Our Weekend, Part II

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Today we went to St. Anthony’s Church here in Thessaloniki. It’s the church where Fr. Theodore Zisis serves, the church with the miraculous icon of which I wrote in the Fall of 2007. It’s small and dark and the people there all seem to know one another, seem to be a community.

We arrived about 3 minutes late, but I had brought along my wee karekoula (folding chair), so no problem. Or so I thought. I put it near The Icon, but a woman whispered to me, “Not here; people will want to venerate the icon and you’ll be in the way.” So I moved my chair to the rear of the church. “Not here,” said an elderly man, “The priest and altar boys will be passing through here.” So I put it somewhere else, but another man nixed that idea, too. By this time I was having to fight hard to put down the prideful, insane, and childish feeling of being quite unwelcome! (“A suggestion from your enemy,” as Demetrios said afterward, and I knew it.) So I took my little chair and parked it and myself in the vestibule, where I belonged. I did belong there, too, because before long the nave was so packed I couldn’t have breathed in it. In fact, by the end of the service, the vestibule, too, was so crowded this claustrophobic fool was becoming quite uncomfortable.

One joy of sitting in the vestibule was, that’s where mothers with small children often stay. One of the children, in particular, caught my attention, a girl of not yet two, too, too cute, behaving very nicely, too; and from the looks of her mother, very soon to become somebody’s older sister. Sitting next to me were twin boys, too, estimated age, 8, and they reminded me of “my” twins, my grandsons.

I couldn’t hear the sermon, much less try to understand it, but Demetrios summarized it for me afterward and said it had been very, very good. Of course. It’s Fr. Theodore!

After church, I wondered aloud whether we might find Konstantina, a sometime commentator on this blog. Demetrios asked around for me, beginning with the mother of the little girl, and in a very few moments, someone appeared who said, “I am Konstantina!” Guess what? She speaks perfect English – as well she ought, since she is Canadian! She’s here with her husband, and they’re both here to study Greek first, and theology later. In other words, she’s living my dream. (How does that happen?) So meeting her was a joy, and fun. Konstantina, I hope to see more of you!

The mother of the little girl introduced herself as well, in English: Maria, and her daughter is Katerina. Her husband is Moses, and guess what? He’s from Houston, as in Houston, Texas! He, too, is here to study theology. And yes, little Katerina speaks English, in addition to Greek.

Meeting all these people was a great joy for us.

We grabbed a cab and hurried, belatedly, to our favorite bougatsa place, near our house. Bougatsa, in case you haven’t read my description before, is the Greek version, I suppose, of a crème-filled doughnut, except it’s baked instead of fried and the crème filling comes between those very thin layers of dough called “phyllo”, as in baklava. It’s best when served hot.

The bougatsa place was closing; we were too late. No problem. Off to another one, even nearer our house, but with somewhat less perfect bougatsa. (The filling is not as creamy and the dish isn’t served quite so hot.)

We were invited to the village of Nea Syllata, where Kostas and Mena have their summer home. We came home from our bougatsa, threw a few things into a small bag, and left immediately. Christos very kindly drove us there. It’s about a 25-minute drive through countryside dotted with red poppies and purple thistle, and purple something else, and yellow flowers that resemble dandelions, but aren’t.

Kostas and Mena’s house, designed by Christos, will be very nice some day when it’s finished, but so far it isn’t. Everything inside is bare, gray concrete, including floors, walls, and ceiling.

We arrived just before Kostas and Mena were ready for naps, and were grateful for the chance.

After siesta, we had a light supper, sat around and talked, and then, around 10 o’clock (oh, yes, that’s the Greek way!) we all went to the village of Moudania, about 10 minutes away, to visit Elias and Myrta. They’re the ones who live in the house right smack across the bay from Mount Olympus. We couldn’t see it at night, of course; even the sea at night is just a black gap in the scenery; but just knowing it’s there is somehow exciting.

Myrta and Elias have quit smoking; hooray! They are much better company now.

They told us the story of how they met and married. Myrta and her co-workers had a habit, when their boss was out of the office, of dialing random phone numbers (Yes, you dialed in those days!) and asking to speak with – well, they made up names of people to ask for.

Myrta called Elias’ office one morning and asked to speak with “Manolis.” Elias said, “He’s in the bathroom, but if you’ll wait a moment, he’ll be right back.” A moment later, Elias picked up the phone again, and said, “This is Manolis,” and the conversation – and the romance – began.

Myrta called back again the next day, and numerous times after that, until eventually, the two decided to meet. Elias set the place for the rendezvous: the street corner nearest his office. “That way,” he explained, “If she turned out to be a dog, I wouldn’t have far to go.”

But he noticed, as she approached, her face turning darker and darker shades of red, and he thought that was good; a girl about to meet a boy she didn’t know ought to blush. It seemed to indicate she was a good girl.

“And that’s that,” said Myrta. “Happy ending.”

“What ending?” I said. “That was only the beginning! I want to hear the rest.”

“The rest,” she said, displaying a photo of their daughter, Marianna.

“What about the middle, then?” I persisted.

But the only thing more we could get out of them was the fact that for a long time, they had double-dated with Kostas’ brother George, and Helen, his then girlfriend, now wife. And the fact that when the romance was at last revealed to all the parents, both families rejoiced. (This Helen is not the Helen from the previous story; not the one who burned the hair.)

We left at midnight and went immediately to bed.