The central themes after
forty-eight hours in Greece are now firmly established: food, family, and
insomnia. These themes are by their very nature fully integrated, one beginning
as the other ends. Kind, loving, and generous family appear to have a common
mission, or perhaps it is more like some lofty intrafamilial competition—feed
the American relative with such copious quantities of food that he will become
utterly dazed and confused. (Food wasn’t even necessary to achieve this end,
but it certainly helped.)
Meals begin with coffee and
sweats at 8 p.m., with the main event starting at 10 p.m. and concluding at 2 a.m., a
ritual closely followed by dessert. And then something vaguely resembling a
walk. The late meals, the persistent jet lag, the excitement of being here—all
of this makes sound sleep a challenge. Thank goodness for the afternoon siesta,
which offers some revival for the night to come.
Last night Jonathan’s uncle, a
retired ship’s master, invited him to join two of his old friends, also retired
captains, at “Exehdra” in Spetses’s Old Harbor. Seven of them sat on a balcony
cantilevered over the ocean, the ultimate destination for tray after tray of delicious
food—cheeses, vegetables, kalamari, tzatziki,
and an incredible baked,deboned, a species of fish akin to red snapper.
The men, all between the ages of
78 and 80, recalled their lives at sea, sundry adventures at the helms of
supertankers, cargo carriers, and other oceangoing vessels.
Jonathan asked one of the men if
he recalled anything about the German occupation of this small island during World War II, a period that was
especially brutal in Greece. He took a long breath and answered methodically:
“No six year old should ever witness the horrors I experienced before my eyes.
I remember the Germans making all of us gather in the Dapia [now a happy place
of cafes, clinking glasses, and light-hearted gossip] to witness the execution
of a dozen of our fellow islanders. They were shot before our eyes, their
mothers pleading for mercy. But the irony is that these same Germans saved us
from worse horrors at the hands of the communists, who would sneak onto the island at night from
the mainland, gather up notable citizens, and take them to the Peloponnese for
execution as ‘petty bourgeoise.’ One night they gathered forty or so islanders
and were set to depart when they were abushed by the Germans. So, you see, the
Germans killed us but also saved us.”
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Jonathan ran 12 kilometers in
mid-morning, far too late for such activity—the sun is powerful and dangerous,
and there is so little shade. The sensation that comes from extreme heat
followed by an ocean swim is indescribably pleasant, a luscious transition from the terrestrial realm and into the silky smooth of the Aegean.
The daily distance run is the
only way to (a) burn calories; (b) prepare one’s consitution for the next
impossibly large meal. It is a serious mission and one worth accepting.
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