Fifteen Fabulous Days in France

I walked into a bar in Paris. (No, this isn’t a joke!) As I was waiting for the toilette, I stared at old books on a shelf opposite me. I had to touch them. I gently pulled one off the shelf; the cover was falling off, the pages falling out. It was gorgeous, reaffirming my belief that old things are beautiful. Then I saw the author and the year. Oh my! I wanted this book.

I went to the young bartender. “Bonsoir. Je voudrais compre un libro. This one. Si vous plait. Is the owner here?” I said mixing my Spanish with my one semester of French.

“I am owner.” He said in crisp English. “You want this book?”

“Yes, please.” I replied, trying not to sound too enthusiastic.

“How much you pay?”

“How much do you want?” I asked.

He was adamant: “You say. How much you give me?”

So I said a ridiculously cheap price.

“Ok.”

I couldn’t believe it! I gave him the euros and strutted away with my 1832 book by François-Marie Arouet, known by his pen name, Voltaire—one of my favorite French authors! I teach Candide, so I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to share this treasure with my students.

As a Greek-American English professor who resides in (and absolutely loves) Los Angeles, my destination of choice for a holiday shall always be Greece. Every summer, after grading hundreds of student essays, there is no place in the world I would rather go than to my Greek Yiayia’s cottage by the sea. But my husband, whose grandmother is originally from Le Mans, always yearned to visit France. So after years of summer holidays in Greece, we decided to spend fifteen days in France. I was a bit grumpy, wanting—like Odysseus—to go “home,” but it was time to see something new. So, we booked our trip, and I was pleasantly surprised. It was a flawless, magnificent holiday.

Paris.
I was told that staying near the Eiffel Tower is not ideal because the metal structure is, in fact, not centrally located. But we found the First Hotel, in the heart of the 15^th arrondissement, convenient and a pleasant fifteen-minute walk to La Seine. I secured rooms about nine months in advance and usually try to not spend more than $125/night. Our rooms, a month before travel, ranged from $200 to $400! Booking ahead is the key. The hotel was right across from the train station, but we are walkers and clocked between 12,000 and 18,000 steps a day.

After a guided tour of the Eiffel Tower, we learned that seven million visitors come to this structure in a year (whereas fifteen million go to Paris Disney!). When Gustave Eiffel proposed the tower, many opposed its construction, thinking it was “ugly.” He hoped to recoup the thirty-four million euros he had spent (converted to today’s cost) in twenty years, but after it opened in 1889, he made all his money back in six months!

River Dinner Cruise

 

Inside the Louvre

The next six days were filled with guided tours and solitary exploration.

After six days of sensory overload—majestic churches (Notre Dame, Sacre-Coeur Basilica, and St. Sulpice), stunning structures and luscious gardens (Luxembourg)

 

fountains, palaces, history, and a colorful art district (Montmartre), I was ready for wine.

Beaune.
From Paris we took a morning train to Dijon, then switched to a local train, and arrived by noon to a quaint, cobble-stoned village. Our Hotel Abbaye de Maizières was a 12th century Abbey with a miniscule entrance to a medieval lobby with red velvet tablecloths, a small wine cellar, and original stone walls. A windy staircase took us up to our tiny room. Despite the size, we loved the feeling of sleeping in a room where monks had lived more than eight hundred years ago.

Our first private wine tour by Emmanuelle, at a winery in town, was a tasty start and only twenty euros per person. The following day, we were told at the town’s information center that a gorgeous winery, Chateau de Pommard, is just outside of Beaune.

“Oui, only twenty minutes, oui, by foot,” she said, “oui, oui, oui, very close.” The path took us dangerously close to a small highway, walking non-stop for more than an hour!

On our tour, again private only because there were no other English speakers, we learned all wines are Chardonnay or Pinot Noir grapes and that is “not important at all!” It’s about the climate and soil. There are about 304 bottles approximately of wine in a barrel and a barrel “is oak from France.” “Sorry,” she said, “not Californian Oak!” Then she laughed. But what is Californian are the owners. We learned in 2014 a couple, Carabello-Baum bought the entire estate. For the return trip, again by foot, we walked through vineyards—Sideways style, accompanied by a bottle, stopping along the way to enjoy the views, pouring a glass as well as tasting a few grapes along the way.

After three days and endless bottles of wine, it was time for the beach!

Nice.
For as much as I love exploring cities (Paris) and drinking wine (Beaune), nothing compares to a dip in the Mediterranean. After a seven-hour train ride from Beaune (ninety-eight euros per person) we arrived to Nice. We stayed at Residhome Nice Promenade, a studio apartment that had a kitchen, a balcony, a nice rooftop, and only two blocks away from the promenade. From Nice we took tours to Cannes, Monte Carlo, and St. Paul de Vence.

But it was Nice that captured my heart with the endless cafés and beaches. I love the freedom of sitting on a bench with a baguette, cheese, and a bottle of wine.

It seems freedom comes with cost. It was a bit disconcerting to see the young military folk pass with the machine guns. On one hand, it makes one feel safe; on the other, it reminds me that it’s, unfortunately, a different world we live in. We met a Moroccan-French man who was on the promenade the night of the fateful attack in 2016 (87 people lost their lives and 434 were injured) and had to hide in a café for seven hours with his wife and baby. Strolling down Promenade des Anglais on a starry, warm night, I did think about it, but I will travel anywhere, speak to anyone, and will not allow fear to be my guide.

French People.
Have you heard that French people are rude? Well, that was not our experience. Two cute, little old men stopped and asked us if we needed help the first day when they saw a map in our hands. In Cannes, a young man sitting on a bench, playing on his phone, got up and walked us a block to guide us to the train station. On the last evening, our server at a cafe at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, a lovely French woman and single-mother, told us she dreamed of “going to America.” It seems we all want to be somewhere else—my husband and I would move to Greece or France in a heartbeat, but we also know that Los Angeles is home for the next two decades until a suitable pension kicks in. A friend said to me, “People were nice because you and Hugo are nice.” I guess people see that we are genuinely interested in their stories and their country. Sites are fine, but we travel for the sounds, the smells, and the people. And we always said “bonjour” before asking a question; we left shops with a “merci beaucoup and au revoir.” We also smile a lot—because that’s the universal language.

When I returned to the US, my colleagues asked how Greece was this year. I shrugged my shoulders, inside still feeling a bit melancholic that I did not feel the sweet soil of Greece on my feet in July, but then smiled widely and said, “We spent fifteen days in France. It was fabulous!”

 

The Story of a Black Suit

When my mama and dad divorced after twenty years of marriage, my mother had to get a wage-earning job. After a comfortable overseas life and being a stay-at-home mom, she happily donned a server’s apron and became a waitress for another twenty years. She took care of her two baby granddaughters during the morning hours, then would work tirelessly till 10 p.m. to provide for her family. She never complained even though she smelled like fish and her bones ached.

It was a hard job, but choices are few one gets back into the workforce, and one doesn’t have a college degree to fall back on.

But she was finally independent. And was loved by all: her family, her workmates, her customers. One elderly couple, especially, adored her, always requesting “Angela” when they came in for their weekly “Early Bird Special.”

Mama had told me about this couple. They were in their eighties. She was tiny; he always held her hand. Mrs. Louise dressed impeccably: matching shoes, handbag, and hat—all the accessories matched her suits. Sometimes she wore a beige silk pantsuit; other times, an orange linen suit. When the weather was colder, it was a brown or black wool suit.

After visiting the restaurant faithfully on Wednesdays for many years and having my mother serve them, one day, they didn’t come in. A week passed, another, and then a month. Finally the little old man showed up again—alone. His wife had passed away. My mother embraced him, gently asked if he wanted his regular table, but he did not come to eat.

The conversation went something like this: “Angela, Louise didn’t know anyone her size except you, and she liked you so much. She told me to give you all her clothes—if you want them.”

My mama was initially embarrassed, but followed him to his house after her midday shift was over. It was a huge house on the hill and Mrs. Louise’s walk-in closet was the size of a master bedroom. Every suit hung separately in a plastic bag with the hatbox on the shelf above, shoes underneath, and a matching belt and purse close by. All the suits hung in a color-coordinated manner, by color then by material, lighter to the left, heavier textures to the right.

My mother chose a few items. Again, a bit shy, was ready to leave.

“Is that all?”
“You’ve been so kind, but I don’t think much more will fit in my car,” Mama replied.
“Do you want to come back?”
“Well,” my mother hesitated…”I can call my son…”
“Angela, please do. Louise would be happy. Otherwise I’m just going to donate her clothes to Goodwill.”

My mother called my brother, and he arrived with his truck! The old man smiled and helped. They filled both vehicles with shirts, skirts, hats, bags, but no shoes. She wore a size 5. We wear size 7. When they arrived home, my mother and I tried on outfits, laughed and played. It was like winning the Nordstrom lottery. We had never had such lovely, quality clothes.

After the euphoria, we took a moment to thank Mrs. Louise and wish her peace. Every time I wear one of these outfits, I always remember the kind, generous woman who gave me some of my best teaching outfits.

Today I donned my Anne Klein wool skirt suit; a student said, “That’s a pretty outfit, Ms. Robeson.”

I responded, “Do you want to hear a little story about where it came from?”

Nike’s Special Air

 

Reflections of Summer by a Greek American: Travel Tips and Personal Stories

It’s in the air. It’s in their voices. The instability. The frustration, the anger—but those are not the constants. The pride. The loud voices, the grand gesticulations, the love of their country: those remain static. Greeks are fiercely patriotic and proud; at times stubborn and sardonic—but always faithful with a fighting spirit.

Nevertheless, genuine fear has encroached upon the lives of many Greeks, and Summer 2015, with the climax of the crisis, the outlook looked dire. It was a strange time to be in Greece this past summer, but the looming crisis was also precisely why my husband and I chose to return after a year’s absence. If we had a few dollars to spend on a summer holiday, why not drop them in the country that is closest to my heart? That was one good reason, but seeing my Greek family took the top slot. When I heard my aunt’s anxious voice through the phone line in June, it made my desire to be close to my relatives even more powerful. I needed to be in Greece, see their faces, hear their stories, and—more selfishly—I wanted to stroll the streets of Athens, sip my Loumidis coffee on the balcony of our summer house, eat calamari with a xoriatiki salad, and visit an island with my favorite travelling partner.

Despite the country’s financial crisis and my family’s suffering, I was and am painfully cognizant that others are suffocating in Greece; yet, for me, Greece is—and always will be—the country that lets me breathe.

When I’m in Greece, I’m another person. I drink wine by the kilo, eat lots of bread dipped in tzaziki, devour souvlakia filled with greasy gyro, suck on endless red Greek tomatoes—and I never step on a scale. Funny thing is, I don’t gain a pound. There is a lightness inside that permeates outward, sucking away the fatness of stress. Of course, I am on vacation with time, money, and a fun husband—why shouldn’t I be happy? But it’s something else. Being around Greeks, in Greece, recharges my battery. These people are beyond resilient, and this vivacity gives me strength. If Greeks can struggle, fight, and still laugh, then so can I. Despite the melee, Nike still seems to fly over Greece and, I believe, in time they will be victorious.

One victory was tourism. Many visitors ignored the fearmongers and did not take heed to negative propaganda and, instead, “hashtag visitGreece” took over. Tourism was up 2% compared to last year according to U.K.’s Daily Mail (July 20^th, 2015). While eating at Thanasis in Plaka, we met a man who works at the airport in customs and he said it was up 10%, a family member told me 22%. Suffice it to say, tourism did not drop. In fact, as I walked the streets of various Greek cities, towns, and villages, on the mainland and on Skopelos island, I saw crowds of people, both Greeks and visitors, and I heard a lot of laughter.

ATHENS

Playing with my cousins and their kids in the blue water of Vouliagmeni reminded me why Athens is my favorite city in the entire world. Some parts of the city such as Kyfissia and Kolonaki offer posh shops, cafés, high fashion, and people-watching; other districts like Glyfada and Voula have the aforementioned but also provide island-like beaches—complete with chaise lounges, umbrellas, and cafés on the shoreline. For a few euros, one enters and can stay all day; have the freedom to drink beer on the beach or have a freddo cappuccino, and then a club sandwich or a tyropita. Somewhere in between these districts is Nea Smirni, where my family reside, and where my mother owns a house. I adore the neighborhood and feel quite at home there as does my husband who has visited six times. If I’m deep in Greek with my cousins, my husband disappears to the local platea (district’s center) to get a gyros at his favorite taverna or to relax at his favorite café. He knows how to say, “Freddo cappuccino metreo” and “Then milao Ellinika” (I don’t speak Greek). When we first met, he asked me how to say, “Hello, how are you?” So I taught him: “Eho geneka Elinitha, i kaliteri.” It was years later when he greeted someone with this phrase that I realized I had forgotten to tell him it actually meant, “I have a Greek wife and she’s the best.” But he forgave me and we still have a good laugh about it.

From Nea Smirni, my husband and I always take the tram to Syntagma Square where the Hellenic Parliament is located. In general, Athens’ public transportation is fantastic and one can get from Syntagma Square to Eleftherios Venizelos Airport for only a few euros, and “Express” buses run 24hrs a day/7 days a week from the center. The Express Bus takes about 35-40 minutes; the Metro is also an option though it can take between 45 and 90 minutes. Next to Syntagma is Plaka. I love the walk from the Parliament down Ermou St., where shopping is plentiful, to Plaka, the old part of the city where one can buy souvenirs and sip an Ouzo, enjoy a Fix beer, or have cold cappuccino.

After souvenir and shoe shopping, we always eat at Thanasis, famous for its kebab plates. After eating, a picturesque walk to Thissio is a must-do. You continue past Plaka and walk at the foot of the Acropolis; then an entirely new neighborhood presents itself with countless taverns, cafés, and bars. Street vendors, who come out after dark when the authorities are too tired to arrest them for illegal sales, line the streets with incredible handmade goods. I bought a pair of miniature tsarouhi (traditional Greek shoes with pom-poms) earrings from a lovely Russian woman who has been in Greece for twenty years. It reminded me, once more, how everyone has a story. We chatted for fifteen minutes and I debated taking notes while she spoke, her voluptuous chest heaving, her smile wide with a missing incisor, but my husband gave me that endearing look of “You are my wife tonight, not a writer.” But when one starts writing, every scene, every image becomes one that we want to share because we think it’s important.

 We also met a Nigerian man a few days later in Kamena Vourla whose story was equally fascinating; selling burned CDs he told us that he was a graduate of the University of Athens and held a psychology degree. We talked about politics, life, and literature; about Boko Haram, my Greek aunt who was born in Nigeria, and my Master’s Thesis, which was about the Igbo and Yorubu tribes. When I asked him if he was from one of those tribes, he responded that he was indeed an Igbo and a proud one at that. I had just finished the best-selling novel Amerikanah about a Nigerian woman living in the United States. Jeff, as he introduced himself, pulled out his laptop from his backpack, wrote down the title and author’s name in Notepad, said he loved reading, and would download it that night. Yes, everyone has a story. And every story is important.

EPIDAVROS

After a few days in Athens, we drove two and a half hours south, past the Corinth Channel to Epidavros where we visited its majestic theatre; built in 340 B.C., it holds 13,000+ spectators and provides unparalleled acoustics. The choice to build this theatre amidst a forest lay in the purposeful decision of the ancient Greeks; the ground was sacred, a magical healing center. Today, one can enjoy a modern or classical performance in this theatre, and the sentiment of “something special” lingers in the air. I sat for a while, after pictures were taken, and digested the view, felt the lumpy marble that cooled my derriere, watched the tourists who stood at the bottom, yelling to their friends in the seats far above to test the strength of a natural speaker. The sky seemed especially blue, the trees too green to be real, and the clouds almost transparent. Surreal, magical, extraordinary.

NAFPLIO

The next stop, about forty minutes from Epidavros, was a city that beheld a beauty of another sort; pink, yellow, and blue houses, a city center that reminded me of Venice, and not surprisingly since the Turks and the Venetians fought for this port city in the 13^th century. The influence of the Venetian’s second occupation (1686-1715) is present in the architecture; today balconies adorned with hanging plants and underwear add to the colorful Italian-like setting. Nafplio enjoyed its seat at the first capital of modern Greece from 1829-1834, and although no longer a political hot-spot, it offers bars, cafés and hours of endless roaming.

Above Nafplio, a grand Venetian Citadel graces the skyline. It’s a short drive up the hill from Nafplio or a hike with never-ending steps. In August the heat can be unbearable, but that day, the goddesses gave us a slight breeze and a sky speckled with clouds. Yet, every time we wanted to take a picture of Nafplio or the blue water below that surrounded the citadel, the sky opened and the gave us a natural flash.

My cousin drove us around that day, and the car ride provided much needed girl-time. My husband dozed in the back seat while we talked about life’s challenges. My cousin is a wise young woman, only thirty-eight, and when we talk, it’s more like a discourse with Socrates. Apart from the financial crisis, personal issues have presented her life with increased challenges. In our conversations, which are more like discourses about the human condition, suffering, and the desire to find peace, we never reach conclusions but philosophize, laugh, and sometimes cry. Mostly there’s a feeling of xelafrosi (a letting go, a lightness) when we are done.

That’s what makes Greece so special for me: it’s the land too, but it’s always been the people—those who are living and those who are dead. One who is gone, physically, is my dear Yiayia. On August 12th, 2015, three car loads of family gathered for my yiayia’s one-year memorial. The forty-day memorial is more important in Greek culture, but my family gathered again to make it special for me, so that I could say my formal goodbye. The last time I has seen Yiayia was the summer before.

A MEMORIAL

On that hot day in August, we all gathered at the cemetery, the kids ran around, and the adults greeted one another. My aunt made koliva, wheat berries flavored with walnuts, raisins, cinnamon and powdered sugar, a favorite of mine (Yiayia used to make a huge pot just for me—even when someone hadn’t died). After the priest’s prayer, we sat in the church’s café, had Greek coffee, sans the traditional Cognac since my family are not drinkers. I really would have enjoyed some at that moment because even though the family chatter lightened the mood, it felt like a buffalo had sat on my chest.

When we had arrived to Athens the week before, I had walked though Yiayia’s house; I can’t say that I felt sadness or shock. My cousin lives there now, and my adorable niece and nephew were so excited to show me their new rooms that the ambience felt peaceful and happy. Yiayia was ready to go, so I was grateful that her death provided a home for a family in the time of need.

But as as I walked through the cemetery, the feeling was different. I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe. My kooky, fun-loving, naughty Yiayia was no more. She would be lying under a slab of cement decomposing. I won’t dive into religion here; hopefully heaven is real and she is laughing from above. After the prayer, the family left us for a few moments of private time, and I sobbed uncontrollably. Yiayia was ready, she was old, 94! She had led a full, good life. She had twenty people who stood there; many who shed tears again even though they had officially mourned her a year before, their sorrow still palpable.

Then, I thought about my own death. When I die, my husband and a few pets will be present. I have never regretted not having children, and as I sat around a table with uncles and aunts, cousins and their children, I felt serene. Maybe a few nieces, family members, or friends will come. I’m blessed with an incredible family. I lack nothing. My husband held my hand and asked me gently with his eyes how I was doing. We all know there are no guarantees in life, who will go first, when, or why, but I know that I live every moment to its fullest and don’t wait for tomorrow’s success to be happy today. We all learned this lesson from Yiayia who was a genuinely happy and mischievous person till the day she closed her eyes.

DELPHI

On the way to our summer house, we took a detour to the sanctuary of Apollo at Delphi. According to tradition, Zeus sent two eagles from opposite sides of the universe to find each other at the center. They met at Delphi. Standing in the sanctuary with my husband felt electric. We were at the “omphalos,” navel of the world; at the center, with my center. We walked around, took lots of pictures, but always stopped to admire with the naked eye. Visiting the theatre, stadium, and sanctuary, built in the 4^th, 5^th, and 7^th century B.C. respectively, among all the other sites of yellowish-beige marble, demonstrated the creativity and mathematical genius of the Greek people. While we walked down the path, with large looming trees and mountains on all the sides, I could hear the cicadas chirping. It’s a sound that reminds me of good days, happy times, sleeping on the balcony of our summer house, the only care in the world was what I would wear to the disco that night.

KAMENA VOURLA

This seaside village, also one of the settings in my novel, Red Greek Tomatoes, provides a sanctuary for my protagonist. Unlike the main character of my novel who goes to Kamena Vourla as a stranger on her way to Delphi and knows no one, I know this village intimately. It’s the village where my grandfather chose to buy a summer cottage in the 60s, so he could fish early in the morning, roll his cigarettes and drink Ouzo at night. And escape from hectic Athens.

While in Kamena Vourla, if one wants a break from taverns, Camino Restaurant offers sumptuous dinner and mouthwatering steaks. The popular Mythos and Friend’s Café are also favorites. Both are owned by acquaintances who I see year after year, and though they may temporarily forget my name, I’m always greeted with kisses and a warm welcome as though I am a long-lost friend. That’s what Greeks do; they make you feel special. When my childhood friends smile, hug, and kiss me, it feels like home—it doesn’t matter if we only spend a few hours together, time always stands still and our hearts feel just as connected. My Greek friends are tough-as-nails women who I admire for their strength and tenacity; they don’t count calories, worry about working out, and openly complain about their kids without one ounce of guilt. They are real. They enjoy life. Yes, they are stressed, tired, deal with mother-in-laws who live above them, but they laugh and bitch, then laugh again; no problem is too tough to handle.

A few kilometers from Kamena Vourla, towards Agios Konstandinos, is Asproneri, a pebble-stone beach that rivals any island one with its clear water and mountain as a backdrop. Thair, my protagonist, falls in love while at this beach so Asproneri is personified in my novel. It’s alive and offers Thair much of what it offered me; when I swim in the water, her hands caress me, the majestic mountains always take my breath away. It’s a sight I never tire of. My husband and I usually stay at the far end, close to the lighthouse where it’s quiet, but a visitor can sit close to the snack shack and see beautiful young bods and older ones who wear all their rolls and cellulite with pride and comfort.

That’s another thing I adore about Greece. Women don’t seem to have body issues. A girl may be 16 and long-legged or 60 with a pudgy belly, every female, despite age or size, wears a bikini. In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen a full swimsuit there. And when women walk to and from the café and order drinks, they don’t hide in a beach wrap. This confidence thrills me; men with their keg-bellies and skinny legs flirt with their eyes as if they are Zeus’ gift to women. When I ordered our freddos at the shack, I debated dropping my sari on the walk back, allowing eyes to critique my ample thighs, but the thought only entered my mind long enough for me to push it out. No way. I tightened the knot of my wrap, held the coffees, one in each hand, and strolled back along the shoreline. I’m only half Greek; my American self-consciousness won this time—again.

Over the years, the village has changed a lot; or it could be me that’s changed. Kamena Vourla still has romantic appeal with its countless taverns and cafés that line the shore, but—unlike my youth when I could stay for two entire months there—after a few days, I get restless.

In my teens we started the evening at Pringipico, a café on the water’s edge, and ended the night dancing at Laxmi Discoteque. Now the disco is a dilapidated structure at the far end of town, and the “in” place is Mythos Café where people spill on to the street, where people go to see and be seen. No more dancing; it saddens me that this new generation just drinks and stands around for endless hours. It also bores me. I don’t get it. A sure sign I am finally getting old. As an aging adult, time is running out, and Greece offers so much beauty and intrigue that after I’ve visited my friends, stood around on the street for three nights in a row, took my cleansing baths at Asproneri, I’m ready to move on.

SKOPELOS

From Kamena Vourla we took the ferry from Agios Konstandinos to the island of Skopelos, also known lately as the “Mamma Mia” island because parts of the movie were filmed there. Skopelos is part of the Sporades islands and offers tranquility, unlike the neighboring island of Skiathos that has a wilder nightlife, but equally beautiful beaches. Again, despite the crisis, Greeks visitors populated the beaches and cafés. We met Italians, Spaniards, saw many blonde Europeans, and heard a few Americans. We stayed in Chora, the main town, at Hotel Dionyssos, a hotel with an excellent breakfast, nice pool, and helpful staff. I met the bartender who was my age, a beautiful brunette who was a French professor in her native Albania and moved to Greece twenty years before. She lives permanently on the island with her Albanian husband and two teenage boys. She tried to teach private French lessons but her degree wasn’t recognized, so she instead, to help support her family, she works full-time tending bar and working in the restaurant. Everyone has a story.

By U.S. standards the hotel was not expensive, but more than my husband and I usually spend when we travel since we spend so little time in the room. The Expedia photos looked inviting, and since the location was ideal, we decided to splurge. Our room, typically Greek: clean, small and simple, did have lovely views of the beach and mountains; mostly the details, little bottles of ouzo and loukoumades in our room to welcome us, added a nice touch.

The first day we took an all-day, very inexpensive (12 euros), guided bus tour to the famous church, Agios Ioannis, (from a scene in Mamma Mia) that included stops at several beaches. Some have said that the movie has cheapened this island paradise, but I don’t agree. It has created a bit more tourism, so I think that’s good. If someone expected to see the same grand chapel from the movie, then they don’t understand Hollywood magic. The 202 steps that we climbed to reach this chapel were well worth it because at the top the vast turquoise sea could be seen, and a feeling of romance, indeed, lingered in the air. I signed the church’s registry where couples’ writings filled the pages, notes of love and adoration for their spouse or partner. If you visit the church, check out entries under Summer 2015; maybe you’ll see my name, my husband’s, and my wish for eternal love.

The night life of Skopelos is similar to Kamena Vourla: sitting in cafes, standing in bars, talking, smoking; we did come across a “club” but when we tried to enter at 1 a.m., on our way back to the hotel from a drink at the center, they told us it would not open till 2 a.m but we were welcome to come in and wait. I definitely felt old. The only dancing we would be doing was in our dreams.

Skopelos with its mountains, valleys, and forests give the island a breezy feeling unlike some other popular islands that I’ve visited with dry landscapes. The greatest appeal of Skopelos are the beaches; from Limnonari to Panormos to Kastani, golden sand and clear water circle the island. Most of these places have beach bars with expensive beer and some food choices though it’s best to wait because the taverns in Chora serve up delicious traditional Greek dishes and fresh seafood for decent prices. It’s known to be a quiet island, one for couples, families, or those who just want tranquility. I found that to be true.

Back to ATHENS

The last day in Athens is always spent returning to Thanasis for a kebab plate and to walk the streets of Plaka. But this year plans changed. We stumbled upon a restaurant that opened its evening terrace for us early, so we enjoyed a spectacular view of the Parthenon. We ate and drank wine for more than two hours and by the time we left, our secluded terrace was filled with more than fifteen tables, never noticing when the tables had been set or the guests arrived. It was a perfect ending to a perfect holiday. Almost perfect. Saying goodbye is always tough. I’m not a fan of phones or Skyping and only call my family a few times a year because when I do, I know we will be on the phone for several hours. Everyone has busy lives, so we all understand because when there’s genuine affection, as corny as it sounds, distance is only measured in kilometers; the hearts remain close.

That night, while I leaned on the balcony of the restaurant, with my husband’s arm around me, taking in the sights, life felt complete. It was a cool night for August, a slight breeze blew my bangs in my face. As I moved them to the side, I could see Nike in the distance smiling at me. I know she loves Greece as much as I do.

Talk to Your Yiayia . . . (And if you don’t have one, find a grandma!)

I love my husband for so many reasons, but for one that I had never expected. He taught me how to appreciate old people, especially how to hold my yiayia’s hand, caress her cheek, lie in bed with her.

When I was in my 30s and still single, an old maid by Greek standards, my grandmother wanted me to find a good husband. She was the product of another generation, and though she believed every woman should be married, she quietly celebrated the fact that I dated and had many lovers before “settling down.” I know this because she was always a naughty yiayia, asking me very specific questions about my boyfriends, “So he has big . . . thing, yes?” Then she would roar with laughter.

Still, despite our openness about sex (not typical for a Greek grandmother but mine had lived all around the world and was very open-minded), her and I were not especially close. That is, until my husband came into our lives.

The first time Hugo and Yiayia saw each other, in the summer of 2004, it was love at first sight. They met, he held her hand tenderly, and she said in English (one of the six languages she spoke), “You good man?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“You love Kimi?”

“Yes,” he said, “very much.”

“Good, good. Now you listen to my anecdote.”

My grandmother started telling him a dirty joke about an Italian soldier with a macaroni stuck up his derrière, and he continued to hold her hand while sitting on the bed beside her. Yiayia had been bedridden for almost twenty years (mostly by choice). I’m tired. I don’t want to get up. But she ambled to the bathroom till she was ninety-four without a cane or walker or help.

I had heard the joke countless times, so I went to the kitchen to make a frappé because she didn’t care if I were there or not. She had the attention of a handsome young man, and Yiayia always preferred boys to girls—her grandsons were her favorites; the granddaughters she could live without. When I came back into the room, my husband was lying on her double bed beside her, chuckling, “Yiayia, tell me another joke!”

“Oh, you like?” she said and grinned at him.

“Yes! Yes!” while laughing from his heart. I stood there and thought two things: I don’t think I had ever—in my adult life—lain next to my yiayia, and second, I had never seen her so illuminated. She adored Hugo and he adored her. Every summer we would visit Greece and he would lie beside her, kiss her forehead, touch her in a way that was foreign to me. I always kissed her quickly and was never that physically close to her. Why? Because I had the crazy idea that old people didn’t need touch.

I watched him throughout the years and I learned. It was osmosis; the more he loved her, the more I did, too. The more he caressed her, the more I wanted to, too. He leaned on her shoulder, stroked her hand, and always kissed her forehead when he came and when he left. He learned this from his own Peruvian upbringing. His family is inimitably kind to old people, so when my mother-in-law gave up her spacious bedroom to her mother-in-law for the last few years of her life, I wasn’t surprised.

Hugo’s grandmothers were extraordinary women. Mamama (my mother-in-law’s mother) was already lost to Alzheimer’s when I met her; she was gentle and sweet, loved to sing and dance, visions of her at our wedding in a polka dot red dress, twirling on the dance floor, fill my mind’s eye as I write this. But before her illness, I heard Mamama was strict and would lift her skirt, giving Hugo a kick in the backside if he misbehaved.

Nana at ninety-five, a year before she died.

Nana, my father-in-law’s mother, on the other hand, was still sharp at eighty-eight when I met her, a statuesque woman who lived alone. Nana mostly sat in a recliner, but one could see that she was still a tall woman with straight shoulders and extensive legs. Nana went to Peru from Normandy in the 1930s, and though she had been in Peru since she was a teenager, she still retained a strong French accent and an air of arrogance.

I adored Nana. Her hair was white and fluffy, smelling like a strawberry patch; she always wore a matching necklace and earrings, her lips painted bright red by the woman who took care of her during the day. She sat upright, but with great labor, shortened breath, told me about France, stories of love and heartbreak. I only regret not writing them down and asking more questions because they are bit and pieces of images, but not a clear story in my head.

Unlike Nana who I immediately admired, the feelings towards my own grandmother were more complicated because we had had our share of troubles. When I was young, we were jealous of one another and constantly vied for my mother’s attention. When Yiayia would visit California for three months of the year, I was told to give up my bedroom and, as a spoiled teenager, was quite resentful.

South Africa, 1981. Yiayia would come stay with us for a few months of the year wherever we were living.

When Yiayia passed away last year, my mother flew to Greece, and came back with a stack of photos and a card that I had made for my grandmother that she had apparently saved throughout the years. It was from one of those visits. I’m trying to remember the good times, not the bad, and also the happy times not the sad. I don’t remember making the card or creating that horrible poetry, but I must have always been searching for recognition from my tough grandmother who thought putting horse manure in her daughters’ Christmas stockings would create laughs, not tears and years of distrust whenever my mother and aunt received a present. Yiayia had a twisted sense of humor, playing practical jokes all her life and wetting herself (because she laughed so hard) when her victims responded with disbelief. But Yiayia also loved fiercely, lived frugally, and saved, saved, saved—so with the manure-filled stockings, she also presented her daughters with a dozen 18K gold bracelets each; and before she died, gifted each of her three children a house. Yiayia was complicated and, as a child, I didn’t understand her—and didn’t care to (or at least that’s what I remembered till I saw this card).

My mama wanted to get rid of my homemade card and almost didn’t show it to me; she said it reminded her of a time when Yiayia and I didn’t get along. My mama is a very diplomatic woman, a perennial optimistic, someone who compartmentalizes love and chooses to only save good memories. Unlike her, I use all situations to grow and learn. My mama only wanted to remember the last decade, the one where Yiayia and I loved each other deeply and openly. It was finally through my husband’s silent actions and, unbeknownst to him, teachings that, at the end, Yiayia and I had the relationship I had always desired.

Yiayia with her adopted parents (her biological aunt and her husband). This is the photo I plan to use on the first page of my novel with the dedication.

A decade before meeting my husband, while I was in Greece, I sat rigidly on the side of Yiayia’s bed. I was just filling time, so I asked her about her life. What I didn’t expect was a waterfall of stories about travel, relationships, jobs, and dreams; her birth on the island of Imbros and her subsequent adoption, her life in Nigeria and Egypt; about her Ally “friends” who were stationed in Egypt during World War II; about her assembly line position changing the headlights on Jeeps; her desire to go to England and be reunited with her British boyfriend.

My novel, Red Greek Tomatoes, was born that day. I wrote a few notes about my grandmother’s life and stashed them in my computer; then, years later, in 2010, I started writing and in 2012, the first complete draft of my novel was completed.

2004

2014. A month before she passed away.

Last year, I lay down on my yiayia’s bed beside her, our legs crossed, and I touched her leg, commenting about her ever-so-soft skin (skin that I’ve luckily inherited). Yiayia told me that when she had met my grandfather, he told her she was ugly but, thank goodness, she had soft hands, so she could rub his penis well (Yiayia always used proper terminology). Hugo was sitting on the helper’s bed beside us and laughed loudly. Yiayia at ninety-four, still so feisty, so naughty.

Then I started telling her about the character, Dita, from my novel. Dita is the grandmother character, a Greek girl who lives in Egypt, spends her time with the Allies at dance halls in the early 1940s and is—for her time—promiscuous. My yiayia listened quietly, but when I told her that Dita loses her virginity, she pretended to be horrified.

Yiayia in Alexandria, Egypt. So beautiful. This was the first photo I had ever seen of her so young and so happy.

“But, Kimi! People will think I was poutana!”

I responded with a smile, “She’s not you, yiayia. Yes, I used some of your background, but she’s her own person.”

“Hmmm, well, she sounds like poutana to me!” Then she laughed her deep, throaty laugh.

Every summer when we would leave, I would asked her, “Yiayia, what do you want me to bring you next year?”

Her answer was always the same, “I want big, handsome Peruvian, like Hugo.” My husband and I would laugh, kiss her, cry, and then the following year we were back to lie with her on her bed and listen to her joke about the Italian and the macaroni that had to—of course—be included in my novel.

Last year was different. Hugo and my aunt had gone upstairs to visit her from my aunt’s home downstairs, and found Yiayia on the floor. For the last week of our visit she had to be in diapers and could no longer walk herself to the bathroom. When her helper was changing Yiayia’s diaper, the woman asked if I wanted to leave the room. I looked at my yiayia, “Can I stay?”

“You like smell shit? Okay, stay!” She laughed. But changing a grown woman’s diaper, who is still sharp as a Sharpie, is no laughing matter. The woman wore rubber gloves. It took several buckets of water and endless wipees—a grueling fifteen-minute process of her legs being yanked up in the air, Yiayia turned to one side, then the other.

When the woman left, I sat close to my yiayia, the room still smelling less-than-delightful, but in that moment nothing mattered. I tried to be light-hearted; inside I was breaking. “What do you want me to bring you from the States next year?”

She smiled quietly, not the naughty-girl laugh, “Nothing. Yiayia is ready.”

I asked her, “Are you afraid?”

“Yes,” she bravely admitted. “But Yiayia not want live like this.”

Goodbyes are always painful, tears drop on the keyboard as I write this, but last year, I knew the goodbye would be forever. I never questioned Yiayia’s strength and determination to live—or die—the way she saw fit. The final morning before my 7a.m. flight, I went upstairs and Yiayia screamed, “Leave! Why you come up? We say goodbye last night!” I had saved an extra twenty minutes for a final cup of coffee with my yiayia, and I’m so glad I did. I was calm and relaxed. I sat beside her, held her hand, and left nothing unsaid. I cried while looking back; she had tears while blowing me kisses.

Twelve days after my return to the United States, she died quietly while holding my aunt’s hand. In a few weeks, I’ll be in Greece and attending Yiayia’s one-year memorial. My novel will one day be dedicated to this venerable woman, and all other women, who broke the mold for how “good” girls should act. Through their daring and unapologetically unique behaviors, women—like my yiayia—paved the way for future generations of women—like me—to have choice.

I’ve learned so many lessons over the last few years; an important one is that old people have so much to share. I hope you take the time today, or the next, to ask an elderly person about his or her life. Listen, really listen. And maybe even hold their hand while they talk.

In loving memory of Constantina Gialias. February 10, 1920 – August 12th, 2014.

What Is Love?

Dressed in a crisp white blouse, olive-colored pants, and high-heeled shoes with a thin gold band, Maria Bello looked elegant and serene. Later, when signing her book, Whatever . . . Love is Love: Questioning the Labels We Give Ourselves, and as we chatted briefly, I saw her slip the shoes off, saying something under her breath: “Ouch, I have to get out of these.” That moment struck me as metaphorically poignant because during her interview with journalist Sandy Banks, at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, she had shared a story about gold shoes, about finding one—a glittery pump—in the snow on 23^rd street in NY when she was a struggling actor; Bello explained how she read it as a sign that she should continue to act, but also that her proverbial Prince Charming would one day provide the perfect shoe, give her the perfect life, and they would live “happily ever after.” But that shoe never attracted The One, but a series of Not-Prince Charmings—though, she writes, some acted, looked, and “were princely” (WLIL 105). After several failed relationships, she finally learned “not [to] wait for Prince Charming or Cinderella to kneel before you with arms outstretched so that you could succeed” (114).

And she did succeed. Her television, film, and activist work are plentiful, yet no one’s story is uncomplicated. Bello’s golden shoe story—the shoe that magically multiplies—has many facets, but suffice it so say, as she signed a copy of her book for me while slipping off her shoe, I couldn’t help make some connections. While on stage, she commented about buying a great pair of shoes from DSW, so even when one does find a shoe that fits like a glass slipper, and even if you buy it for yourself, and even if you’re convinced it’s comfortable, beautiful . . . nothing is perfect and everything is fluid.

Having read her memoir and reflected upon its ending, I feel she’s now in one the healthiest places of her tumultuous life, all while understanding that one never completely arrives. One is always searching, expressed symbolically by the gold shoes she collects, including the ones she wore for that talk. Life, relationships, and oftentimes sexuality are fluid. I believe one must accept the fluidity in life to survive and thrive. This concept is beautifully expressed when Bello writes: “There are no labels that can define my relationship with Clare. This relationship, like all relationships, constantly evolves . . . and though the form of our relationship changes, the love is always the same” (158).

If we don’t put boundaries around ourselves, we may realize that our options for whom to love becomes bigger, wider, more open.

This idea of openness is one found at the heart of my own novel, Red Greek Tomatoes. My protagonist, a Greek-American traditional woman believes she’s strictly heterosexual until she has a Sapphic encounter. She has many relationships in the novel and closely examines her life and choices as well as her yiayia’s in 1940s Egypt and her mother’s in the 1960s Greece to understand why women of so many generations think they need a Prince Charming (or Princess) to feel whole in this world (http://redgreektomatoes.com).

In 2012, when I sat across the table from an agent to pitch my novel, I told her that one of the relationships my protagonist has is with a woman. The agent said, “Hmmm, maybe you should sell it as lesbian literature.” A year later, at another writer’s conference, another agent said, “Hmmm, if the relationship with the woman is only forty pages of the novel, consider taking it out, so that the novel can be pitched as a traditional, multi-cultural novel. Adding the same-sex stuff just may be too much.” I was speechless. It was 2013 and these agents were categorizing, labeling, and putting my novel into a box when it is so much more.

When I read Maria Bello’s piece “Coming Out as a Modern Family” in the New York Times’s Modern Love column, wherein she openly and honestly wrote about her relationship with Clare, a “beautiful, curious, blond, blue-eyed Zimbabwean” (156), it confirmed that an audience for my novel exists. So many topics that Bello writes about such as the “Prince Charming syndrome” or the desire not to be labeled—unless it’s a label one chooses for him or herself—are at the core of my novel.

Long ago, in Plato’s Symposium, Aristophanes talked about The Power Of Love. He said that “the sexes were three” and that “primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and the same number of feet, one head with two faces”—in other words, the quintessential Soul Mates, stuck together from the beginning of time; one body, but two hearts, two minds. The story goes on that these Superhumans were sliced in two by Zeus, and now we each search the earth for our Other Half. A wonderful depiction of this myth is the song “The Origin of Love,” featured in the fabulous rock musical and movie Hedwig and the Angry Inch. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_zU3U7E1Odc

Aristophanes goes on to say, “And when one of them meets with his [or her] other half, the actual half of himself [or herself], whether [s]he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together, and yet they could not explain what they desire of one another” (Plato). Bello, in this vein, writes: “I saw that photo [of Clare] and realized I could in fact love her”(157). Just as Plato suggested so long ago, one cannot necessarily explain our desire to be with another person; sometimes it’s a feeling that is just right (157).

When Bello published her article and photos of her and Clare emerged, some media sources wrote that Bello was “coming out” as gay, as bisexual. Instead Bello writes: “Traditional labels just don’t seem to fit anymore. These labels are limiting the possibility for people to question more and become who they are meant to be” (6). She seems to be more comfortable with the “whatever” label because from her dear son’s mouth—when she told him about her romantic relationship with Clare—she first heard, “Mom, whether you are lesbian, gay, bi, transgender, shout it out to the world. Whatever, love is love” (15). In her book subtitled, Questioning the Labels We Give Ourselves, Bello doesn’t shy away from the complexities of gender identification and states, “So many in the LGBT community have sacrificed so much to change policy, hearts, and minds. The entire world has benefited from their sacrifices beyond LGBT rights. . . . all to move policies and to show the world it shouldn’t matter to anyone who you love or who you sleep with” (159).

I do know as a part-time college professor many students do wear some labels proudly, coming to class with T-Shirts that say: “Sorry, I Prefer Girls” or introducing themselves in class as “I’m gay.” They share and educate and lead in discussions about openness. One student told me that LGBT is an outdated acronym and that the term is now LGBTQIA, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersexual, Asexual, and Ally. In jest, Maria suggests adding a “P” since her first orgasm was actually with a Pillow. Honoring my heritage, I would love to add a “P” too—but for Pansexual, “pan” being the Greek prefix for “all, everything.” Pansexuality is an all-encompassing term for love; sex or gender identity is irrelevant when choosing a romantic partner. Even if Facebook offers twenty-seven categories to label oneself, individuals should choose what feels right for them, and we should respect that. Ultimately, we have the right to choose or refuse labels.

Bello also mentions that she feels uncomfortable calling herself a “humanitarian” but chooses the word: “activist.” Whatever the label, Bello’s devotion to her Haitian community, and the various activist work that took her to all parts of the U.S. to Nicaragua and to different African countries made me reflect upon my own life. Since we are close in age, I couldn’t help question what I have accomplished in my forty-five years on earth. I’ve taught English for twenty-three years and though I have spent half my life overseas—from Saudi Arabia to South Africa to Greece to Peru—it was mostly because I was a third-culture kid, then later looking for “home,” and much later, accompanying my husband back to his country. I did some community service in Peru, but it pales in comparison when I read about Bello’s activism. She is so accomplished in television and film, and in this second part of life, I’m still working on my first novel.

My favorite thing about Bello’s memoir is she shares her most intimate stories, written beautifully and honestly, and one can experience her most difficult moments and joyous times right alongside her. It’s a book that allows readers to question themselves and their own choices, to live vicariously through her tales, but also viscerally connect them to their own. By the end of the memoir, I realized, again, that we all have stories and successes; struggles, deep and dark; but life is also filled with goodness, light, and joy.

Bello poses a series of questions as chapter headings: “Am I a Partner?” “Am I Forgiving?” “Am I a Bad Girl?” “Am I a Feminist?” I found myself answering these questions and saying out loud a few times: “Yes!” In one of the final chapters she asks: “Am I a Writer?” Then says, “It takes chutzpah, I know, to label yourself, especially with labels that are usually given to you”—such as capital W, Writer as I call it (177). I know this feeling. I’ve been labeled a teacher/professor for so long that I, too, had reticence to call myself a writer. Bello felt she could finally call herself one when she was paid to write the New York Times’s article. When I sent 380 pages of my manuscript to the U.S. Copyright Office, I decided to label myself a Writer. It took chutzpah, but I’m doing it.

By the end of the book, Bello does add “Writer” to her extensive resume, and she should because her memoir is a delightful read, full of insight and openness. She ends with the last question, the most poignant one of all, and one I’m certain so many of us ask ourselves daily: “Am I Enough?” I hope she feels that she is because through my brief interaction with her and having read her stories, I found her to be a very genuine person. And, being a genuine, compassionate person, a life-long learner is what counts in my book. And in hers.

Bello, Maria. Whatever . . . Love is Love: Questioning the Labels We Give Ourselves. New York: Dey St., 2015.

Plato. The Collected Works of Plato, 4^th ed. Trans. Benjamin Jowett. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1953.

Greece is Good

Part II

After a few heavy posts (the last two below), this one is lighter with travel stories, tips, and links. And lots of photos to peruse . . .

During the two weeks that my husband was in Greece, we did manage to have fun. And my Greek family, especially my cousin and yiayia, wanted this for us. The first few days were spent with family and re-exploring my favorite city. Despite the cement, smog, people pushing one another, cigarette smoke that hangs heavy in the air, Athens unequivocally remains my favorite city in the world. Despite the aforementioned, always so much beauty to behold, the people, the place. One day Athens will have its own post; for today, Athens is a photoblog.

ATHENS

Erechtheion with the missing Caryatids

The “before” hair

A beautiful city of cement

For me, the happiest place on earth

A cool day with few visitors

With my Greek–well, Peruvian god 🙂

With my first iphone 4S–loved this little white device. Just like the hair–it’s gone now.

My favorite place to eat in Plaka

Mouth watering as I post this

IOS

After a few fabulous days in Athens, we went to the island of Ios, and despite its reputation for being a “party island” with young, drunk Brits, Aussies, and Irish folk, it was beautiful. We stayed at a lovely hotel with a pool that I highly recommend. www.mediterraneo-ios.com The owners are an Italian couple, and the place is immaculate. Sal likes to take care of his guests—from his special BBQ to tiramisu in a glass—if you want some personal attention, this place is ideal, especially if you have extra days to lounge by the pool or swing in the hammock while listening to his eclectic playlist.

A room with a view

Unfortunately, our days were numbered, so we spent very little time at the hotel and instead we enjoyed the crystal beaches and “extreme” night life.

While having a beer in an empty bar with loud music, a British boy ran in and wanted us to “Jump! Jump!” with him. So we did. We’re just that kind of couple. After Kris Kross’ song finished, he told us we were “cool” and then took off. When we walked back to the hotel around 3 a.m., we saw a red-headed lass sitting on a corner step vomiting, and another young thing in a fluorescent yellow miniskirt stumbled down the path as her friends tried to keep her up. It was indeed a party island, but we did encounter a club with an “older” crowd that played only Greek music where we spent most nights. And, my goodness, how I love Greek music, enters my toes, tickles my tummy, squeezes my heart.

The beaches, the sunsets, and the views of Ios are spectacular. From the hotel, we took hikes to two churches on top of two small mountains—one to the south, the other to the north. Young, polite, people gathered (with bags of beer, of course) to enjoy the view, too. A set of boys sat in front of us looking very Abercrombie-ish and another group perched themselves on the church roof.Hugo and I also took it in while sitting silently on a white wall.

To the left, below, Mylopotas beach could be seen with its golden sand and blue water. We had spent the entire day there. Hugo went wind surfing (www.meltemiwatersports.com) and later we had a mojito and a plate of calamari, and then a final dip before taking a bus up the steep hill again.

At the second church, not a single soul stirred except for the men who were getting it ready for Agia Paraskevi on the 26^th of July. I learned that I was born on the day this saint is commemorated. If my mother had followed tradition, my name would have been “Friday” (what Paraskevi means in English.) I kind of like that, then every day would have been Friday for me.

But Agia Paraskevi’s story is quite a bit darker. She is known as the protector of the eyes, but was a woman tortured and beheaded for refusing to pray to idols by the Roman governor Tarasius in the year 180. I have an icon of Ag. Paraskevi now and look at her with mixed feelings.

My favorite view

At the top of hill the wind blew, but we were hot and sticky, so it felt good. Below, the fishing boats, the HighSpeed ferry, and the people spotted the harbor; inland, the terraced hillside reminded me of the land around Cusco and Machu Picchu, graduated landscapes of mountainous farmland. After we sufficiently sucked in the views, I pulled out my iphone, my husband his Nikon. Then we took other pictures–the most important ones had already been filed away in our mind’s hard drive, readily accessible and safely stored for days when life gets tough. Standing at the top of Ios made me feel like DiCaprio in Titanic. For a few short minutes, I was queen of the world.

NAXOS

The next morning, we were off to Naxos. The other Cyclades islands, the famous ones, Mykonos, Santorini, are genuinely impressive, but . . . Naxos. I fell in love with this island. It has everything. A beautiful port lined with cafés, restaurants, shops (all with speedy Wi-Fi!) Archeological sites. Statues, castles, towers. Breathtaking beaches with clear water. Villages hidden in the mountains. And, of course, the image of Naxos—The Portara, the entrance to the unfinished Temple of Apollo that welcomes visitors when pulling into the harbor.

The Temple was begun between 545 and 524 B.C. but never completed. Its massive blocks of marble jet into the sky creating a magical ambience when mythical gods and goddesses ruled the land. We visited The Portara at the hottest time of the day when tourists flocked to the beaches and locals took siestas, thus leaving my husband and I alone to explore with wonder and quiet. The walkway to the temple has clear water on either side, so after visiting the site, one can disrobe and take a dip (I did!) or enjoy some octopus at the restaurants at the edge of the town.

This is not him 🙂

In town we stayed at Hotel Rea (www.naxos-rea.com). (I didn’t realize “economical room” meant the basement; clean, but eye-level to the street.) A cranky, funny owner said: “What do you expect for this price? Now you’ll go and say bad things about my hotel, so for an upgrade, I’ll put you in a better room.” For a few more euros, we had a third-floor room, more than we needed as all we do is sleep there, but I did like the kitchenette and being able to make my Greek coffee every morning in the briki on the little stove. I told the owner, when he dropped us off at the port, I would write a good review. He was a cute, dimpled older man and teased me (for my American side) up until the end. “You people in America all think hotels in Europe will be like the Hilton.” Not true, I thought. He continued to rattle on and I smiled because like most Greeks, he had a soft heart. His bark was bigger than his bite.

View from the castle window

Right in Chora, the main town, “Domus Della Rocca-Barozzi,” a Venetian museum and castle, hovered above. The castle and its history immediately captivated my imagination. We got a tour from a historian whose words unsettled me; she made me tear up a few times as she talked about the loss, the wars, and how the Greeks finally got Naxos back. Her words were heartbreaking as I recently learned that we are selling off islands to pay for debts. For a mere 4,000,000 euros one can buy Tokmakia Island, and for 14,000,000 euros, some millionaire could have Nissos Makri as a playground. Awful.

Apparently a beach in Rhodes also went up for sale, but thankfully, on Naxos no mention of any of this as the beaches were some of the prettiest I have ever seen. Plaka, Mikri Vigla, and Aliko, all so different, most quiet with aqua waters, all only 7 km to 20 km from Chora. Many of the beaches on the right side of the island remain virgin with no human traffic.

The archeology on this island was not unexpected, but certainly better than I had imagined. One statue, “Near the village of Apollona, at the entrance to the ancient quarry, is a half-finished ‘Kouros’ (male statue) lying on the ground, which has never been moved from this spot. The statue is 10.45 metres high, and is dated to the beginning of the 6^th century B.C. and was probably dedicated to the God Dionysus” (Naxos travel brochure). I imagined this statue blanketed in stories: the people who dragged it down the quarry and when it broke, how they must have looked at it with defeat and climbed and cut again, to make the perfect figure. We climbed a small hill and reached his brother who had had a similar fate. He had lost a leg, so his completion never took place either. Two abandoned men.

Our next stop on the road-trip was Dimitra’s Temple, dating back to 530 B.C., one of the best–preserved temples in Greece. It reminded me of a small Parthenon in the middle of a field near the village of Sangri. I imagined my ancestors as they built this impressive temple to Demeter, the goddess of fertility, hoping for good crops.

One of the oldest Christian churches on the island from the 6th century A.D.

Ample ancient towers and churches, mountainous villages like Moni, Halki, Filoti, Apeiranthos, and Halki as well as so many other points of interest make Naxos a truly special island. I would recommend a five-day minimum visit to experience all the diversity this island offers.

So many picturesque places to eat in Greece

I’ve finally learned to put down the camera and really enjoy the view

View when driving down a mountain

Moni

Restaurant with remarkable view in Apeiranthos

Streets of Apeiranthos

Villages below

After almost a month’s stay in Greece, my husband and I boarded a plane back to Los Angeles. It’s always hard to leave; we are never ready to go. My husband loves Greece as much as I do; another reason why I know I chose the right guy. We still dream of living permanently in Greece one day, and though we both pictured a place in Kerkyra (Corfu), now the dream has been revised.

A little cottage with a vineyard in Naxos. Lots of animals: cats, dogs, goats, sheep, birds, a donkey or two; of course, homemade wine and a bookshelf. And if the dream is completely realized, a few of the books on the shelves will say: “By Kimberly K. Robeson.” I can already picture the Venetian princess of the Della Rocca clan and how she felt when the Turkish boats pulled in . . .

Greece Is Still . . . Good

(Part One: Personal Story; Part Two: Travel Story and Tips)

Part One: Spending Time in Bed

Twenty-three years ago, at the plump age of twenty-two, I had this brilliant idea to move to Athens and use my, supposedly useless, Bachelor’s Degree in English to find a job. My Greek family thought it was risky; my mother cried. But I did it—I left sunny San Diego and relocated to ancient Athens. I moved in with my grandmother and slept in a rickety, green bed that she and my grandfather had shared for about thirty years before he died.

Lying on the same green bed in 2014

My dear yiayia was my roommate for a while; I landed a job, paid half the bills, and struggled. Athens was cold and miserable in the winter, but I was happy. I had come home.

My family had discouraged me from the move, saying that “real” life in Greece would be much different than the summers that I knew so well. They were right, but tough times didn’t make me love the country or its people any less. I was stubborn then, and I’m stubborn now: when my family told me it was not a good idea to visit this summer because of crisis in the country, crisis in the family, just like that year, I’m glad I didn’t listen.

In late July, after a month’s visit, I was walking in Monastiraki (an area where souvenirs can be purchased or one can enjoy a coffee or gyro plate with the view of the Parthenon); I saw a poignant T-Shirt. It said: “Greece: No money—check. No job—check. No problem—check.” From the outside, Greece and Greeks seem to be thriving; shops on Hermou Ave. were hustling and bustling, cafés were packed, and the young and old alike still buy their four-euro cigarettes. But when one takes a closer look, it’s quite different. People are indeed struggling (every taxi driver tells you his or her sad story: I lost my job, my business, my wife. That’s how it is, koukla. No money. No life. Then she leaves, goes back to her country, her village). Most drivers have college degrees, can’t find decent employment, but despite their difficulties, they still seem to know how to enjoy life. Up until a point.

This year my family was not enjoying life. Added to their financial crisis, one family member’s stroke had made everyone’s life crooked. And it wasn’t my ninety-two-year-old yiayia. Yiayia was still sharp as a Sharpie. My cousin’s husband, Chris*, a black belt in karate, healthy, young (forty-four) suffered four unexplainable strokes. For the first forty days, they didn’t know if he would live or die. It was traumatic—even for me, miles away. My cousin is like a sister and her mother is my first best friend; they were suffering. And suddenly, heaviness entered my life. There had been divorces and tears, companies and jobs lost, but health—or lack of it—changes people and everyone who is around them. My mother’s breast cancer had greatly affected me, but her indefatigable spirit always made me feel secure that she would be fine (and she is fifteen years later). This was different. From one day to the next my cousin’s life changed; she now lived in a hospital, slept on a cot beside her tube-filled despondent husband, and her two small children suddenly had no father or mother.

I am the one who introduced, Chris, The Canadian (as my family lovingly refers to him) to my cousin Maria* when I lived in Athens twenty years ago. They were smitten at first sight. But she was young, on the verge of sixteen and he a twenty-three-year-old almost-man. He held her hand gently for years, sat on a couch across from my stern uncle, and waited till she was eighteen so they could “officially” date. Ten years after they met, they married, and now have two children.

So this July, summer of 2014, despite the naysayers, I went to Greece. I couldn’t help financially, but I could offer two hands, two legs, and big ears. I went a week early and left a week after my husband’s two-week vacation; during my short stay, I became babysitter, confidant, and friend. I’m generally not a kid-person, but Chris and Maria’s two little ones slid into my heart with cuddles, curiosity, and questions. We sang “Let it Go”; we played “Go Fish”; we ate ice cream in the city square; and sometimes we visited Babba and Mama in the hospital.

View from hospital room

We would wheel Chris to the park and his boy, nine years old, would sit on his father’s lap for the entire two-hour visit. The little girl and I did yoga poses, skits, jumped and skipped, generally trying to entertain the family. When Chris got tired, we would take him back to his room and his wife began the hour-long preparation to put him to bed.

In May when we bought our tickets, Chris was hooked up to machines and was barely speaking. I began visualizing him walking, maybe a bit slower, but we would have a beer on his balcony in August before I left. I told my aunt about my visualization. In a vulnerable moment, I shared my sadness with a student who asked me if something was wrong. Soon I learned prayers were coming from everywhere. My Armenian student told me she was praying for him as well as some others in her church; I dedicated all my yoga practices for two months to his healing, and of course the Greek family prayed. They saw him at his worst and were not sure if “a beer on the balcony” would be a reality in two short months.

The night before my husband’s departure, it was nothing short of a miracle, he came home. The four of us, Chris, Maria, Hugo and I shared a beer and toasted his return. His hands work, so do his legs; his mind is fresh. There is still a long recovery, but his desire to become “whole” has surpassed everything that doctors had said. After eight-six days in the hospital, it was indeed something to celebrate.

I learned a lot this summer about my life, choices, and heritage. I learned we are a stubborn clan, and that can be both good and bad. This time it paid off for me because my cousin was grateful for my help and companionship. I wanted to be close to my cousin, but I also needed to go to Greece to see my yiayia.

If I had listened to my family, I would have lived with regret.

Every morning my yiayia and I had coffee and she shared more stories and jokes; she made me laugh and astounded me with her crisp mind. When we said goodbye, tears flowed, and she said she was ready to die. It wasn’t Chris’ turn, she said; ine diko mou. I told her it was not for her to decide. Apparently it was, eleven days after I got back to the U.S. she passed away. She was a stubborn, naughty woman, and I guess I’m quite a bit like her.

 

*cousins names have been changed

What’s in a Booby?

Fat? Tissue? Ducts? Sometimes cancer?

I just know that since I started doing mammograms at the age of thirty-five because my mother had breast cancer, I was always told I had “dense” breasts. In Peru, where I lived for six years, I had the best private health care. Every mammogram included an ultrasound. And immediate results. Here in the U.S., the healthcare system is bureaucratic and downright cheap. It’s about money and procedure; not about the patient.

On September 11th, I was called in to do a second mammogram and an ultrasound because my last one, the month before, came back “irregular.” I, honestly, wasn’t worried. I knew my history of dense breasts, so I thought it was my lumps and bumps and clumps that they wanted to squeeze and photograph again.

Not so. The pint-sized radiologic technician, who wore a pendant of Nefertiti around her neck, told me I had deposits of “calcification.” The words stung: that’s what my mother had that led to her diagnosis. From slow pulse to sweaty palms, I did what I do best—I started making small talk with the woman, asking if she liked her job, then asking if she was from Egypt. I was going to tell her my mother was born in Alexandria and—maybe, just maybe—create a bond with this technician as she flattened my tata between two planes of cold glass. But she was all work, no play, so I shut up.

From there it was to another room for the ultrasound. The next woman was warm, so I asked about the next step: “Will I need a biopsy?” “Oh,” she replied, “You’re jumping ahead of yourself. The radiologist will look at the slides and I’m sure all will be fine.” A few minutes later, she left. I waited. And waited. She popped her head in: “Don’t worry, nothing is happening, the doctor is just finishing a difficult biopsy, then he’ll look at your ultrasound and films.” Phew, that’s why I was still waiting. When she returned, about fifteen minutes later, a grey-haired man with gentle blue eyes accompanied her. His first words after introducing himself were, “How are you feeling?” “Great.” I’m a pretty optimistic person, but inside I was thinking: in a few moments, I probably wouldn’t be.

I did need a biopsy, but I shouldn’t be worried he said. I had tears in my throat; I didn’t want to cry for myself. Especially on September 11th. I pressed him: “What are the stats?” He was reluctant, “About one in five is cancer.” The odds were on my side, but it was the 20% that stuck with me all month. Think positive! Think positive! But it was hard.

I’m not one of those people that never expect anything to happen to me. I expect everything to happen to me. I feel too lucky. Can life really be this sweet? My husband and I have had our share of external issues, but this felt different. It was about health.

Morbid images danced in my head at 5 a.m., an hour before the alarm clock went off. I pictured people gathered at my funeral. My ex-students, colleagues, my closet friends, family, and—oh God—my mother and husband. And yet, logically, I know if one finds breast cancer early enough, it does not have to be a death sentence. But the chest pain started and the next month would prove to be challenging as I fought daily with my insurance company just to have the biopsy approved.

On September 11th I was told that approval takes a few days, and by next week, I should be able to have the biopsy; then, a few days later, the results. Almost a month passed and my healthcare providers could not find me in their “systems” even though they had cashed every single one of my checks since January 1st when I signed up for LA Care Covered through Covered California, also known as Obamacare. It was sheer incompetence. I kept trying to be positive and grateful that in the U.S. those who have never had health care were now insured. But the middle class—people like me—seem to be getting screwed. High deductibles and premiums, health care that is flawed. And this month I experienced the problems first-hand.

After clocking almost thirty hours on hold and arguing with different people, telling my story over and over because the same person never called me back, twenty-one days later, I finally got approved.

The Catholic day for the Guardian Angel, as my loving Peruvian family told me, was the day of my biopsy, quite fitting as I now live in the City of Angels and am experiencing my first real health scare. My sweet sister-in-law sent me the Angel’s prayer. I usually say a Greek prayer when my head hits the pillow, one which is mantra-like, but only after I thank Him for my specific list of about ten items and ask for another five. That night I repeated this Catholic prayer before I closed my eyes: “Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom His love entrusts me here, ever this day be at my side to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.” I figure it’s all about one God, one energy, anyway.

It’s ironic; I’m not a boob woman. I tend to gawk at women’s strong arms, defined legs or large, white smiles, but big breasts never drew my attention. My brother, who always likes to joke and make light of a situation texted: “Well now you can get some D-sized girls.” (He promptly called after the text, concerned, compassionate, and more loving than he’s ever been.) I didn’t want D-girls. I wanted my little boobies. But I want to live so much more.

October first also marked Breast Cancer Awareness month in the U.S. Every morning news shows featured survivors and those still fighting telling their stories. Joan Lunden shared hers on the Today show with a sea of women in pink as the backdrop. Lunden’s face covered People magazine this week—including her big, beautiful, bald head. Usually these clips give me strength since my mama is cancer-free now for fourteen years strong, but this last month, every time I saw a plethora of pink products and the pink bow, I felt strange and anxious.

 

Nevertheless, I donned a pink T-shirt, a pink jacket (I will always love pink) with black stretch pants and told my husband, “I’m ready.” He read me notes from his mother and sister, mi linda suegra and cuñaditas, and tears filled my eyes. I had told my husband repeatedly that I could go alone, but he surprised me and took the morning off from his demanding job. I’m blessed with such a wonderful husband, family, and friends.

I haven’t told my mama because she is in Greece for my yiayia’s forty day memorial; when she left I already knew, but her heart was too heavy. I knew it would be too much for her. It was the first time I haven’t shared something with my mother, but it was the right decision. No need to worry her till there was a reason.

The biopsy was a bit more intricate than I had imagined, but I was, again, so lucky with very kind people around me. Nurse G., an Indian woman, showed me the calcification cluster (about ten, white ballpoint-size dots on the film). She spoke gently and even held my hand and rubbed my back during the process. I was on my stomach for about thirty minutes with my chichi hanging in a hole, squashed slightly between a mammogram-type machine. First anesthesia, then a suction to remove a sample, and finally a loud pop (for which I was warned about) and a little piece of titanium was inserted as a marker, so now I have one SuperBoob. Then, when I was done—without an appointment—we went and visited my new, wonderful Dr. P., who gave me a hug and said that he’s visualizing positive results—but whatever happens, we will do this together. Despite my nightmarish insurance issues, the doctors and nurses restored my faith that humane healthcare providers do exist.

On Saturday, two-days before I got my results, I received a letter in the mail stating that I was dropped from my insurance. Again, they couldn’t find my “proper file.” On Sunday, October 5th, I spent two precious hours writing a grievance letter citing names, times, dates, and case numbers for my twenty calls over the last month. Instead of exuding positive energy the night before results, I slept angry and bitter.

On Monday, October 6th, after being on hold for twenty minutes, I fought with a man at LA Care because he initially couldn’t make sense of my “files,” but then apologized profusely for the confusion and said he would rectify the situation—I had heard the same speech countless times over the last month; today, my policy still remains in limbo. The next call I made was to the Breast Care Clinic. Still shaking after my adrenaline-filled call, I had to know.

“Hi, Dr. E, Kimberly Robeson here. Do you have my results?”
A gentle voice responded, “Yes.” Then a slight pause, “Your results are benign.”
I burst out crying. Tears of joy. Of gratitude. Of relief. Monday my life could have taken such a different path. I do have to repeat my mammogram in six months, but today I am good. Thank God.

And thank you my rock, my husband; my good, kind friends; my precious family for the positive energy and all the prayers. Even a non-believer friend said she was down on her knees. I’m one lucky girl.

—

This post is dedicated to all those women, and men, who are fighting or fought any type of cancer. My prayers are with you.

Here is also a link to an article I wrote for San Diego Woman magazine about a breast cancer survivor, Ysabel Giacalone, and her triumphant story about beating breast cancer twice. http://kimberlykrobeson.com/Published_Articles.html
Ysabel does so much for women in San Diego. Take a look at website if you get a chance http://www.ilovepinkswag.com/ or you can follow her events and see stories of all the survivors whose lives she has touched on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ysabels-Pink-Angels/318768445961?sk=timeline&ref=page_internal

Grateful and Guilty

It was a clear, crisp day at the coast, and I had just finished a workout at my local gym. I was driving down Encinitas Blvd and I saw my eyes in the rear-view mirror. A sudden gust of white air passed through my body and I remember feeling “happy”—Pharrell happy—happy to the core. I was thirty-three years old and single for the first time in my adult life.

Only weeks before a heaviness had encapsulated my body: why does it work so easily for others? I remember thinking. Girls in my high school met cute college boys and now they were married, living on a hill, with three perfect kiddos. Childhood friends had coupled up, trying to work on “forever.”Even my two Greek cousins (who are as close as siblings) as well as my brother had all met their spouses and were settled. But I was alone again. At the time I felt, “Forget all the Oprah BS, I don’t want to be whole alone! I want to be part of the exclusive married couple’s club.” I was a product of my mother’s generation, largely defining myself by a man. Through the years, I chose men, good men, but unfortunately partners with whom the fit wasn’t ideal for a variety of reasons. But because I was more realistic than romantic in my late twenties, I was willing to try. But trying isn’t enough, love has to be mutual, and I simply hadn’t found My One.

Nevertheless, that sunny day, leaving my regular routine, something changed. I found something else. It wasn’t like I was entirely whole, complete, Oprah-healthy, but I encountered something new . . . an appreciation for what I did have. I didn’t want another minute to go by without realizing all that I had been blessed with. A loving family, good friends, my own condo by the beach, and a job that I mostly enjoyed. Above all, I had a healthy body, a clear mind, and a light heart. I didn’t want to wait till something truly awful happened to “see” the beauty in life. I suddenly heard the birds sing—as silly as that sounds.

And I saw my own eyes. I liked what looked back. The woman’s eyes shone.

It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve had some struggles. I watched my mother survive breast cancer. I’ve tried to support my father as he falls apart. Thankfully, I didn’t want children, so when the doctor told me that my fallopian tubes were almost completely destroyed, I didn’t lose it. http://www.kimberlykrobeson.com/Me_and_My_Uterus.html

When I met my husband, we had various external issues to overcome, but we took them day by day, and every day has, indeed, been a blessing. A year ago we planned to go to Greece, tickets were purchased, but “life happens” https://kimberlykrobeson.wordpress.com/2013/09/04/life-happens/ so we cancelled our trip. As I write this, something has happened again, but this time it’s much more serious.

I have a family member who is struggling for his life. He’s my age exactly. He’s tied to tubes, he can’t eat, can barely see or talk, has not sat up for weeks. Unlike me, my family is very private, so I probably should not be writing this. But they also know I process through writing, so I hope they will forgive me.

This family event has left me with tears in my eyes as I drive, an empty feeling in my gut every moment when I wake. I feel guilty on the treadmill. I feel guilty when booking hotels on Greek islands. Still, I bow after every workout, consciously thanking the powers that be for my strong body. I dedicate all my yoga practices to his healing. I started praying a few years ago and it feels good. Usually my prayers involve recognition and thanks for such a blessed life. Sometimes, I just repeat a Greek Orthodox prayer, over and over, like a mantra. Lately, though, my prayers ask for a bit more: they are not solely whispers of gratitude. I ask for this person to be walking, talking, and playing with his children again soon. I want his wife to be at home, not sleeping on a cot in a hospital every night. I request that his wife wake up on their matrimonial bed beside a husband who can get up on his own. And if she has to give him a bit of help, that’s fine. I pray for the family to be reunited with an excellent father and a loving husband. I want them to enjoy every moment again, and not just because they were given such a test.

Another family member said: “I try to pray correctly, not to ask for too much.” My philosophy is pray in honesty, one does not need to be diplomatic with God. If He’s somewhere and is listening, He already knows everything that is in one’s head. But that’s just me talking. I’ve struggled with religion for years, and after forty-four years, I have found what works for me. I don’t proselytize; but prayer, mantra, meditation, whatever you want to call it, is said to do all sorts of great things for one’s health. http://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2014/03/27/enlightening-our-universities-and-medical-schools-about-the-health-benefits-of-meditation/ So I have become a woman who finds calm and clarity in prayer.

I have spent most of the past eleven years consciously working on being a better person: I smile more, I try to remember to always say “please” and “thank you,” I try to listen to my students, look them in their eyes rather than putting stuff in my bag and jetting out. I try. I make mistakes. I still want things. I still have superficial desires, but I am also so cognizant of every moment and so grateful for this beautiful life.

And, I would be even more grateful if in a few months I’m having a beer with my family member on his balcony on a hot summer night as his wife laughs and the children play.

The Delicacy of Peru

Lake Titicaca

A few weeks ago someone asked me what I missed most about Peru. I had to think about the question because even though I feel great affection for the countries where I was fortunate to have spent chunks of my life, namely Saudi Arabia, South Africa, Greece, and Peru, when it’s time to move, I am usually ready. Even when I left my beloved Athens, after living there for three years in my 20s, it was time for change. It may be because I have lived exactly half my life—twenty-two years—overseas that I tend to get “ants my pants” when I have been in one place for too long.

Greek, Peruvian, and American family all gathered for a meal before our wedding.

After living in Lima for six years, my husband and I were moving to San Diego, and though I was terribly excited to be close to my family again, goodbyes are the worst. When my husband hugged his family and tears flowed, I knew my Peruvian husband would now, unfortunately, be on the other side of these long-distance familial relationships.

Hugo and his childhood friends

Thus, what I miss most are the wonderful moments with my Peruvian family and friends. Loved ones gathered in our apartment as I made my famous pisco sours, days at the beach drinking chelas and eating choros a la chalaca. I miss calling friends last minute, at 6 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and by 11 p.m. our apartment was full of familiar faces laughing and listening to merengue. I also miss strolls in San Isidro with our three bulldogs, sipping coffee at Parque Kennedy. And—of course—I miss ceviche.

Yes, I certainly miss the seafood. In fact, I often crave Peruvian cuisine; for me it’s of the finest in the world. My mouth salivates when I think about ceviche from Pescados Capitales, arroz con mariscos from Segundo Muelle, lomo saltado from Tanta, or Elenita’s ahí de gallina. But the finest delicacy from Peru is, in my opinion, not the food.

It’s the people and, more specifically, their manners.

I’m not talking about their manners when drivers of combis, zipping down Javier Prado (a busy three-lane freeway in Lima) would scream and honk their horn, while simultaneously cutting me off. (Though one bus driver after insulting me, did send me a kiss. All I could do was laugh.) I’m thinking about Peruvians who are not behind a steering wheel.

I found that Peruvians have the most delicate, considerate manners. This was somewhat shocking to me because I came from sunny San Diego where people perpetually smile. I didn’t think I would ever meet people that were more polite than San Diegans. These sun-tanned, micro-beer drinking, say good-morning-to everyone people seem as if they have already gone to heaven, as if they have this secret city made of eternal sunshine, (but only in their minds?). For me, it’s a bit too perfect, a bit too tranquil. But San Diegans are great people; my closest family and friends live in SD suburbs; even my mother has become more of a San Diegan than a Greek! (Maybe that’s also why I hold on so tightly to my Greek roots—I like things that are a bit more tumultuous, a bit wilder.) So moving to Peru was comforting. In this new country, I met versions of my loud Greeks (who I adore) and happy San Diegans (who I admire) but mixed with something extra: this new delicacy that I had never before encountered.

When I first moved to Peru, my husband and I were in Wong—the Super Supermarket of Peru. We bumped into a college friend that he knew, and when Hugo introduced me, the man dove in for a kiss. I didn’t know what to do, so I pulled away. My husband later educated me, telling me that when one is introduced, a kiss follows a simultaneous handshake. I don’t mind kissing customs—I just didn’t know the Peruvian one. Later, when we went to a party and there were about ten people sitting around a circular sofa, I hesitated, and then looked incredulously at my husband. Was I really expected to go around and kiss everyone? Hugo’s eyes told me “Si!” Initially, it felt strange. Then I grew to appreciate it—even like it! This kissing custom makes people recognize one another in a most intimate way.

Upon visiting friends in San Diego years later, my husband and I walked into a gathering and no one even turned around. It was rude awakening for me as I had not only learned to appreciate “the kiss,” but now expected it. From the corner of the room, I introduced my husband; a few people turned around and said “Hi” from afar, but most kept talking. Not because they were ill-mannered, but different country, different unwritten “rules.”

I also found it interesting when teaching at the American School of Lima “the Gringos,” as we were called with cariño, would see each other at school, and we would nod: “What’s up?” “Hey.” Sometimes we would be as polite to say: “Good Morning,” but at after-school functions we all got kissy-kissy. Greetings between gringos took on the delicacy of Peruvians.

These delicate manners that I grew to love and appreciate extended far beyond kissing. When I needed something, a Peruvian friend or colleague would go out of his or her way. Not to say my American, Canadian, and British friends weren’t helpful, but Peruvians helped with a sort of joie de vivre—“I’m here! I’m ready. Where do you need to go?”

And then there were birthdays. No one ever forgot your birthday and Peruvians made you feel super-duper-incredibly-awesomely special. These were the days before Facebook alerts, birthdays were noted and celebrated. As a teacher, my class would sing to every birthday student, both in English and then in Spanish. When it was my birthday, the phone calls, hugs, and kisses were plentiful. Peruvians truly get the importance of this day—one was brought to earth and there is no other day as special.

These are just a few of the delicacies of Peru. This South American country is rich history, art, culture, commerce, organic products, and geographic bio-diversity. When one thinks of Peru, undoubtedly, Machu Picchu comes to mind. The four-day Inka trail was, indeed, one of my favorite adventures, but Lake Titicaca remains my favorite place; ceviche unequivocally my favorite food, but none of these foods or places compare to this country’s greatest commodity: the warm-hearted Peruvian people with their delicate manners.

Lake Titicaca

It’s a delicacy that I will never forget and has changed me forever.