The Greek Persuasion

by Kimberly K. Robeson

  After two more hours of driving we decide to stop for lunch in Trikala, a small city where cafés are right on a river, just half hour from Kalabaka, the town at the foot of Meteora. In the restaurant, a group of teenagers smoking packs and packs of cigarettes makes the ambiance stuffy and hard to breathe. I become crankier when Gabriel finishes his food and lights a cigarette. He hasn’t asked to smoke in the car, but here he lights up as soon he is done eating. I am still poking at my food, deciding to be done when another puff of smoke reaches me.

  “Gabriel, I need to go stand outside, okay? The smoke is killing me.”

  “I am sorry. I will put it out.”

  “No, it’s okay. There is so much smoke in here anyway.” While saying this, I look over at the table of teenagers. I can’t help but wonder how all these people still continue to smoke. Do they not read the reports? Hear the ads? I don’t like that Gabriel smokes, but it’s strange—it should be a total turn off since I hate the smell of cigarettes, but on his kisses it is, I hate to admit, sexy. I haven’t kissed a smoker since high school, and it kind of turns me on. Of course, I will not tell him any of this because I would by no means want to be in a long-term relationship with a smoker for a number of reasons that hugely outweigh my twisted perversity of tobacco-on-the-tongue stimulation.

  “No, no, I put it out. I pay, you go get fresh air, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  I let him pay without argument since I filled up the car with gas. I figured the trip should be split, so it’s his turn. I have not clarified any of the details with him, who will pay for what, where we will stay, how we will sleep; I guess I am just going with the flow, a first for my Type-A, hyper-organized personality.

  Back in the car, Gabriel is driving, and I am getting really excited because I can see these enormous rocks coming out of the earth in all directions.

  Even with the windows rolled all the way down, I can smell the cigarette on Gabriel. He leans over and kisses me tenderly on the cheek. My most private part pulsates. Everything about him has changed my previous rules of attraction: I used to be repulsed by chest hair; it irritated me to hear grammar errors; food in someone’s teeth grossed me out; mood swings were a definite red light. Why is it that everything about him is tender, sexy, interesting—acceptable? Is this what it’s like to be truly taken?

  From the majestic scene outside, my eyes are again on Gabriel, staring at him while he’s driving. Physically he is not as perfect as I thought. His nose is actually quite large, and his eyes, I remembered them being green, indeed bright and vibrant, but they are brown, as brown as brown can be. From his face, I make my way down his neck, not too long or too short, but I notice a bit of a double chin may be forming, too many croissants and chips. I love his strong shoulders, his chest; my eyes drop lower: I see a little Buddha belly starting to form. At only thirty, he will definitely have to be careful if he doesn’t want a beer, or should I say, food belly. He knows I am staring at him, so he finally asks, “What are you thinking, Thair?”

  The typical answer would be “nothing” but instead I reply, “I was just thinking that you are not as perfect as I remember from our first date.” I don’t say this to demean or dominate him; I just feel free to say everything that is on my mind, bad, good, regardless. But after I say it, I do realize it sounds not-so-nice.

  Before I retract or at least clarify, he replies with certitude, “Thair, you are not perfect neither.” I don’t know if I like his response (or his grammar) but touché! Then he continues, “See, I am not perfect. You not. For sure! Je je. And that is why we are perfect for each other!” Another unrestrained laugh.

  Why is it that Gabriel finds everything so simple, so clear? I have almost decided to teasingly pursue the subject regarding my lack of perfection when I see a sign that says “Kalabaka,” and, in the distance, something that looks like a birdhouse perched on top of a mountain. I have read about Meteora over the years: how monasteries, built over six centuries ago, are suspended on the tops of mountains; how monks found refuge in these cavernous churches; how St. Athanasius, founder of the first one, had been carried up by an eagle (when, in fact, he probably scaled the wall and then lifted the long ladder when he got to the top); and how these Orthodox havens had been built to escape the chaos of the world.

  As we drive up the sinuous roads to these monasteries in the sky, I can’t find words to express how I am feeling. We walk silently up the long path to The Great Meteoron and reach an entrance. Since I am wearing a jean skirt that reaches just above my knee, I have to wrap a long, somewhat scratchy piece of material around me; Gabriel, wearing shorts, has no problem entering the monasteries. I guess women’s knees are more tempting than men’s (humph!), but it is not a battle that I am willing to fight today. Some women in tank tops have to wrap their shoulders with the same pieces of material, but in my T-shirt with short sleeves, I am free to go in.

  Once we are in the monastery, it does not look much different than a typical Greek church, and because of that fact alone, I find myself retreating to a position of subservience. No wonder people feel God in these churches. The saints that hang on the walls, enclosed in great silver frames and placed in every corner of the room, demand respect; elaborate frescoes decorate the roof, and the scent of livani lingers in the air, so powerful I can taste it. All this makes me humble, feeling closer to my God than I ever have before. I stop and face an elaborate gold podium with a large wooden cross behind it. Jesus is pinned to it, his head tilted with drops of blood on his temples, red paint on brown wood.

  Gabriel and I walk around the church together, but when I sit down on a bench across from this Jesus, Gabriel decides he will wait outside. As a faithful Catholic, he says that he can admire these places, but has a hard time praying here since it is not his church. When he tells me this, I find my cheeks burning because it is all about one God anyway, right? Comments like Gabriel’s are what turned me off to organized religion as a teenager.

  On the drive here, Gabriel and I talked quite a bit about God, religion, faith. I told him that it wasn’t until my early thirties when one day, for no explainable reason, I finally succumbed to a higher power. After many years of questioning, then criticizing hypocritical religious people who were less than Godly, pushing them in corners, quizzing their beliefs, their actions, their knowledge, I decided: no more trying to figure out God. I would just try to feel God—I wouldn’t look for Him anymore. No more looking for anyone or anything.

  Gabriel told me he was raised to just believe, and for the most part this worked well. So like him, now I just accept the good along with the bad and the ugly. And we both agreed that since there is nothing rational about God, and we cannot prove—nor disprove—that God exists, we choose to believe that there is something greater than us out there. As for a heaven, I told him, the verdict is still out, and I still tended to believe “dust to dust,” and that nasty, little, crawly critters will eat away at my remains.

  He laughed when I told him this, his voice still clear in my head, Thair, tell me more about ‘your’ God. As he drove, I continued, emphasizing the same possessive pronoun: “My God, having been raised Greek Orthodox, with images of Jesus and Mary hanging in every corner of our house, gave me a reason to try to do good. Be good. Jesus is the one I call to when I want to give thanks or ask for something. He is the one I visualize, but I also understand that the image, or archetype, will be different for people depending on where they were born and the religion of their culture or family.” Yes, with this, I agree, he said. “Lately, I find myself buying sculptures of the jolly, fat Buddha.” I commented. “Seeing his round little belly in my home makes me happy, and the fact that he is on a shelf, right beside an icon of the Virgin Mary, sits very well with me, not sacrilegious one bit. If there is a heaven, then Buddha and Jesus are probably buddies. Maybe they even share a beer from time to time. Or a glass of wine.” Je je, he chuckled, sounds good to me, but don’t know word, ‘sacri … something?’

  He mad
e me want to talk more, so I explained, “For me, it came down to one thing: strive to do good in your life. And if prayer and icons help you in the process, then go for it. Hang a cross around your neck, wear a bracelet with saints on it, attach an angel to your dashboard, or stick a bumper sticker on your car. You aren’t hurting anyone. So why does it have to be so complicated?” It doesn’t, he replied. Nothing has to be complicated.

  But as I sit here, I recognize that religion may not be complicated anymore for me, but it makes me overly emotional. On the bench, in that monastery, shrouded in Frankincense, tears begin dropping down my cheeks. I have always felt overwhelmed in churches, not only in Greek Orthodox ones, but also in any church for that matter. I am not sure why, but the way a church fills my chest is so overpowering that I stay away from them because I cannot take that ride too often for fear of losing my rational self.

  Gabriel comes in after a few minutes and lights a few candles. I watch him cross himself in a perfunctory manner. I am happy I found my religion, my own way to be spiritual, so comments like Gabriel’s of not wanting to “pray” in “my” church, though still a bit irksome, are not deal breakers.

  Before we leave the Great Meteoron, we go into its gift store, and I buy a bracelet that was (supposedly) made by a monk and has a prayer for its every knot. About thirty knots make up one bracelet. Then I see hundreds of these in baskets around the shop, and think, the monks must be busy, and pick up a few more as souvenirs for friends.

  Before we leave Meteora, we decide to visit two more monasteries: Varlaam and St. Stephen, and in each one, I get weepy-eyed, and in each one, Gabriel carefully crosses himself. It’s a somber afternoon, not much conversation; in the last monastery, Gabriel enters and sits on the bench with me and closes his eyes. Later I ask him about this, since he had said earlier that he doesn’t pray in “other” churches, but he says he felt like coming in and being with me. I decide not to push the issue because it was nice to have him on the hard pew with me, holding my hand.

  It is past 3:30 p.m. and the monasteries are closing; we are both tired, and we still need to drive for about an hour to reach Metsovo. We walk back to the car, Gabriel opening my door and moving automatically into the driver’s seat again.

  Back on the road, I stretch my feet straight out onto the dashboard, bend my toes back and forth, open them up wide, good yogi toes, then peer out the window, watch as the large pine trees zip by, and feel like we are now in a California forest and no longer in Greece. Comfort has so quickly entered my life again. I’m so at home with Gabriel it is eerie, as if his presence is like an old friend, a long-time lover. There is a sense of excitement and newness, undoubtedly, but there is also a sense of utter calm.

  We twist down a few roads, then come to a pass where I see hundreds of red-roofed houses covering a mountain side. Driving into the village, I see signs that say “Fresh Cheeze,” “Room for Rent,” “Good Café.” We follow the tight roads, looking for the central square, and stop to ask directions from an elderly woman. The woman is dressed in an ornate outfit: polished black shoes, white hose, a silk dress with thick velvet at the bottom, a silver filigree belt, a gold-embroidered pattern at her neckline, and a long braid that falls over her shoulder as she leans into the car to speak to us. She has a strange Greek accent but is very happy to help us, and after our brief conversation, opens her hand.

  After an awkward silence, the woman is still leaning into the car, so I grab my wallet and give her a euro. She smiles but doesn’t move. A bit annoyed, I give her one more. Whatever happened to good ol’ Greek hospitality? Gabriel is amused by the entire scene and pokes fun at my irritation.

  After one more turn, we see the center square and the big sign on the side of a building: Hotel Galaxias. The man at the car place in Kamena Vourla recommended it; he said he has a daughter who lived in this village for a year while doing her teaching internship. He was surprised I had heard about Metsovo because this place is not necessarily a common stop for tourists, especially in the summer when there is little to do except drink homemade wine, eat good food, and take long walks.

  Gabriel and I have yet to discuss the sleeping situation. I only booked one room, and he has not asked about our accommodations. Finally, when we pull up, he says most comfortably, “We stay in one room, yes? … Or no?”

  He is giving me the opportunity to say “no,” but I just lift my shoulders and let them drop. He smiles, “Thair, that means yes or no?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If we stay in same room, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Worry about what?” I ask.

  “You know. ‘Funny business’ … is that not what they say in America?” I smile. He’s been watching too much TV. He continues: “We spend the night doing nothing. Or we do what you want.” With the last part, he adds a smirk. Yeah right, I think, in one room and nothing will happen, doesn’t seem likely.

  I imagine the evening, a bit of homemade wine in the garden restaurant; I’ll be feeling a bit tipsy, very sexual, and having Gabriel in my room just to cuddle seems unrealistic. I would just be fooling myself. This is my moment of truth—either make him spend the seventy-eight euros on another room, and after a delightful evening, sleep separately, or throw caution into the mountainside and share a room with him. In the quiet of the car, I listen intently. What is my mind saying? Where is my heart?

  They both are dead to the world.

  Wake up! Help! What do I say? No response. No nagging brain, cautioning me that I may be making a mistake, no liberal mind, telling me it’s not a big deal; no passionate heart pushing me into his arms. No gut reaction. All are deathly silent. Am I eager to stay with this man? Or would I prefer to be apart? All of a sudden, I am plagued with images of a Polaroid camera. Date or photo? Her choices had seemed so simple and yet, that one choice changed my mother’s entire life. Could this choice also determine my future? Sex or separation?

  Suddenly, the answer is clear.

  No one or nothing has to persuade me. I know what I want. I want Gabriel.

  I look at him, sitting patiently, letting me process this moment; he never seems to be in a rush, and I appreciate it more than he will ever know.

  “Gabriel … ”

  “Yes, Thair?”

  “I think we should just stay together … I mean, in one room.”

  “Okay, but you know that—”

  Taking my finger, I put it on his lips, “Shhhhhh. Please. Let’s not talk. No plans. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.” Then I laugh, “See? I’m learning. Isn’t that what you told me the first night?”

  “Yes.” He murmurs as he gazes into my eyes, not looking away. It’s too much, like the stuff of trashy novels. But I kind of like it.

  “Hey, let’s get moving!” I open the door with alacrity while Gabriel pops the trunk open and gets our suitcases. I try to help, but he always wants to carry everything, and I find myself sitting back, allowing this chivalrous man to take over as he struggles up the stairs with two suitcases and a backpack while I follow with a light gait, my purse flung over my shoulder.

  The hotel is exactly the way the man described, rustic with an entirely wooden interior and a welcoming receptionist. She checks us in quickly and gives us a large gold key hanging on a piece of rope connected to a large piece of wood with a nondescript shape that says: “Room 8.” We walk up the steps and easily open the door; the room has one double-sized bed (just as I had expected), a brick fireplace (that doesn’t seem to work), a small wooden desk, a painting of an Alps setting, and a diminutive window. It’s chilly here, hard to believe that it’s the middle of summer in Greece. I always thought the entire country was sweltering during the months of July, August, and September. But not so. The cool air came through the car window right after a large tunnel that we passed through, and once more hit us when we stepped out of the car, and now, in this room, it feels nippy.

  “Gabriel! Close the window, please!”

  “Okay, but first come here. Look
.”

  I walk over to the window and I wonder where I am. Below there is a traffic circle, and in the middle, a raised hill with benches to one side. Some old people in black sit on the bench and don’t seem to be talking. They look ancient: snowy hair, frail limbs with rotund stomachs; the men, with moustaches that twist up on the ends, lean on canes. Across the center, the view is wide open all the way to the other side, and green mountains, miles away, make me feel like I am in Switzerland (even though I have never been there, this is what I imagine it is like). Simply breathtaking.

  “Wow. It’s beautiful.” I swallow all the images then look over at Gabriel.

  “Yes. It is. And you are beautiful. You have a tremendous smile.” He takes my chin in Casablanca fashion and tilts it up. I stand on my toes because I am wearing tennis shoes and can’t easily reach him. We begin to kiss, and before I know it we are lying on the bed, still kissing. I feel a chill and shiver from head to toe, so Gabriel gets up and closes the window that is still open. I also get up and pull back the duvet that looks like one a grandma would make, take off my tennis shoes, slip off my jeans and crawl under the covers. Gabriel doesn’t say anything. He takes off his shirt, his jeans, and lies under the covers with me. We kiss again as we are facing each other; then he pulls me on top of him. I sit up for a moment, straddle him, taking off my top and bra. He smiles, outwardly, awkwardly, sits up, and kisses me where his lips reach. Falling to the bed once more, we disrobe completely, and then it happens slowly, yet quickly, every part of my body woven with his. There are moments of anxious hunger and moments of quiet connection.

  Afterward, I feel strangely whole. It wasn’t supposed to happen right away, but it did. And it felt right. We lie there for hours; I think we must have fallen asleep at one point because when we wake, I am starving. He’s snoring deeply: it’s not a sexy sound but endearing nevertheless. I get up slowly, take a shower with scalding hot water, and when I emerge, my chest is bright red. Gabriel’s snoring is so loud that he sounds like a freight train. I decide to dress before waking him because I need food more than sex at this moment and fear that waking him with only a towel on will lead to another round of lovemaking.