“Nothing now, thanks.”
“Aw, come on, Prof.” He shines his cute smile.
“Um … okay, a beer,” I say as I continue walking. Without a care in the world, I am in the middle of the dance floor swaying my body, and every so often, I remember to open my eyes. I am a bit drunk, and when the song ends, I feel like an inebriated silly woman when I notice some lewd stares from some older men. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I walk off the floor and think: now is the time to escape. Time to go home, Thair! But before I can let the thought of leaving process itself, there’s Kelly tugging my wrist, saying, “Come on, Thair! Let’s dance this one too! It’s DJ Dero!” (Too? Was I not alone on the dance floor the first time?)
While techno beats blast through the stuffy room, I can feel her delicate hand still pulling me. Again, alcohol overpowers reason, and we are moving back towards the dance floor as she stumbles a few times. David passes me a Mythos and I take it, “Thanks” (I guess). I am again swaying to the music, with a beer in my hand this time. Kelly is moving erratically, like a little bug on speed. She seems to have a disparate beat in her head. Her eyes are shut tight, and suddenly I’m more sober when I catch the lascivious older men (looking more closely, I see they are probably my age!) ogling my new, young friend. She is dancing with her back to them, shaking her tush uncontrollably, and from their barstools, they start saying rude things to her in Greek, then in broken English: Hey, koukla, ella dance here with Babba. Then they laugh insidiously. This is not fun anymore, and I want to leave so badly. Perverted men saying, “come dance with Daddy,” my head spinning, my stomach nauseated, I hate what I am feeling.
Unexpectedly, David shows up, and gallantly puts himself between the men and his girl, winks at me and says, “I gotta keep my eye on Kelly. She just doesn’t know how to handle her alcohol.” Her alcohol and the pot and the ekmek all mixed together, I think. But I say nothing to this charming young man. Then, quite suddenly, I see Kelly hold her head with one hand while the other hand is on her mouth.
Oh shit. She’s going to throw up. Now, suddenly completely sober, I pull her off the dance floor and lead her towards the women’s restroom. A line of girls look at us angrily; I push past them and into a stall at the same moment a girl comes out of one. They don’t know I speak Greek and are insulting the poutana kori and her poutana mitera! Geez, the whore daughter and the whore mother! I don’t know whether I should laugh or cry; all I know is I need to take care of Kelly, so she doesn’t vomit all over the Greek girls’ pretty platform shoes.
I use one hand to keep her hair away from her face and with the other, I support her forehead, so it doesn’t hit the toilet seat. Kelly lurches forward as puke comes spewing out. It splatters the side of the bowl, light yellow liquid dirtying her diaphanous top. The situation is surreal. Am I really here? Is this the life I imagined for myself? Instead of being married with kids, I am holding back a drunk girl’s hair at a disco bar? The absurdity of it all makes me want to laugh. But I can’t. I don’t want to be here. God, I don’t want to be here. As Kelly continues to dry heave, I picture myself with Jessica. Two blonde babes sit at our feet. Then I see Ravi, with two dark-haired kiddos now. Finally, a picture of James crosses my mind. Two old souls sitting close to a fireplace with a pile of books and paintings stacked beside us. I literally feel my body shiver. I shake just a bit, trying to erase these images. I am honestly glad that I didn’t settle, and I am certainly happy that I don’t have children, but I surely do not want this life either. I have been carving out a new life for myself that’s mellow, but there are times when I want to drink, dance, or let loose; I just haven’t figured out where that will be yet. One thing I know for sure: it’s not here in this bar.
I wait until Kelly is all done, then I grab a wet paper towel and wipe off her face. She gets up, trips a bit, then looks at me with the eyes of a child: “Can we … (gulp) … go home?”
Home? I am not sure where home is for this young lass, but I will at least take her back to Kyria Akrivi’s pension. When I leave the restroom, I scan the bar for David. The place is packed now, bodies pushing against each other. Finally, I see him in the corner, sitting with a few guys that look Greek. I walk over and ignore them all. Kelly looks like she will fall, so I let her sit down in an empty seat for a moment and then say in a mother-hen voice, “David, we need to go. We need to take Kelly back.”
David doesn’t look worried. He jumps to his feet with the oomph of the Energizer Bunny and says: “Amigos, we must go, but nice to meet you all. And … one more shot for Angelos Charisteas! May Greece once more win the European Cup!” With that, I see David and the guys at the table do a shot that looks lime green.
I stand there impatiently, ready to leave David with his drunk girlfriend, when one of the Greek guys looks at me and smiles warmly. He seems tall, though I can’t be sure since he’s sitting, with dark brown hair and huge, wolf-like teeth. He looks directly at me: “Hello,” his English is heavy with a strong accent.
“Yasou,” I say, even more irritated now. I respond in Greek, so he knows I am not just another drunk foreign woman. The man looks at me, a bit confused, then says, “Do you want a sit?”
“Oxi, efharisto,” another laconic response from me. At this point, David is on his feet and has Kelly on hers too, asking me if I am ready, telling me I can stay if I want.
“No, I’m ready to go.” Then a curt, polite, “Yeisas,” to the table of men, and I am already turning around when only one responds in Greek and the others begin to speak in what sounds like Spanish. The toothy gent who earlier asked me if I want a sit says ciao. Maybe he’s not Greek after all, but I am too tired, buzzed, and annoyed to care, so I nod and just walk away.
The next morning, I sleep in until noon. I wake up groggy and feel a bit guilty for wasting my day but try to excuse myself. It was just one silly night. The room is so stuffy, Eeyore is stuck to me, I’m totally drenched, and my head is pounding. I see the yoga mat in the corner. That’s where it will undoubtedly stay today. I didn’t do anything wrong, so why do I feel this way? Guilty, trashy. What was I thinking getting drunk with those two kids? A hollow sensation fills my stomach. I really didn’t do anything wrong, so again, I try to forgive myself, for what I am not sure.
While still in bed, I take off my PJ top and wipe down my chest. I throw it on the chair across the small room and look longingly at the bottle of water that is on the desk. I move my legs over to the side of the bed. Argggh. My head. Upper body on the bed, with my feet now touching the floor, I slowly lift my dead weight at a snail’s pace, go to the Loutraki water bottle. I grab it and my toiletry bag and make my way back over to the bed. I set the water bottle down on the floor quickly, feeling like I will pass out, my skin cold and clammy. Lying down flat again, I close my eyes. I dare not open them. If I do, I know I will vomit. Suppress the urge. From some sort of instinct to not spin out of this world, I do open my eyes and see little circles swirling on the ceiling, a rainbow of colors. My stomach lurches; instead I swallow. For what feels like at least half an hour, I don’t have the energy to sit up and drink the water though I know it will make all the difference. My dry mouth hungers for the liquid, but my body just can’t respond.
Finally, I do sit up, place my fingers delicately around the bottle and take a small swig as the water travels down my throat. Then, I drink and drink and drink, almost a full liter in one shot. I open my bag, find a small bottle of Tylenol, pop two into my mouth; my head hits the pillow once more and I am out.
When I wake again, it’s about 5:00 p.m. and I am starving, but I feel much better. I am still moving slowly as I shower, every movement taking great effort. In a bikini and sundress, I walk down the stairs and do not dare look in the direction of David and Kelly’s room. Thankfully the door is shut, and there is no noise.
No one is in the kitchen and since I have already missed lunch, I go to a corner restaurant. No Greek eats at 5:00 p.m.; it’s past lunch time and much too early for dinner, but I know severa
l restaurants that stay open during siesta time to cater to the town’s visitors.
The tables are all covered with checkered red and white tablecloths, and a papou-looking man sits on a chair, half asleep. I hear some noise in the kitchen and peek in. A round woman in her sixties brusquely asks if she can help me. In my most polite Greek, since my options are limited, I request some food: a Greek salad and a few kalamakia. The meat is out of the question, she mumbles; the grill is already turned off, but she has a homemade meatball dish. I pass on the home-cooked food (much too heavy for now) and ask for a horiatiki and some bread.
Within moments, the most magnificent salad is sitting on the table. Fresh crunchy cucumbers, white onion, and the largest, reddest tomatoes I think I have seen in years—almost as red as my own yiayia’s. The entire salad is floating in olive oil and there is a slab of feta on top sprinkled with oregano. The bread is a bit stale, but after I saturate it with the olive oil, it’s delicious. I am thoroughly enjoying my salad and just casually looking around when I see a group of guys walking on the other side of the street. I immediately recognize one of them as the seemingly-polite man from last night who had offered me a “sit.” I can feel our eyes meet even though we are both wearing sunglasses. I quickly look down, pretending that I have not seen him, but it’s too late. He says something to his buddies, they stop, sort of look over to where I am; then they are off, and he is crossing the street.
I am not in the mood to make small talk.
“Hello,” he says with his deep Greek accent that puts all emphasis on the “H”—that hard “H” sound that comes from the epiglottis, the sound that English lacks, that “H” sound that makes one think the speaker is about to spit.
“Hello,” he repeats.
“Oh … Yasou,” I reply curtly.
“How are you today?” he asks.
“Kala, efharisto.” I continue to speak in Greek, feeling that it gives me more credibility rather than being the single American woman on holiday. Maybe I have family here. Maybe I am not alone. I love being by myself, but I am getting tired of explaining myself. No, I am not married. No, I am not divorced. No, no kids. Damn it, leave me alone!
He chuckles then says, “Can I ask why you keep speaking to me in Greek? Do you think you know me from somewhere?” Though his accent is strong when he says this, I do notice his grammar is not bad.
I am a bit perplexed. He looks more than six feet (I can see now that he is, indeed, tall) with wide shoulders and a strong physique; the words hale and hearty come to mind. His hair is cut short, slicked back; chest hairs poke out of his T-shirt, and a cigarette floats in his hand. He must be Greek.
Finally, in English I say, “You aren’t Greek?”
He smiles. “No,” he says. “My name is Gabriel. I am from Peru.”
Peru? I visualize a globe, spinning it with my mind’s fingers. Stop. South America. But where exactly? I am starting to feel like the ignorant American because geography has never been my strong suit. And is this what Peruvians look like? My goodness, always teaching not to stereotype and listen to my thoughts! But the only pictures I have ever seen of Peruvians show them as short, dark people clad in brilliant colors surrounded by llamas.
He stands there in front of me, with perfect posture, ostentatious if not for his big smile; he leans over to an ashtray at the next table and puts out his smelly cigarette. I still haven’t said anything, so he asks, “What is your name?”
I sit silently. Why should I tell him my name? I was having a nice lunch, and I really don’t want to be disturbed. So, I say in one breath, “My name is Thair but, I’m sorry, I really just feel like being by myself.”
It still comes out rude, but, frankly, I am happy to be discourteous on a day such as today.
I can see his eyes drop, and all too politely he states, “I am sorry. I did not mean to molest you.”
Molest? I have to smile. I remember my two years of high school Spanish and the “Words Confused” lesson. Señora Rodriquez repeated over and over: “Do not say ‘embarazada’ for ‘embarrassed’ because embarazada in Spanish means pregnant, AND the Spanish verb ‘molestar’—to bother someone—is not the same in English as ‘molest,’ because it means something entirely more serious in English.”
He is walking away when I hear myself say, “Really, you are not molesting me; it’s just that I am tired, and after last night, I just need some quiet time.”
He still looks a bit rejected, but puts out his hand, “It is very nice to meet you … Thair. I will leave now.”
Just when I think he is going to walk away, instead he says, “See this?” He points to the big mountain on his T-shirt. “If you can tell me what this is called, I will take you there one day.”
Not that I want to go anywhere with this man, but shoot, what mountain range is it? It sure looks familiar. The majestic peak with all the stone formations around it. I cannot bring a name to mind and once more feel like an idiot. I like this guy less and less.
“I’m sorry. I guess I will never get to see it with you.”
“It is okay. I will give you another chance later.”
With that he bends down and steals a kiss from my cheek, “Mucho gusto, pretty señorita.” The words roll off his lips, sounding too sexy for me today.
Before I can say a word, he is off.
And I am disturbed.
After my swim, I return to my room, take a shower, put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and grab Blonde, a book I am enjoying immensely, a book that will allow me to escape. I walk out onto my concrete Edenin-the-Sky and plop down on the swing. I prop the pillow on the arm rest, lay down with my feet hanging over on the other side and read for about fifteen minutes, but with the slight rocking of the swing, the gentle breeze, I can feel my eyes getting heavier. And heavier and heavier.
The sun has gone down, so it must be around nine-ish. I am drenched with sweat despite the fact that it is getting cool outside. I see the images flash in front of my eyes. My God, what a dream. It was so disturbing, so real that I can’t help but relive it, frame by frame. My mother lying on a hospital bed, deathly pale and thin, her hands on top of the sheets, clasped together, fingers intertwined. She looked both peaceful and sad, as if that were possible. Jess, Ravi, James, and Yiayia were standing looking at her. And that guy, what was his name? Gabriel. He was in the corner, pointing to a blackboard with chalk in his hand. And then he wrote … yes … he wrote: “Machu Picchu.” The mountain range with two peaks, the grass plains, the large stone walls. Of course! The famous Inca site in Peru. The picture that was on his T-shirt. In my dream, he smiled at me, but then my mother’s bed started spinning, almost diabolically. My yiayia was wailing. And I began to vomit. What a strange and awful dream.
I wipe away the sweat that trickles down my temples, feeling dizzy and strangely sad. Today has not been a good day. I get dressed to go down to the corner kiosk to call my mama.
27
Sunday, July 24th
I woke with a lighter step today. I am out my door and in Kyria Akrivi’s kitchen within minutes. As she makes me my morning coffee, I am tempted to ask about the Brits, whether they are still here, but I decide against it. They were a cute couple, and we did have a few good laughs despite the drama at the end of the night. Today I have no hard or icky feelings.
I am back in my room, doing Downward Dog and it feels so good. Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. My wrists crack when I lower myself to a plank; hovering for a few seconds, I’m happy to have gotten back my strength. Body and mind are aligned once more. I stretch for about ten minutes, then stop and sit in Half Lotus as I sip my coffee. When the top of my foot aches, I switch, then switch again. Coffee to the side, I do a few more Sun Salutations and after about fifty minutes, I am a sweaty mess. Instead of showering, I quickly slip on a bathing suit, grab my towel, my beach bag, head downstairs, cross the street, and walk onto the beach across from the pension. Kyria Akrivi always puts up a few umbrellas and lounge chairs for her guests (of cou
rse everyone uses them), but there is an implicit understanding that if a guest goes to the beach, the locals vacate. There is a French couple I met a few days ago lying on one set, and two Greek kids are happily playing on and under the other set; as soon as they see me, they flee. I almost say: it’s okay, you don’t have to leave, but it’s too late. They are already back in the water, and I do actually want a chair and an umbrella.
I set down my stuff on the chaise lounge and walk into the water without a second thought. It’s absolutely refreshing. There are a few pebbles and some seaweed that don’t bother me; it’s not the sandy beach of the islands, but the water is still clear this time of the day, and I can see through to the bottom like a swimming pool. It’s a simple beach. It feels friendly; not perfect, not dreamlike, just real. I swim for about half an hour, a bit of freestyle back and forth, some breaststroke, then tread water while looking up at the curtains of mountains that lie directly behind Kamena Vourla. It’s an interesting village with lots of local Greeks, a lot of older people everywhere, but it’s also a vibrant place with a plethora of teenagers and twenty-somethings; plenty of pubs and cafés line the streets, and these young people fill them at all hours of the day and night, playing backgammon, drinking frappés, smoking cigarettes.
From treading water, I start to scissor my legs until finally I’m spent. Time now to just relax, read my novel, soak up some sun. Mostly, I am so relieved to be over yesterday’s awkward mood with that crazy dream and all.
Settling down on the chair, I close my eyes for a moment.
The Greek Persuasion Page 23
