Living
On A Greek Island - Not a Greek Myth - Page Two
by Terry Lichtenstein
| So, here we are, on a small Greek island,
fortunately plenty of money (actually, more than we needed, as Greece is
extraordinarily inexpensive to live based on American standards, and surrounded
by an English speaking neighbor on one side, and the Saronic Gulf on the
other. I inquired about a telephone, but the waiting list was about
one year (at that time, the telephone company was government owned.
It’s “gone private” since then). My boyfriend wanted me to inquire about
a cellular phone, but I wasn’t interested. I loved the privacy.
Furthermore, Anne had a phone, and volunteered its use at my convenience,
which was about 2 times during my entire stay. |
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I did break down and purchase a TV and VCR.
Videos in Greece were current with America and in English with Greek subtitles.
I also replaced my Walkman, as I seemed to have destroyed yet another (it
seems to be like an extended body part, which constantly wears out.
It matters not it’s price or quality. Eleven months, and “KAPUT”,
a guaranteed purchase for some electronics store.)
Our two months in Plakakia was routine,
but what a routine. Every morning I’d wake about 7 am and take a
run. The air was still cool, and the entire view was seaside.
It was almost impossible to find yourself somewhere out of view of the
sea. At the conclusion of my run, I took a quick dip into the water,
in my running clothes, sans the shoes. I’d take a quick look around
at the sea creatures, which were quickly getting used to me, and head across
the street, home. My daughter and boyfriend were rarely awake, so
I quickly changed and motor biked down to the nearest bakery. I purchased
a couple fresh loaves of bread, hot, and a few sweet treats for breakfast.
By the time I returned, my boyfriend had made coffee, Greek, of course,
and my daughter was awake playing in the front. If it wasn’t too
late, consequently, too hot, we ate breakfast on the front patio.
My daughter and I preferred the hot fresh bread to the “sweets” and giggled
regularly at watching the fresh, creamy butter melt on the bread.
This was something nearly non-existent when I was growing up. The
flavor of the bread was more than satisfying for any palate, but with the
butter, flavors would sing and dance like Mozart’s Don Giavonni.
It seemed like the right start to a day. The coffee was rich and creamy,
too. Morning Greek coffee for “our generation” is actually Nescafe
prepared quite uniquely. First, Nescafe and sugar are put in the
coffee cup. Then, about 1 tablespoon of evaporated milk is added.
Gently, the three ingredients are combined to make a thick, mud-like paste
(in texture and looks). When the wet and dry ingredients are thoroughly
combined, the “chef” begins stirring vigorously. The spoon clinks
and clanks, symphonically, against the cup at lightning speed. After
2-3 minutes, silence. The once muddy mixture is now smooth, rich,
and toffee colored. The sound of rapidly boiling water is added to
the mixture while it is being stirred. A beautiful caramel colored
foam fills the top ½ inch of the cup, followed by the rich, Nescafe
coffee. It’s strong. It’s flavorful. And it will kick-start
anyone from a dead sleep to hyper-activity in about 12 minutes. The
strongest triple espresso from Starbucks has nothing on this drink.
The combination of Nescafe and hot bread & butter seemed to set the
temperament of the day. It was always good. The remainder of
the morning was focused on what we were going to eat for the afternoon
dinner. Personally, the last thing I could think about during and
after breakfast was the heavy, calorie-laden, alcohol driven “lunch”, but
not one to behave out of “culture” (when in Rome…or Aegina), so I smiled
and allowed my boyfriend to choose the menu. After all, he was going
to prepare it, as my culinary skills were not suited for Greek fare.
I was a skilled French cooking enthusiast, but Kosta hated French food,
not to mention the people (that has since changed, on both accounts).
Therefore, whatever he decided was fine.
Generally, Kosta would now take on the
“burden” of food shopping. I put this word in quotations as I find
American supermarket shopping the most boring necessity impaled on American
kind. However, shopping in Greece is more like an episode of Seinfeld.
Everyone meets, shopping and talks about nothing. It’s infinitely
more fun. While Kosta shopped, I cleaned up the morning mess and
prepared for the day’s activities. It was simple. Pick up the
beach bag and wait. When Kosta returned, we hopped on our motorbikes
and rode to the “meeting” beach. It’s called Marathonas. It’s
a favorite among the locals, and it seems the entire indigenous population
of the island visits it at least one time during the day. My daughter
always rode with Kosta, as he considered me too much of a novice.
We cruised slowly through town so Kosta could see if any friends were around.
They always were, and we always stopped and talked. More accurately,
Kosta talked with his friends, I gazed at the sea as I occasionally recognized
a Greek word. It rarely mattered as all of his friends spoke some English,
and fortunately, his best friend was proficient. In addition to being
proficient, George had an uncanny sense of when I was feeling left out
of the conversation. He would always turn the conversation with some
anecdote, thrusting me in the midst of the verbiage. It’s cultural.
Greeks love to talk. They love to listen. If you don’t join
in a conversation, it’s an insult. Anyway, George was always invited
to the beach. Most of the time he came along. Regardless of
his decision, we always went to Marathonas at least once a day. The
“group” was always there, and the routine changed little. We rented
3 beach chairs, about 25 cents, each, near the restaurant/bar, as we were
frequent customers for beverages. The “guys” would talk, about soccer
or politics, thigh deep in the water, in a circle, tapping a volleyball
around and pretending to exercise. For an American, it’s a funny
sight. At least on the West coast beaches, you generally do not see
10-15 guys standing in a circle tapping a volleyball around. Girls
would sit around and talk under the umbrellas. The older women enjoyed
floating around in the shallow water, kicking a few times, gasping for
air more often than not, then go back to their gossip for the day.
Since I didn’t understand the language, I happily excused myself to participate
in more watery activities. Though now on the other side of the island,
sea life was still abundant, water, crystal clear. My daughter and
I had fun swimming around and collecting shells, some extraordinary, others,
not, but no less fun to collect. Kosta only stayed at the beach long
enough for a volleyball “game”/chat and a beverage. He was “sun sensitive”.
More to the point, he wanted to get back to cook. That was fine with
me. I preferred to swim. His only concern was whether I would be
able to transport my daughter safely back to my house. He insisted
on going over safety precautions everyday prior to his departure.
He still does the same today.
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When we had finished swimming, which was
never, as far as I was concerned, we piled our beach gear on the makeshift
milk cart basket and headed home. My daughter would invariably fall
asleep as soon as the motor started on the bike, so we fashioned a safety
belt with a scarf, tying her to me, enabling her to remain atop of the
motorbike, even while sleeping. |
When we arrived home (15-20 minutes), “lunch”
was nearly ready. We cleaned up, usually in a shower outside, surrounded
by fig trees. This was a treat beyond description. We removed
our swimsuits, showered, shampooed, and, in my case, shaved, surrounded
by trees, blue skies, above, and not a particle of sand in the house.
“Lunch” was invariably a masterpiece, and more often than not, Kosta invited
his best friend to join us. The meal took at least an hour to consume,
including the 2-3pints of Amstel beer. At the conclusion of the meal,
we laughed, played music, sometimes danced, and left with an incredible
mess. I was not used to being relegated to cleaning up such an extraordinary
mess after a meal, particularly at lunchtime, but it was the one distasteful
chore I was obligated to do. To this day, I still don’t cook, and
I continue to be sequestered to the kitchen following the meal. A
couple things have changed, however. My daughter is my second mate,
and we have a 5 year old son who also contributes, if only in conversation.
Also, my husband, then boyfriend, cleans up his “prep” dishes before we
sit down to eat…he learned. When my kitchen duties were being performed,
the boys would sit and talk or take a ride together along the sea .
One day, Kosta prepared two huge meals in one day. At the conclusion
of the evening meal, I quietly scooped up my daughter and tiptoed down
to the cove for a swim. Kosta snapped. He was angry because
I didn’t clean, didn’t tell him we were going, and made a decision to “rebel”.
Oh well, was my thought. And, he’s never made two huge meals in a
day since. Anyway, when the boys returned, and the kitchen clean,
it was naptime. By now, it was about 3:00 in the afternoon.
It’s hot and humid. Our bellies are full, heads mildly disoriented
from the Amstel. We slept. We all slept…and it was a “hard”
sleep. 2 ½ - 3 hours later, we woke. I have never woke
from a sleep like this. My mouth felt like it was clamped shut for
days. My body was limp and heavy. I didn’t want to move from
my slumber. I stayed, staring at the ceiling slowly realizing where
I was, whom I was with, and what I was doing. I smiled. When
Kosta woke, he moved slowly. His first order of business, after the
bathroom, was to make us a “frappe”. This is the afternoon coffee.
Again, Nescafe is used. A similar portion of Nescafe and sugar is
placed in a tall, plastic cup, which has a dome-shaped, tight fitting cap.
About an inch of cold, bottled water is added to the dry ingredients.
The cap is secured, tightly, and the 3 ingredients are shaken, vigorously,
for about 30 seconds. The same caramel colored froth forms, indicating
the ingredients are thoroughly mixed. It takes up about three-fourths
of the cup. The cap is removed and a couple of ice cubes are added.
This “knocks down” the froth. Slowly, ice-cold water is added, with
a little fresh milk. This process is done slowly. It’s the
best was to get the froth to liquefy. Inevitably, some of the froth
remains, thus the purpose of the dome-shaped cap. The cap is replaced,
and a straw is inserted in the traditional hole at the top of the cap.
The frappe is ready for consumption. The same morning jump-start
ensues. We are again ready for a swim. This time, we stay closer
to home. In fact, we simply cross the street. We always take
our snorkeling equipment as the sea below was quite rocky, and abundant
with sea life. We had our hopes set on catching the evening’s appetizers,
and generally did. Octopus was craftily hiding everywhere.
The only clue to their whereabouts was piles of empty urchin shells, their
favorite food. If an octopi had recently eaten, it was likely they
would be lurking just beneath the sand near the empty shells. So
not to let on that we were on a hunt, Kosta would have me comb the floor
of the sea, searching for the only positive indicator of a nearby octopus,
a single exposed eye, surrounded by the sand, body buried. It was
difficult to spot, but not impossible. When I happened onto one,
I would point. The frightened creature was focused on me, not noticing
Kosta bolting from the opposite direction, knife readied. It was
over in an instant, and I always felt horrible pangs of remorse.
To this day, I hate killing anything. I could only justify the act
by not wasting a single morsel. Hence, tenderizing and barbequing
immediately followed the kill. We accompanied the delicacy with ouzo
and invitation of several friends. It was a great deal of fun, to
say the least.
| When we concluded out evening of chatter
and appetizers, we decided on the evening’s entertainment. Usually,
we went to a movie, followed by a small meal at one of the cafes, then
a “disco”, the name given to all Greek modern clubs, or Bouzouki.
Alex often went to the movie and ate with us. When it was time to
go to the club, Anne, my neighbor volunteered to watch her. She did
this for about the first couple months we lived in our home. She
was a marvelous caregiver. I think, since her husband had recently
died, and her sister-in-law was giving her so many problems, she really
enjoyed the company of my daughter. |
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Her house was full of ship models as well
as some beautiful antique dolls. Alex was fascinated. When
it was time to sleep, she snoozed soundly in one of Anne’s bedrooms.
Anne, a great lover of dogs, was well protected. When Kosta and I
strolled in at 2-3 in the morning, the dogs sounded muffled warnings, having
gotten to know us so well. We simply went in the house, scooped up
Alex and went home. In return, Kosta would offer his help with chores
more capably performed by a man. Our relationship with Anne, and
slowly, other members of the island was turning out better than one could
hope. This routine governed the first 2 months of my stay in Aegina…but
things were to change, drastically. The weather was cooling.
My boyfriend was going to have to go back to work on a cruise ship, traveling
around the world, and I was about to participate in a dolphin rescue.
Regardless of the inevitable changes, from the first day to the last, living
in Greece was one of the best decisions of our lives. Upon our completion
of educational goals, we will again become residents of Greece, permanently..
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