Moments

There is this saying that my mom shared with me a long time ago, and it goes something like life is not comprised of the moments we breathe, but rather those that take our breath away. It’s been a while since I have returned, and as one would guess, my mind drifts back to it, fighting the reality that I am no longer there. What is below are some moments that have stayed with me. Some of these I wrote while I was still there, and some are descriptions of moments I am trying to recapture. As we close another year and embark on the holidays—a time traditionally set aside for family—I encourage you to relish the moments. Those moments that remind you you’re alive, those moments that remind you to be present, those moments that you’ll try to remember in the years to come. Raise your glass, squeeze a loved one, and give thanks for all that you have, because the moment will be gone before you know it.

I have had many such breath-taking moments here; moments that I do not want to forget. One was when I was with Ernesto in Viterbo. We were approaching the open air Saturday flea market. He was resistant to the idea of actually shopping at it. I urged him to reconsider. He wouldn’t let me enter until he was done explaining his rules about visiting such a market. I told him openly that I would not abide by them; that I found his “go down each aisle only once” mandate to be too Chinese. How could we possibly barter if we didn’t know the competition? He debated on whether taking me there was a good idea. But he knew he needed help decorating his “Soviet” apartment in his host mother’s house. So, the moment came. Sporting his aviator glasses, he filled his chest with confidence, put his hand on his orange shorts, and declared, “I am ‘in the market’!” I am ready to part with my money!” Off we went, and he did. And he even won me a Chinese discount!

I had another moment. I was talking to my cousin Vicky who has a daughter Danae. I met Dane two years ago when she was just months old. Before my arrival this time, Vicky was explaining to her that I had come from America, or “A-mer-ica!” as it’s often referenced, and I was coming to visit her. She explained that I had to travel via airplane, and the trip took hours and hours. She explained how far away I lived, and how much I wanted to see them, and how I would be there the following day. So Vicky concludes all of this with: “Eleni is coming here, tomorrow!” And Danae nonchalantly responds, “Again?”

I spent almost five hours with my uncle today. We met in Syntagma square. Though I was early, I found him waiting for me. He is 70, and was dressed in a dark blue shirt and tan, pressed, linen slacks. His name is George, and he’s my dad’s little brother. We walked the pedestrian stroll Ermou, and we stopped for coffee. It lasted over two hours. We talked. He cried. And so did I. Thankfully, he shared his handkerchief with me. We went for souvlakia, and we talked more. He told me he would let his handkerchief dry before his next use. We parted ways at the train station, and I kissed him on both cheeks. I told him I loved him, and he gave me that look. That look that says I am here for you if you need me. I kissed him again. And as I write this, I find that I need his handkerchief.

The moon is waxing. The last couple of nights, my mom and I have been staying up until the wee hours to watch it set. We overlook a main thoroughfare and just beyond it is the sea. As we sit and talk—constantly interrupting each other to point out cars we like—we watch the reflection of the moon in the water move. The moon looks like it’s half of a droplet, and with each passing moment, as it works its way closer to the horizon, it becomes just a little bigger and its color changes from a creamy white to a deep orange. When it’s finally gone, we know it’s time for bed.

The moon was full the other night. There was a cloud shaped like Nantucket that gently faded away as the moon continued to rise. The sky was not black, but a deep blue. The moon shone so brightly that I could see my shadow on the veranda.

I witnessed a baptism today. You know when someone has done this, because the family gives “matirika” to all the guests (the root of the word derives from to bear witness) that they pin to a lapel. My cousin got married in 2004, and has four children in the span of the last five years. As I had not seen him since then, I told him and his wife that “my eyes are full” with their children! It was in the tiniest church I have ever been in. The priest had the thickest hair I have seen, and it crossed my mind that the baby might actually grab his beard in protest (this has happened in our family before!). The baby girl cried so much that I could no longer bear it, and so I started to cry too. The baby’s grandpa walked passed me, and saw me. He put his hand on my cheek to console me.

When was the last time you held a 3.5 pound tomato?


My mom’s koumbara came to visit us. She didn’t have long to spend, so to buy us time, I offered to run her up to where she needed to meet her husband. She wanted to direct me so it would be easy for me to get back to a road I knew. We needed to make two left turns. Neither was, according to signage, “permitted.” Having gotten comfortable with Greek driving, I took the first—crossing 2 lanes of cars—but was a bit hesitant about the second—where there were four lanes. She found the solution. She assured me: “The sign says no left. We’re not going left. We’re making a U-turn. That’s ok, because there is no sign saying it is prohibited.” Really? A left is a no-no but U-turn is ok? Really?

I slipped on a sidewalk the last day I was there. There, some sidewalks are made of marble. And marble is an unforgiving surface, especially to the human head. I had a lump the size of an egg. I didn’t worry until I heard my mom utter the words “internal hemorrhage” on the phone. It wasn’t so much that I may have needed medical care in that moment; it was that my only option was medical care in Greece. (Remember my burn in ’04?)

Across the busy avenue from where we live is a park. I am amazed at how green it is. Traffic on weekends is horrible, because so many families come to visit, and so many cars simply park in the right-most lane. My cousins came “down” to visit. The brought Danae and Thodoris. Danae does not sit still, and sitting is all Thodoris wants to do. As Vicky chased her daughter, D tried to catch a few winks. I found myself holding Thodoris. I thought I was distracting him, but slowly…so slowly…his eyes…they just got…heavier…and heavier…and his head…his head finally….relented to gravity…and I found myself catching his pacifier. Though the position I found myself in made me sore within minutes, I did not risk moving, fearing that I might wake him. So I didn’t.

It’s a crazy feeling to be in a place that is JUST SO FAR AWAY and yet so incredibly familiar. I can’t imagine what this is like for my mother, who grew up in Kallithea. We spent a day walking around and shopping there. We found an old friend of Mimi’s for coffee; he told me how they used to build vespa-type scooters from scrap metal. And once he discovered my love of cars, he explained to me how to parallel park my car—by using an e-brake and picturing a 90-degree angle. Mom and I ducked into a lighting shop to check out, well, lighting. As she was finishing up, I stepped outside for “fresh” air. She came out of the building, and as she closed the door, she said, “ I know this place.” “You’ve been here before?” I asked, trying to think of what other lighting needs she had. “Yes. It was where I went to elementary school.”

Pepi makes things happen. Pepi takes care of us. Pepi is a giver. And Pepi has an awesome memory. Many times, Mom and I found ourselves at her house. And when there, she would insist on ordering in. And because she remembered what I liked, she always order kalamakia. “Kalamakia” are meat on sticks at their finest. In this case, the meat is pork, and extra lemon is always provided. She would always over-order (so we got to take the rest home, and they rival cold pizza as the breakfast of champions). There was always a Greek salad. And there was enough pita bread to pave a walkway. And we usually ran out of fried potatoes (Mom’s weakness).
But the best part? The best part was the conversation. The best part was the informality of it all. The best part was getting in each others' way in the small kitchen, as they rest of the house remained unoccupied. The best part was savoring the stories we shared while sliding the wooden skewers away from our faces, leaving juicy, lemony bites to savor as well. It was not knowing who was going to join us for this impromptu affair. And it was listening to Pepi’s mom, Thea Maria, at 90+, punctuate a thought, provide a location, or remind us of a long-passed relative. It was my mom’s and Pepi’s laughter, as they coaxed each other to tell me something else I should I hear about the other. It was trying to stay quiet while Pepi was on the phone, deflecting questions and saying that the noise was coming from the TV, as she tried to shush into silence, without breaking herself up. It was talking about the day. I miss that.

Mom and Pepi heading out for a "banio"! This is one of my favorite images of the whole trip.