the negative thought with a positive one. It’s a novel idea. I just don’t know how long it will last, but I’ll try it. I smile at my reflection, grab my towel, work on the door for a few minutes to lock it, and head down my treacherous stairs.
26
Kamena Vourla, Greece
Friday, July 22nd, 2005
Sitting outside with a towel on the plastic seat, I look out into the horizon and see the sun setting. It’s a bit warm, but comfortable. I can’t believe I have already been in Kamena Vourla for more than a month. Life has been quite perfect. I have my daily routine, a relatively healthy one at that. I get up around 7:30 a.m., splash my face with water, and still in my PJs (a matching purple Eeyore shorts and T-shirt set), I go downstairs. While Kyria Akrivi, my temporary landlady, makes me a Greek coffee—in a mug with lots of milk, “tourlou café” style, just like yiayia used to say—we chat briefly. I bring the coffee back upstairs, push the door open (rarely locking it because it is just too much effort) then throw down my yoga mat on the balcony, and do a few Sun Salutations. Before I left home, I started doing yoga at a local gym, and, on a whim, stuffed a mat in my suitcase. From a once-a-week workout, it has turned into an addictive daily practice.
After a few Downward Dogs, I stop and have a couple sips of my hot drink. Dripping with sweat, I slip into Pigeon Pose and after a few minutes, get up on my elbows and drink some more coffee while my leg is still wrapped under my torso. Drinking coffee while lost in the practice is not necessarily the yogi way, but it works for me. After about thirty to forty-five minutes of poses, I jump in the shower to cool off. Donning one of my five bikinis and a sundress, I head downstairs for breakfast. Usually after breakfast, it’s a swim, then a catnap on the shore. I read, swim some more, lunch, another short nap on the balcony with the afternoon breeze. Later, in the early evening, I stroll into the center of town for an ice cream or a cold coffee at my favorite café. Walk some more. Then back to my room to read some more. It’s a simple, pleasant existence.
Today I met some interesting characters that I keep thinking about, so for the first time since I have been here, I am inspired to write.
Thair’s Story
Every week Thair had breakfast with different guests. Most of them were foreigners; sometimes they were Greeks. Only a few were unresponsive; most were friendly. Thair loved chatting and hearing about the adventures of the many travelers with whom she shared her meals.
But these relationships with this motley crowd of vacationers always remained at the morning table. Thair was not interested in getting to know anyone past breakfast. There were a few handsome travelers that turned her head when she saw them in the morning, so she smiled and chatted, but it never went any further.
As she opened the kitchen door one particular morning, Thair saw Kyria Akrivi standing over the stove, her husband sitting at the table reading the newspaper. A college-aged couple also sat at the table, voraciously eating all the bread that Kyria Akrivi had set down. Thair could see that her keeper looked a bit disgruntled, but her advertisement did say “unlimited fresh bread for breakfast.”
“Kalimera,” Thair said, followed by, “Good morning.”
“Hello,” the boy said in a British accent.
“Hello,” Thair repeated. The young girl looked over, but Thair was wondering if she could see her since the girl’s eyes were so red and glazed. Both guests reeked of alcohol. Kyria Akrivi muttered something under her breath, threw down another basket of bread on the table, and walked away.
“I’m Thair,” she said while pulling up a chair.
“I’m David and this is my girlfriend, Kelly.” Kelly looked up again and nodded.
“So, have you been here long?” said the young man.
“Well … gosh …” Thair thought while calculating in her head, “It must be more than six weeks now.”
“SIX WEEKS!” he exclaimed. “I mean this place has a few fun bars, but aren’t you bored by now?”
No, she wasn’t bored. She was far from bored. She loved waking early, doing her own form of yoga, taking a walk, a swim, a nap, reading a bit, going to the local Internet café to find out what was happening in the world, and her favorite pastime, sitting quietly in a café. In fact, she hadn’t even been to a bar yet. And she hadn’t felt lonely either. This was her time.
Thair didn’t answer right away. Based on the look on his face, the young man may have thought he had offended her, so before she replied, he continued, “I’m sorry. Are you here with your kids? Your husband? I guess it’s a nice place for families.”
Yikes, for many women over thirty (who want to be married and yearn for children), he could be touching on a sore spot, but Thair didn’t care. She was used to it. “No, actually I am alone. I just came for some rest and relaxation.”
“Rest and relaxation? And all alone. That’s wicked. I think it’s cool that women like you can do these things without worrying about what people think,” the chatty lad commented.
Thair smiled. She was just traveling alone, nothing revolutionary.
After a moment, the girl echoed: “Yeah, that’s wicked.”
“So, no crazy ex-husband you are trying to escape from? Hehe,” the boy teased.
If Thair was not in such a good place emotionally, the last comment might have irked her. Spousal abuse was not something to be taken lightly. She almost wondered if youth gave people the right to say whatever idiotic thought came to mind. Nevertheless, something about him was authentic, not so innocent with those flaming eyes and still-drunk girlfriend, but Thair decided to engage in the conversation in a more meaningful way.
“Actually, I’ve never been married. My former partner, Jessica, and I broke up last year, and I’m just taking the time to enjoy being by myself.” Thair’s tone was gentle, inviting. The boy, and now the girl too, were certainly interested.
“Now that’s cool!” David said while looking at her from head to toe.
All of a sudden Thair could feel this barely twenty-year-old sizing her up. Being feminine and loving a woman always seemed to make males think that it was an invitation for a ménage à trois.
Then Kelly piped up, “You don’t look like a lesbian. Even my good friend at home in Hastings who is gay looks … I mean you can tell. I can’t tell with you.”
Thair sat there and wondered, what was she supposed to say to that? It was 2005, and yet one still seemed to have to choose: gay or straight. What about all the other parts of the LGBT+ abbreviation? Like bisexual and transgender? Or the varying sexualities the “+” signified?
Thair was not in the mood to discuss, lecture, or debate, so she decided to switch topics, “So what about you two? Do you go to uni?” Thair said ‘uni’ instead of university, trying out a bit o
f her British slang just for fun, but it sounded ridiculous after she said it.
“Yes, that’s right! Kelly here is studying to be an architect, and I just don’t know what I am doing!” He said this and laughed. “Just taking courses, hoping that something will come to me one day.” Kelly continued to eat, face down, stuffing more bread into her tiny, geisha-shaped orifice.
“Well, you’re in school, that’s a start. I am sure something will interest you.”
“So, what do you do?” the boy said between bites.
“I teach college. English.”
“Cool. My favorite teacher was an English teacher.”
Then switching topics again Thair said: “So how long will you two be staying in Kamena Vourla?”
“Just for a few days. We need to save some money and this place is cheap, so we decided to stay until Sunday then head to Ios.” Then he let out a “Wooooo hooooooo, paaaarty! We hear that island is bloody wicked!”
“Yes, wicked,” Thair repeated as all three laughed.
The boy then dug into the bread and jam and gulped down the coffee that was now, certainly, lukewarm.
Kelly looked up at Thair with her protruding eyeballs and said, “Tonight, David and I are going back to the bar we went to last night, and if you want, you can come with us.” She said this thoughtfully, almost as if she felt sorry for Thair who had been alone for six weeks.
“Thanks, Kelly, but I like going to bed early.”
“Aw, come on, Prof! It will be fun!” David chimed.
Thair smiled, cute kids, but, no, she wasn’t interested.
“Thanks, really,” then Thair dug into her own fresh bread and gulped her cold coffee.
It’s about 9:00 p.m. and still bright outside. I seem to have a lot of energy tonight. I decide to go to my favorite hangout, Café Royal, and have a coffee and my newest find: a dessert called ekmek. It is probably the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in this world. It has shredded phyllo dough, is covered with syrup, then a layer of what tastes like fluffy vanilla pudding and finally a light layer of a fresh cream, simply divine. I go to my pint-sized closet and fish out my simple black dress. As I slip it over my shoulders, I find it falls heavy and doesn’t stick to my hips like it used to. Since I have no scale and only half a mirror, my view has been mostly waist up for the last few weeks, and though I feel trim and tan, I didn’t necessarily feel like I lost weight until I put on this dress. I hop on the bed and look at my derrière. Hmmmm? Looks the same. Kinda lotta dimples despite the tan, I start to think, but instantly cut myself off. No! Not a lot of cellulite for a woman who eats a dessert every night and is enjoying life. So instead I say: “You look good, baby!” then laugh. My face has a healthy color with pink cheeks and red lips. Even my tan toes look pretty with a cherry nail polish. But better than looking good, I feel good. The little bit of yoga every day has made me more flexible than I have been in years. Even the tension from my chronic back pain that started ten years ago from grading thousands of essays has dissipated. I am completely relaxed from head to toe, including everything in between. Yes. Everything in the universe seems right today.
I jump off the bed, grab my small purse, equipped with money, lipstick, and comb, and head for the door. For some reason, I decide to lock my door tonight. I walk carefully down the stairs and see the door of Kelly and David’s room cracked open. The distinct smell of marijuana floats out, and I think to myself that they are not following Rule Number Six. Naughty children. They are laughing uncontrollably as their voices are somewhat muted with what sounds like punk music in the background. I walk by quickly and after a shortcut, I’m on the main road in a few minutes. The road is bustling with people. It’s a Friday night and almost all of the cafés are busy; some people are even spilling out onto the main road. I have heard that many people from Athens have beach houses here, and that’s why it gets so busy on the weekends. I go to Café Royal, and Thanassis comes over immediately even though I can see that other people got here before me and have yet to be served.
“Kalispera, Thair!”
“Kalispera, Kyrie Thanassis.” I try not to chitchat because I can see he’s busy. I think Mr. Thanassis also feels a bit sorry for me, a woman traveling alone, staying alone, and even though I have told him I am perfectly happy, I know he doesn’t believe it. How could he? He’s been enculturated to believe that a woman must have a man by her side to be fulfilled.
After taking my order (although he already knows what I want), he returns with my ekmek kadayifi and a cold, Nescafe frappé. The people at the table beside me look a bit irritated because he has yet to even greet them. He puts down my dessert quickly, and a tear of sweat snakes down his temple. I watch him for a minute; instead it’s me who feels bad for him. He must be well into his sixties. It doesn’t seem right that anyone at that age should be a waiter or work so hard. He should be relaxing, retired, but he told me he made several poor business choices. Kyrie Thanassis said the best thing about his life is his three children, his five grandchildren, and his wife (I can’t help but notice that he always lists his wife last). He has invited me on several occasions to his house for lunch, but I always decline. I know he likes me (and I’m sure my generous tips), but I just haven’t had the urge to meet people.
I sit at my regular table by the street because it provides a great view of all the people walking by. During the day, I bring a book and sit at my other regular table, the one closer to the shore, but at night, I have to admit, it feels silly—even pretentious—to read. I still look a bit odd, sitting all by myself, but I really don’t care. I finish my ekmek and just before I pay for the bill, two people plop down beside me, one on either side.
“Heeeeello, Prof!” I hear gregarious David say.
I can’t help but laugh. “Hi, David. Hi, Kelly.”
“So, what’s Prof doing tonight?” David says while putting his finger in my plate and then licking off the fresh cream that I haven’t finished.
“Not much. Just enjoying an excellent dessert called ekmek kadayifi. If you haven’t tried it, you absolutely should.” Kelly stares at me with unusually huge (surprisingly for being stoned) cerulean eyes. They are like a blue ocean slowly being drowned by the red sea. A pretty girl—tiny, tiny, with a big bobble head—she’s wearing minuscule jean shorts and a halter top that reveals she is sans bra. I catch myself looking at her boobies, not in a sexual way, she’s much too young, but they catch one’s attention nevertheless. Even the old Greek lady, at the next table over, can’t take her eyes off of Kelly’s perky nipples, and I am quite sure she’s not a closet lesbian or bisexual or curious (but then again, who knows?). I think this and laugh.
Then David and Kelly laugh too, though I am not sure why. (I have a nagging suspicion it’s because of those happy herbs.)
Kelly squints and whines, “Pleeeese David, let’s get one of those ecky mecky desserts. It sounds delish!”
“Whatever my girl wants she gets, right?”
Another round of laughter. I find myself laughing too; almost like they are my own private comedy act.
I call over Kyrie Thanassis and order one for them.
“Hey, Prof, shall we get a beer to toast our good luck of bumping into you?”
“I don’t think ekmek really goes with beer. And I still have the wonderful sweet taste in my mouth.”
“Oh, come on, Prof!”
I hesitate. “Okay.” What? Did I just say okay?
“Wicked! A round for us all!”
The ekmek arrives and I imagine it tastes awful with the Heineken, but they wolf it down and order another one. Soon after, David orders another round of beer. Huge green bottles adorn the table, and I find myself refilling my glass as the cool yellow liquid travels much too easily down my throat. I can’t remember the last time I had a beer let alone two.
After an hour of chatting about university and the other two islands they have been to, Corfu and Zakynthos, I see our table has six giant, green bottles on it. I can feel my head spi
nning, and I find myself giggling, stupidly, at whatever David is saying. Kelly is laughing too, and I can tell we are making a bit of a scene. I can also see that Kyrie Thanassis is uncomfortable. He comes over and says he can call one of his sons to take me home; both are taxi drivers. But I tease him and tell him I am a thirty-six-year-old woman and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. His look seems to disagree.
“Hey, Prof, let’s go to a bar that’s around the corner, what do you say?”
“Yes! Yes!” says Kelly though I am not sure why they would want the company of a woman almost twice their age.
“Come on, Prof, don’t overthink it. One more drink. And there’s a really good DJ with a small dance floor.”
After a few beers, I am itching to move, and when he says there’s a dance floor, that sells it for me. But I am still a bit surprised when I hear myself say, much too enthusiastically, “Okay. Let’s go!”
In my slightly inebriated state, I am feeling rich, so I pick up the bill, their two ekmeks and our six Heinekens. (Maybe that’s why they want my company? Don’t overthink it, I tell myself. I want to treat, so I do.)
When we get to the bar, I can see a bunch of kids standing outside. When I scrutinize the crowd a bit more, I can see a few people that look like Real Adults. People more my age. I even see a few men that look too old to be out and should be home with their families. Touché! I catch myself and edit my thoughts. I can’t make assumptions about their lives because look at me: at a bar with two young, blonde, stoned Brits.
We find a vacant area at the bar and David orders us shots. I am not sure what’s in them, but they are called karpoosi and I love watermelon. We slam the first ones down; it’s really sweet and easy to swallow. By the time I look up, we have another three shots in front of us. Down the hatch they go. We are standing there when the bartender tells us that he is treating us to another round. A third, super sugary shot, my goodness, am in college again playing Quarters? Then I hear Bob Sinclair’s “Love Generation” coming from the speakers and my feet need to move. I start making my way over to the dance floor, but suddenly David’s hand pulls me, “Hey, Prof, what do you want to drink?”
The Greek Persuasion Page 22
