Hostility and Love in Culture

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You arrive at church just as the service is beginning, or maybe you even arrive a bit late. There are no more seats. In America, that would mean you stand throughout the service. In Greece, nobody stands very long because everyone who has seats shares them.

You accompany your loved one from the ER to his newly-assigned hospital room. It’s a double room, and you subconsciously feel bad, because another family is in the room, and they want to talk with their loved one, while you want to talk with yours, and each group will be something of a nuisance to the other, intruding upon a private situation, and you have to remind yourself you have as much right to be here as they have, so if they don’t like it, too bad.

It isn’t that way in Greece. There, you arrive in the double hospital room and the other family is glad to see you, glad for the company. They introduce themselves and inquire about you and your circumstances, and instead of two separate conversations, it’s all one big one, everyone included.

You stand in line in a Greek shop but there is no jealous guarding of ones place. Instead, someone ahead of you suggests you go first, because you are carrying packages and she isn’t.

It has made me realize something of the extent to which I have been victimized by the rampant individualism so characteristic of my culture. Somehow it ends up putting us into competition with one another instead of cooperation. Somehow it trains us to approach others as rivals, whether for the same seats or the same hospital space or an advantageous place in the line or on the bus. It renders our stance toward others as basically hostile. You are going to take what you want/need at my expense, unless I beat you to it, taking it for myself at your expense.

No wonder people in our culture don’t want to live near each other, as is natural for human beings. Instead, people dream of moving out onto 3 acres (minimum) where they can have “privacy” and not be “bothered” by any neighbors.

It reminds me of that old story about the people in hell, who were sitting at a sumptuous banquet but starving to death, because their forearms had grown so long the people couldn’t get their forks anywhere near their mouths. The people in heaven had similar forearms, but they were all sharing in the feast by feeding each other.

This One's for Elizabeth in Wales

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It was a day of farewells, the first of at least three such days this week. Pelagia and George had us over to dinner, along with Mena and Kostas (looking radiantly healthy). It was a delicious meal with many dishes, all fasting-compliant. All one had to do was eat appropriate portions, which was not easy. And of course the company was outstanding. Such loving, kind, good people! How quickly, once we had met, we all became so very close! We will miss them.

We arrived home just after five in the afternoon (Yes, dinner is always at midday.) and rested until six. Then, back to the surprised florist for the second time today, because you always try to bring flowers to your hostess, and on to Anastasia and Stelios, who live just two blocks away. They had invited us for “coffee” which turned out to be tea in the English style, capped off by my favorite, baked quince.

It is a lot of fun to talk with Anastasia and Stelios, for many reasons, first because they are so dear, but also because they form something like a Greek chorus as you tell a story. It’s a little like being in a black church where the congregation utters encouraging words to the preacher. Anastasia and Stelios will say things like, “Oh, you were in London! Beautiful city! Yes – “You stayed a whole week! How nice for you!” – “Your friend, Thomas, yes, the one we met…” Or if what you say is sad, they will say something like, “How difficult for you! So frightening. Yes, yes…”

When they tell stories, we tend just to listen and to smile and glow inside. Here’s the one they told us tonight.

A man in Stelios’ village had a daughter who had something in her eye that kept growing. The man took his daughter to a specialist in Kavala, who told her, “We’re going to have to operate tomorrow, my child.” So she was hospitalized to await the surgery early the next morning.

During the night, the father had a dream in which the Theotokos appeared to him. She told him to go back to his village, ask a certain man to donate a certain corner of his property, and to build a church there. “And your daughter shall be well.”

When the man awoke, he was in some confusion, because of course the Orthodox do not put much stock in dreams, ordinarily. (Although of course we recognize that some dreams are of divine origin, such as that of St. Joseph, directing him to take Mary and Jesus to Egypt.)

But then the man saw his daughter’s eye, and the large growth was gone, and the eye looked almost normal. By time the surgeon came, the eye was normal. The doctor pronounced it a miracle and cancelled the surgery.

The man and his daughter went back to Stelios’ village, went to the man who owned the property he had dreamed about, and asked for it. The property owner immediately said, “Of course,” and turned over that corner of land. Today a church stands there.

There was some question what sort of Theotokos icon to put in that church, but the iconographer, a monk, had a dream of how he should paint it, and he did. It shows her holding a handkerchief, with which to wipe away the tears of the world.

Anastasia told me she was once privileged to carry that icon in a procession.

She sent us home with a laminated paper print of it – and a jar of her baked quince.

Weekend in Kastoria (Part II, Sunday)

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Today Katerina, with little Spyros in tow, took us to an old monastery on the lakeshore. Actually, the monastery has two small chapels. Parts of them are 17th Century, parts are 10th Century, and parts – are you ready for this? – are 6th Century!

The ancient frescoes are all shot up. Turkish bullets have gouged out the eyes of most of the figures, and there are scores or hundreds of other pockmarks from random shots.

My first reaction to them was to think reverence might seem to call for some loving repair and restoration. On the other hand, perhaps they are too ancient to touch. And perhaps the Greek people could do with a reminder of what it was like under the Turks, in these days when they are allowing all sorts of political, economic, and yes, military incursions. (Turkey violates Greek air space daily, with impunity.) Perhaps a compromise could be struck, in which most of the frescoes are repaired, but some of most damaged places left.

The chapels are heated with wood stoves set in the narthex.

They are popular venues, Katerina says, for weddings and baptisms.

Afterward, we went for a scenic drive. Katerina showed us how to drive out onto the peninsula and to the top of the hill occupying the far (eastern) end of it. There is another monastery near the top, and a café at the summit. Obviously, the panoramic view was fabulous; you could see nearly the whole, deep-blue lake and the peculiar shape of the city below, shining in the sun.

Sypros fell asleep in his mother’s lap, so we drove them home and went on alone to an exhibit of very accurate, extremely detailed models of some of the more scenic buildings in Kastoria. The exhibit was closed, however; we only got to see four or five samples of the work in the hotel lobby.

The men went back to Katerina’s for a nap instead. Rena and I went shopping, finding numerous stores along the lakefront open. But of that, I can say very little, Christmas being too close, except that Rena, adding kindness to kindness, bought me a pair of fur-trimmed house slippers.

The last store we went into had a variety of interesting things to look at. As we were looking, somebody said, “Good afternoon,” and we looked up to see the Kindly-faced, Singing Matador!

He recognized us from the night before, and greeted us warmly, even more so when he found out Rena is the sympethera of Norma and Spyros. “And how is the little one?” he inquired, meaning little Spyros.

I told him how much we had enjoyed his singing and dancing last night, and asked if he were also a Psaltis in the church. Yes, indeed, he chanted every Sunday in church. His wife nodded. I told them my husband was also a cantor. And then I blurted out, “He looked at you last night and immediately loved you!”

“What is your husband’s name?”

“Demetrios.”

So the man went to his desk, opened a drawer, pulled out a CD with a picture of himself on the front, and signed it, “Best to Anastasia and Demetrios, Konstantinos Liogas.” Then he took a second one, his wife beaming all the while, and autographed it for Rena and Theodosius. Then he put a third CD on a player under his desk and had us listen to the first song. It was charming! We were thrilled.

When the men and little Spyros had waked up, and Rena and I had finished shopping, and Nikos had finished with the medical presentation and clinic, we all regrouped and went out for a late afternoon dinner. Katerina and Nikos took us to a restaurant atop one of the mountains to the northeast of the city, where we had a spectacular view of the whole, and of the lake. We also had a great dinner, but again I’m ashamed to describe it in detail.

And then, in the deepening dusk, we drove home. We had planned to stop at Berea (in Greek, spelled Beroia and pronounced “VER-ee-ah”) to see the monument that marks the spot where St. Paul preached, but dark had set in and everybody was too tired.

The Jews in Berea, St. Luke records, were nobler than those of Thessaloniki, because instead of rejecting the Gospel and setting the whole city in an uproar, they “searched the Scriptures” to see if St. Paul’s assertion was correct, that the Scriptures, in sign, symbol, and prophecy, spoke of this Jesus on every page.

Another time, we shall make a point of going into Berea instead of just passing it by. St. Paul preached in Thessaloniki, too, so I don’t quite know why I feel this especially keen sense of reverence when near Berea. No doubt once I go there I shall discover why.

We came home all in the warm glow of love, tired but very happy, having spent a beautiful time with dear people, old friends and new.

Weekend in Kastoria (Part I, Saturday)

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We spent a wonderful weekend in Kastoria (Kah-stor-YA) with Rena and Theodosius and their relatives.

Kastoria is named after the kastor, that flat-tailed, fur-yielding, dam-building mammal that lives here and nowhere else in Greece.

It sits on the edge of, and partly in, Lake Kastoria (see map, clicking two or three times on the plus sign to enlarge as necessary). It occupies the western part of the peninsula you see, and spills over and spreads out on both sides of the peninsula, so it has two different waterfronts, separated at the narrowest point by about a kilometer.

Kastoria used to be one of the riches cities in all of Greece, because it was the center of the fur industry. People got rich trading furs. The furs came from Scandinavia and Russia, but it was here, In Kastoria, that they were fashioned into coats, hats, and myriad other goods for sale.

It seems sad to say all this in the past tense, but in the 1990s, the Chinese came with cameras and videocameras, and asked to learn all about the fur trade, and the furriers laughingly showed them everything they knew. Now the Chinese sell fur items more cheaply than the Kastorians can, so although the city is still a big fur center, with an international fur show every Spring, the population has shrunk and the economy is beginning to shift, painfully, toward tourism.

We arrived around 11:30 and immediately phoned Nikos to let him know we had arrived. Nikos is Rena’s and Theodosios’ son-in-law, and if you want to know what he looks like, well, in face and hair he looks very much looks like this.




He was busy working, but said he would come for us in an hour or so.

We spent the time walking along the northern lakefront on a December day so gorgeous I left my winter jacket in the car. A sweater was enough for me. The sun was glinting off the deep-blue water and shining through the leaves of delicate orange. (I think the trees may be birches, from the white bark.) We passed between the Lake and the little eateries and shops selling fur and leather capes, mittens, gloves, hats, and toys.

Birds and other wildlife are more prolific and varied here than in most other places in Greece, although the bears and wolves have been rounded up into managed wildlife preserves. We spotted a variety of ducks, plus geese and swans, which swam up to us evidently expecting to be fed. Cormorants (which I mistakenly told everyone were condors) were standing on buoys and rocks spreading their wings to dry. There was even a floating birdhouse, with room for eight birds or pairs. Surrounding us and the lake were green-and-brown mountains, shining in the sun.

Our destination was a little outdoor café enclosed, this time of year, with heavy, transparent plastic “walls”, where we could sit and have coffee and be warm and still have a view of the lake and the mountains.

We hadn’t been there long before Spyros telephoned us. Spyros is Rena’s and Theodosios’ sympetheros; he is the father of their son-in-law, Nikos (think David). Rena told us Spyros, 75, had just been diagnosed with early Alzheimer’s. This is doubly sad because Spyros is such a kind, gentle, meek, (some say holy) man.

He looks like a smaller version of my maternal grandfather, very dapper, with white hair and bushy eyebrows over blue eyes, and he looks (to me) as if he had been born in a three-piece suit. The difference between Spyros and my grandfather is, Spyros has a somewhat self-effacing and melancholy demeanor. He used to be a millionaire fur trader, but he is generous and lent out much of his money and was never able to get it back. Now he is upper middle-class. (My grandfather’s company invented fake fur, so there’s even a parallel there!)

In short, he’s someone you most especially do not want to develop Alzheimer’s.

Spyros joined us after a few minutes, arriving in his dusty, black Mercedes. (He still drives, and very well, too.) After we had had a pleasant refreshment by the lake, he guided us along steep, narrow streets to our hotel, where we deposited our luggage and freshened up before heading over to Katerina’s and Nikos’ house for the midday meal.

Now if Nikos is among the handsomest men in Greece (and Greece is a land full of handsome men), Katerina is, in my, opinion, the fairest of her sex in the whole country. She is very feminine, with fair skin, dark hair, large, brown eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Katerina has to be one of the sweetest women around, as well.

And if you take a live version of the David and marry him to the prettiest woman in the land, what sort of a son would you expect them to have? You’d expect their son to look just like little Spyros, that’s what. (This is just a very good-looking family, every one of them on both sides!) When Spyros opens those enormous, bright blue eyes of his (now turning pale green), it’s as though two lanterns had been lit. When he was a baby, people literally used to gasp. Now he’s 25 months, still gorgeous. Those eyelashes must be ¾ of an inch long. His personality is equally charming. He couldn’t say “Anastasia” so he shortened it to “Sia” and gave my cheek a kiss. Demetrios was introduced as “Takis,” his nickname, and little Spyros was excited to find a word very easy for him to pronounce. The result was, every few minutes all afternoon he would call out, “Taki!” Demetrios would say, “Yes, my sweetie!” in English and Spyros delighted in the discovery that he could elicit such a response. (Why is that? I ought to be jealous. Animals and children all take to Demetrios first, before they take to me.)

Katerina and Nikos and Spyros live in a brand-new, three-bedroom flat on the edge of Kastoria. It is light and airy, with modern furnishings, to be replaced, gradually, with more traditional furnishings if I have correctly understood Katerina.

We were joined presently by the elder Spyros, his wife, Naomi and her mother, who is the same age as Spyros.

Naomi lived in Canada until she was 15. They called her Norma there, and it has stuck. Of course she speaks excellent English, and speaks only English to little Spyros. Spyros therefore understands English almost as well as Greek. (Both his parents speak excellent English, too.) In fact, little Spyros’ favorite book is his illustrated, Greek-English dictionary!

Norma was sporting a hairdo I take to be the latest in Greek chic. It is parted, with bangs, brushed down in front. At the nape, the hair is very short, becoming progressively longer is it approaches the top of the ears, where it is rather long. This tapered hair, at the back and sides of the head, is all brushed upward, and spreads out rather like a fan around the head.

I am not even going to describe the dinner, it being the fasting season. But the courses were many and delicious. Katerina and Nikos, being very kind, made Demetrios and me sit at the head and foot of the table.

After dinner, Theodosios and Rena, Demetrios and I went back to our hotel for a much-needed nap. We plunked our weary bones onto the bed at 5:30 and got up and dressed at 8:30. Time for some wining, dining, and dancing! (Yes, I know, I know!)

But Norma, you see, is the president of the Philoptochos (although it goes by a slightly different name here). It is the church women’s organization in support of the poor. And this year, Norma had organized this annual Christmas ball, a charity benefit, of course, and we four were to be her special guests. (I KNOW, I know!)

Well, we were some of her special guests, the least special of her special guests, the others including two Parliament members, the County Commissioner, and the Mayor, to whom she introduced us. There was no priest present, that I saw anyway. There’s a clue there.

Ah, a nice, small supper, I thought to myself, sampling a platter on which had been laid very small servings of several Kastorian specialties. Just right, after Katerina’s feast. I only took one bite of my dinner roll. A waiter came to take my plate away, but he just couldn’t stand it; he lowered my plate again and asked me, “Don’t you want to keep your bread?” So I did. I don’t care what else Greeks serve you, even if it is roast lamb or chateaubriand; the bread is always the entrée. I did not eat any more of it, but I kept it, not to scandalize the man.

I was just taking the last sip of wine and thinking that had been perfect, when the waiter reappeared to set another plate before me! The first, Katerina explained, had only been appetizers!

No way. I took one, small, polite bite out of each item and left the rest. And it was mouth-watering, too, or would have been.

Not counting the company, what I liked second-best about the evening (first best coming up later) was that so much of it was specifically Kastorian.

Several of the women and children wore traditional Kastorian dresses. Did I mention Kastoria was once a very rich little city? Well, the clothing reflects that. The dresses were long and green, with very short jackets to match, everything trimmed with embroidery, the dresses adorned in front with large, gold coins.

The music and the dances were Kastorian, too. Although many of the tunes are known all over Greece, many others are not; they are strictly local, and you cannot hear them anywhere else. I was especially pleased that the children joined the dances and knew the steps. They, of course, were not conscious of continuing a special heritage; to them, these were simply the dances they knew, and they were having fun. The little girls displayed some graceful and fancy footwork, too! We danced the dances we knew and were able to pick up one or two of the local ones besides. One of them was, in effect, a slow version of Hava Nagila. Instead of kicking, you just gracefully lifted your leg, and without hopping on the other leg at the same time.

Then there was Spanish music. An older man stood alone on the dance floor and spread out his arms and began to dance for us. Gradually, he began more and more to imitate a bull. Then another man, having borrowed his wife’s shawl, stepped onto the dance floor and waved it the way a matador waves his cape and the rest of the dance was a mock bullfight! The man with the cape had an especially wonderful face, full of fun, kindly, gentle.

Next thing we knew, he was singing the next song, in a very rich voice, and motioning to the rest of us to sing along, which everybody (except me) did.

Then it was time for the Kalenda, a Christmas carol. This one was a specifically Kastorian Kalenda. Everybody who wanted to sing was given a sheet of paper on which the words had been written, plus a candle. (No need to write the melody; everybody knew that.) The ballroom was darkened and this candle-lit group went from table to table, led by the kindly-faced, singing matador, to serenade each table with a different verse. I did not join the group, because the writing on the song-sheet was in cursive. Little Spyros will probably learn cursive Greek before I do.

Nikos didn’t sit with us for very long. He had organized a special event. He had brought several gynecologists to town who were going to give a presentation the next day on the latest test for cervical cancer and were going to offer to do this procedure for free on any women who would request it after the presentation. This new test is to replace the infamous Pap smear. Before you rejoice, ladies, it is every bit as unpleasant and for the very same reasons. It’s just more accurate.

Anyway, the physicians had arrived in town and were attending the ball, and Nikos had to do his duty as their host, so he sat with them most of the time.

Now I promised to tell you my favorite part of the evening. It was watching the elder Spyros dance. That old man danced with all his heart, all his native dances. He often led the circle, and often elaborated upon the basic steps. As I watched him, I thought of my dad, and wondered how long before Spyros will be in the same condition, unable to remember the steps. So it was especially joyous to watch him so hugely enjoying himself now. It’s not that life is about enjoying ourselves but still, what my heart whispered to him was, dance, dance and sing and pray (and fast – ouch!) and live fully in every way now, while you can. Carpe diem!

A Visit to the Kommoterio

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That’s “ko-mo-TEE-ree-o”, hairdresser.

Mena has a cold today, so she didn’t want to take me. Instead, she told Demetrios where it was and he went with me. We arrived right around 10:00.

Soula and Demetra were there, together with their cousin, Petros, and Soula's husband, Christos. I was just kissing Demetrios goodbye when they all, from within, called out, “No, stay a while!” He did not feel inclined to do so, but after much urging, came in.

Apparently, you do not just come in and get to work straightaway. No, you have a little civilized coffee first, some conversation, some koulouri (“koo-LOO-ree”) which is something like a large, soft pretzel coated with sesame seeds (not to be confused with the sweet cookie called koulouraki).

Conversations with Demetrios usually turn medical fairly soon, and nobody seems to feel much delicacy about discussing his or her (usually his) ailments, either. As a result, I’m learning how to say any number of embarrassing things, like “large intestine”, “colonoscopy”, “pee in a bottle” – and I could probably pass a test in both internal and external male anatomy in Greek. The trouble with this kind of vocabulary is, it isn't particularly useful to me. I mean, I might often need to ask someone to call me a taxi, but when will I ever ask, "What color is your urine?"

Eventually, Demetra raised her eyebrows at Soula, who nodded, and Demetra put on her smock and took me to the back room to be shampooed, while the others continued their conversation.

Next came the question of how to do my hair, everyone present being consulted. Demetra, having correctly understood my poor Greek, said I would like it just like hers and Soula’s. (They both have the same hairdo.) Soula said no, hair that short wouldn’t look good on someone as tall as I. More discussions, negotiations, and she proceeded, I know not why, very carefully to cut it shorter than hers or Demetra’s!

I remembered my son’s question: What’s the difference between a good haircut and a bad one? Answer (to be given with a shrug): two weeks. Okay, make it three or four for a woman. It’ll be fine for Christmas, in any case! So I relaxed and let Soula do her thing.

A gypsy came by, begging. Nobody gave her anything. Soula said there is a whole family of them; a different family member comes by every day for about 8 days, then they go elsewhere for three months, then they come back and start all over again.

A man came by selling lottery tickets. He read to Demetra this week’s results; nothing for her. “But three times out of four you get something,” he pointed out. “Not bad.” She gave him her weekly five Euros. Once, years ago, she won 3,000 Euros, she said.

The ticket man briefly joined the conversation and Demetrios asked him to say, if he didn’t mind, how much he earned from selling lottery tickets.

“Eleven percent of whatever I sell,” was the answer.

“And is that enough to feed your family?”

“Oh, yes,” said the lottery man. “I usually make around 1,500 Euros a month. Some months you can make 10 times that.” (December is one of those months, as buying a lottery ticket “for luck in the New Year” is a custom here.)

The perm rods were put in and the fluid, instead of being squirted on from a plastic bottle, was applied by means of a rag wrapped around the end of a comb. Then came the plastic cap. Five minutes more of waiting, during which another cousin of Soula’s and Demetra’s dropped by, a woman.

Then, to the back room for the rinsing (5 minutes) and neutralizing (15 minutes.) The neutralizer was sponged on.

Christos called on our cell phone and Demetrios wondered how much longer we would be here. An hour and twenty minutes was the answer. (It was by then 12:40.) But if Demetrios wanted to leave, fine, because once I was done, they were going to close up shop and they would be glad to drive me home. (They live on the same block we do.) So Demetrios departed to go to a coffee shop with Christos.

Soula put tiny rollers in my hair and sat me under the dryer. I spent the time leafing through a Greek fashion magazine. European fashion is as ugly as American, or at least almost. See-through skirts and slacks are in style, worn with very fancy, ruffly, lacy, sequined thongs.

Half an hour under the dryer, then the styling. Soula used a blow-dryer and a round, metal brush to enlarge my curls. Using small rollers and then stretching the curls this way, she said, would make the curls “stronger.”

It actually looks good, except for being too short. The style is just as I had hoped. By Christmas it will be perfect.

The final touch, as always, is to add the lak. I decided that must be short for “lacqueur.” Spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz, spritz…the puffs of spray just kept coming. I’m sure I will not have to style it for a week.

When I asked how much I owed, Soula looked surprised, but after a moment said, “Fifty-five Euros.” Now I have looked at prices elsewhere, and I had expected to pay about ninety. I gave her sixty. I had been the only customer all day.

Then they rolled down the shades, put up the “Closed” sign, locked the door.

On the way to the car, the proprietress of a neighboring shop stepped out of her door and called out, "Is that Anna Maria?"

"No," said Soula, "a friend."

"Anna Maria; she's Anna Maria!" cried the woman, and blew me a kiss. I smiled back at her, having no idea what she meant, other than to flatter me somehow. (That would be the thing to do when a customer leaves your friend's beauty salon, yes?)

Christos and Soula drove me home. We parted with kisses and hugs and their wishes of Kalo taxidi, bon voyage, because we are going back to the States so soon, so very soon.

Demetrios says Anna Maria is the Queen. Greece no longer has a monarchy, but there is still a royal family.

I always knew I was born to be a queen. It's just hard to convince most people!

Our Doings

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I’ve been too busy writing my book to keep up my blog as well as I might…anyway, here’s the latest.

Sunday morning I woke up dizzy. Not dizzy as in lightheaded. There was no danger of passing out. But dizzy as in the room wouldn’t stop moving. In other words, it was the inner-ear kind of dizziness rather than the low blood pressure kind. (No, I had not had anything to drink the night before!) It lasted all morning, but by holding onto Demetrios, I managed to get to church, albeit late, and to make it through the (rest of the) service. Then it went away.

In the afternoon we were invited to dinner with the petheres ("PETH-er-es) of Elpida. Elpida is Mena’s and Kostas’ daughter. She is engaged to Panteleimon, and his parents are her petheres, parents-in-law. They are already considered that, even though the marriage has not taken place. (Here, being engaged is in many ways -- too many, actually -- considered virtually the equivalent of being married.)

Panteleimon lives on the diagonally opposite corner of the block we live on. He and his brother Nick and his sister Natassa live in one apartment; their parents and their aunt live together in another apartment directly below. We gathered in Panteleimon’s apartment, which I took special care to observe, on account of his being an interior decorator.

It was a very bright, corner room, with big windows on two sides. Three of the four walls were painted charcoal grey, with the merest hint of blue. Charcoal gray! Now that’s creative. I had never seen that before. In this room, it worked to soften the bright light. On one wall was an original work of art by Panteleimon himself. It was a large canvas filled with rectangles in white, pearl gray, and shiny gold, all with texture. I didn’t like it; it just looked messy to me.

An oval table meant to seat 8 was in the middle of the room, with 11 chairs around it. That worked fine, no problem.

The meal was another real feast. I counted the dishes (just for you!) and there were 12, not counting the bread. Oh, but only five of them were entrees, Elpida protested. The rest were “just salates.” Salads count, too, I said. The entrees included some delicious fish fillets, herbed and baked, two different dishes featuring shrimp so big I was not sure at first they were shrimp, beans somewhat like limas in a thick tomato sauce, and, yes, some kind of red meat that looked like chuck roast. Half of it was gone, too, by the end of the meal, although I did not notice who ate it. For dessert, there was baked quince, baked apple, and Mena’s “oven-hot, caramel-flavored Jello,” as I call her halvah.

I learned from these ladies the suggested proportion of quince to sugar. For every 2kilos of quince, a kilo and a half of sugar, 1.5 cups each of water and sherry or cognac, plus cinnamon and cloves. YUM. I love the stuff. The apples baked in the same pan, same recipe, were just as good, though.

Mena bakes her quince on low heat (100 - 150 C) for three hours.

After the meal, it was like the interlude between acts of a play, when the stagehands rush out onto the stage and re-arrange it all, and by the second act it is a completely different scene. The dishes and tablecloth disappeared, the table leaves were removed and lowered into a shallow storage box built right into the table. The table was carried to a corner of the room and the easy chairs were moved from that corner into the main part of the room. The extra chairs were put in the kitchen. Out came the coffee table from its niche under a low shelf of the syntheto (wall unit), and there you have it, a dining room transformed into a living room. I learned something. Flexibility is one key to the use of small spaces. That and clever storage.

(So we are going to try to be clever and when our new sofa arrives, we are going to use our futon for seating in the kitchen instead of some of the chairs. That way, we can put the table to one side and sleep a third guest here.)

Panteleimon’s mother is a hairdresser. Mena and I are going to go to her on Wednesday. I badly need a cut and perm. Since Soula does her hair just the way I want mine done, and hers looks very good, I have a certain degree of confidence mine will turn out well.

We were invited to Mena’s and Kostas’ in the evening. Ioannis, the lawyer was coming at 7:30 , and I did want to see him. We came home to catch some badly needed sleep first, however, saying we would come around 9:00. Well, I didn’t wake up until 10:15, and Demetrios had of course gone without me. Just as well; I couldn’t have made it.

“Did Ioannis tease Mena?” I asked when Demetrios got home, at almost midnight.

“No, not tonight.”

“Did he sing?”

“Heh-heh. Well, yes, he backed up every point of his arguments with snatches of Psalms, and snippets of Byzantine chant…”

As always! I am sorry to have missed that.

Tomorrow morning, Ianna and I are going Christmas shopping together, downtown.

Hints from Helen:

Never buy more than four days of food at a time. That will last you a week. Or if it does not, you can always get more, and get it fresh.

Never buy a whole kilo of fresh spinach just because it only costs one Euro.

Are these Doves Crazy or are We?

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Starting about two weeks ago, we noticed our pair of doves acting more than usually affectionate. They were preening each other and cooing at each other. Then about a week ago, we thought we saw them, more than once, mating. Of course there is room for error here, but mating is rather hard to misinterpret, isn’t it, except in cats? Now the doves are showing up with straws and stems of weeds in their beaks. These they have to drop in order to eat, and that surely seems to upset them! They drop their straw, eat a couple of bites, pick up the straw again, drop it again, eat a couple more bites…and they’re still doing all this lovey-dovey stuff.

Are these birds mixed up? Do they think it’s Spring? My paranoid imagination even wonders whether their now-abundant food supply is misleading them, but surely not! Surely birds judge seasons by the temperature, the length of the days, and the angle of the Sun, yes?

So what is going on here? Do doves, perhaps, build their nests early? Here's some info I found on the Collared Dove:

Breeding Data

Breeding Starts: March

# of Clutches: 2-5

# of Eggs: 2

Incubation (days): 14-16

Fledge (days): 18-21

A Surprise Thanksgiving and a Thanksgiving Surprise

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It was sometime in the afternoon yesterday when Mena called and spoke with Demetrios, and when I wondered aloud what was new with her, he said, “Nothing. She’s just wondering what time to pick us up.”

“Pick us up?”

“Pick us up!”

“Pick us up for what?”

“To take us to Manolis’ and Vasilea’s house, of course.”

“My dear, this is the first I’ve heard anything about going to Manolis and Vasilea!”

Long silence. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, we’re leaving here at 7:30 with Mena and Kostas in their car.”

There is no such holiday as Thanksgiving here in Greece. It was just another Thursday. I even forgot to wish a happy Thanksgiving to the two American theology students I met in the morning. (And they forgot to wish me a happy Thanksgiving, as well!) I don’t think they even have turkey here, unless perhaps frozen. But there is no way any American ate any better than we did on Thanksgiving evening, never mind it’s the Christmas fast! Vasilea served a fish soup first, what you might call “Cream of Cod”, with lemon, and it was delicious. Then, two more kinds of mild, sweet fish, no heads, no tails, no fins, no scales, no tentacles, filleted, breaded, seasoned, and baked, delicious. Plus soupies (sou-PEE-es), something I don’t know the English for, but it does have tentacles; it’s related to squid. Plus a platter of shrimp. They did have heads and tails, but I know how to remove those and they somehow don’t bother me. Then cole slaw, potato salad, beet salad, skordia (skorth-YA, a garlic paste), macaroni, fresh Greek bread, tarama (tah-rah-MA, Greek caviar), garnished with olives. For dessert there was Vasilea’s famous baked quince, Mena’s oven-warm Jello, I call it, but she says it’s halvah. It’s nothing like the halvah we buy in stores, which is not gelatinous at all. Plus Greek pastries, and later Vasilea brought out slices of apples and bananas.

Ioannis, the theologian not the lawyer, joined us with his wife, the other Mena. They were a bit late as they had attended this evening’s session of the 4-day conference on St. John Chrysostom at the University.

I finally learned how Vasilea makes her marvelous baked quince. In case you are interested, here is the “recipe,” such as it is: Put about a quarter to half inch of sugar in the bottom of a baking pan. Quarter and core the quince. (It has stringy, hard stuff in the middle, such as pears have.) Lay it on the sugar, skin side up. Pour over it equal parts red wine and water. Vasilea uses a cup each, in her largest baking pan. Sprinkle with cinnamon and a wee bit of clove. Sprinkle the whole with more sugar. How much sugar, in all, depends upon whether you want the juice to thicken into syrup, and how thick you want the syrup to be. It will in any case take much more sugar than you suppose. (Vasilea makes a thin syrup, but says you need about 2 pounds for thick. That’s for a very large baking pan that holds, I’d guess, 7 pounds of quince.)

After the dessert, Manolis led us all in the hymn to St. Demetrios, then one to St. Gregory Palamas, also of Thessaloniki, then to St. Paul, who evangelized this city and to whom we therefore owe a special debt of gratitude and love, and then some more I could not identify. (Thessaloniki has adorned the Church with some 16 saints, I think, of whom the best known are Sts. Demetrios, Gregory Palamas, Cosmas and Damian “The Unmercenaries”, meaning physicians who did not charge for their work, and Cyril and Methodios, who evangelized Russia.)

Manolis and Demetrios sang tenor, Ioannis took the baritone part, and Kostas the bass; they sounded wonderful!

It is such a joy to hear Kostas singing again! He always used to sing, but this was the first time I have heard him sing since we got here in September. This was his first evening out of the house, too. We told him, for the first time, what the doctors had said, that they didn’t understand why he was still alive, that it as only by the grace of God. So he has, and we have, much to celebrate and be thankful for.

After the half dozen troparia we adjourned to the living room, where a fire was blazing. Manolis added some more wood and we began singing Christmas carols. First, the old songs they had learned in Zoe, which are not church music, but do have religious lyrics. We sang something to the tune of the German carol, Süßer die Glocken nie Klingen. Then Ioannis suddenly broke out into, “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” in English, so as many of us as knew the words sang that. (I got as far as the first four phrases and my mind blanked out. Couldn’t even remember the next words of my favorite Christmas carol! Ioannis did, though: “Joyful all ye nations rise…”) Then, the church hymns proper, the ones that have been sung for nearly a couple of thousand years.

Then more talking, the women, about daily life, the men (and I!) about theology.

Then more singing, then story-telling. One of the favorites is about the time the boys (as our husbands then were and still feel themselves to be) accompanied a certain Fr. Anthimos to visit an old lady, who served them sweets. Fr. Anthimos’ piece, as they boys could see, but too late to warn the far-sighted priest, contained a cockroach. They could hear the crunch as the old man bit into it. Fr. Anthimos put it down, and in his high-pitched, quavering voice, said to the woman, "Forgive me; it appears to me your candy has crystallized.”

Midnight came; Thursday turned to Friday, and Vasilea disappeared into the kitchen, to emerge a few moments later with a box of chocolates, which she passed around, singing a little ditty to Manolis. “It’s his birthday!” she explained.

“I tell you very sincerely,” said Manolis, in English, “I had entirely forgotten it until this moment.”

So we all sang him, “Happy Birthday”, in English. (Did you know that is the most frequently sung song in the whole world? I learned that from some stupid game show once.)

More laughter, more singing, more stories.

Manolis has a very good way of bringing his parties to a close. He has us sing, Phos hilaron, “O Gladsome Light,” and somehow, by the time that quiet hymn is over, everybody knows it is time to go. One no longer feels like laughing or joking or talking or singing. You just sort of automatically get your coat and and hug and kiss everybody and pile into your cars and go home.

We got home early by Greek standards; it was only 1:40. We went to bed feeling it had been Thanksgiving after all. I’m not even going to tell you what time we got up today.

Digging up the Dead and Defending a Doctoral Dissertaion

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Demetrios went off with Stelios early this morning to exhume the bones of Stelios’ aunt. That’s how it works in Greece. Cemetery space is limited, so your unembalmed body, in a wooden coffin, is buried for three years or so. Then the bones are dug up to make space for another body. The bones are cleaned and put in a box; the box is put in a special building made for the purpose, with the deceased’s name and usually a photograph on the outside. You can keep the bones buried longer if you choose, but it costs several times as much as simply storing the bones does.

In this case, the bones weren’t going to be kept. A priest came, Demetrios says, and they prayed the memorial service, and then the bones, put into a large pillowcase, were dropped down into a large, underground storage place.

Afterward, Demetrios and Stelios went to the deceased woman’s daughter’s house, where they were treated to a light meal.

I had other, better plans! Christopher Orr e-mailed me last night to let me know his friend Herman was going to defend his dissertation at the University this morning and the session was open to the public. Subject: C. S. Lewis and the Fathers. YES! Never mind I might not be able to understand much of the proceedings because they would be in Greek. Or I might, since my theological vocabulary is better than my general. In any case, I would get to meet someone who was (a) Christopher’s friend, (b) an American, and (c) a theology student besides. And of course going to the Theologiki Scholi made this wannabe feel like Bre’r Rabbit being thrown into the briar patch. (Yes, I know, that’s pathetic. I’m a shop rat!)

Although the time and place had apparently been changed several times, Herman wrote that it looked like the session would take place at 11:30 sharp. I hopped on the bus at 10:45 for the fifteen-minute ride and arrived in plenty of time. You know, just in case Greek time might not apply to the University.

Wrong.

I met a very nice American man named John, a theology student, there to attend the same session, and we waited together a while, out in the corridor. Then we went downstairs to see if we could find any faculty. We found the entire faculty in a conference room and closed the door quickly.

“They’re still quarreling,” John said.

“Not quarreling,” said a Greek theology student, with a sparkle in his eye, “debating.” Okay, debating.

One time, the Greek man said, a friend of his was supposed to defend his dissertation at 10:00 and had to wait until 5:00.

It seems the faculty does not go by schedules (although schedules there are) but improvises, same as everyone else here. Ah, yes, now I realize, that’s what it is: Greeks believe in improvising their lives! That’s why Demetrios seldom knows what he is going to do until he does it. It takes a lot of getting used to for obsessive-compulsive types like me.

We went back upstairs. Christopher's friend Herman showed up and I got to meet him, too — thank you, Christopher! — and we waited another while. Then Herman decided to go do something else. (But what if the faculty should arrive to begin the session and you're not here? I wondered.That didn't seem to bother Herman. He must be more used to Greek ways than I am.)

John and I waited and passed the time in pleasant conversation. Then he said he might as well get a few errands run, so he left.

Demetrios and I both arrived home at about the same time (1:30) to compare notes on our morning’s adventures, and whether the defense of the dissertation has happened yet I don’t know! Because after what seemed another hour, I also left. There was no sign of Herman, or of John, or of any faculty member, and the door to the room was still locked.

Amazing.

Christopher, it was well worth it to meet these two people, to see the School of Theology from the inside, and even just to practice getting around this city all by myself. I had a ball!

Mandolinata

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Leonidas called yesterday morning, and I heard Demetrios making plans with him to go and “visit Mohammed.”

“Visit Mohammed?” I asked, when he had hung up.

“Kostas. I suppose because he is so imposing in appearance. Leonidas is going to come here in a few minutes and we’ll go together.”

“Is Ianna coming, too?”

“Just Leonidas. Ianna wants him out of the house.”

“Oh, I see. All wives feel that way sometimes, you know.”

“They do?”

“Yes.”

“Well!” Then after a moment to digest this startling news, “This is the first time you have ever admitted that to me!”

Everybody needs some alone time, dear. And we prefer to do our housework when you aren’t here, too.

So Mena had the boys all morning and most of the afternoon.

Demetrios says the difference in Kostas, even since we last saw him Saturday night, is remarkable. Hooray and hallelujah!

Last night we decided to attend a concert. We had tried, Saturday night, see a children’s theater production, mostly because the play had been written by Manolis’ and Vasilea’s daughter, Sophia. When we got there, however, we couldn’t see a single seat left, and there were children still searching for seats, so we left and went to visit Kostas and Mena instead. Mena told us it was the same play I had seen last year, so in that sense I hadn’t missed much. Her class at the university in Florina had put it on as their final exam in children's theater, and Mena had invited me.

Last night we had better luck with the mandolinata, mandolin concert, held in the same place. We arrived twenty minutes early (which is to say, at 8:40 p.m.) and got the last two seats, up in the balcony, next to the side wall. Worse seats I’ve never sat in. They were hard and so near the floor our knees were pointing toward the ceiling. There was no foot room, either. The concert was so much fun, though, it more than made up for our horrible seats!

The ensemble consisted of probably 10 mandolins, plus one bass, one flute, and four guitars. They made a very nice sound! There were vocal soloists, too, an indifferent tenor, a good mezzo-soprano, and a weird sounding soprano. Oh, well…

They played a variety of things, Vivaldi’s Mandolin Concerto, some French and Italian songs, ten variations on Mein Hut, Er Hat Drei Ecken, much to my delight, as that’s a song I learned as a teenager in Germany. The mezzo-soprano and the tenor did a hilarious number whose words consisted of “Meow” sung and/or screeched in several dozen different ways.

But what really made the evening fun was the second half, when the ensemble began playing pop songs, especially Greek ones. Gradually I began imagining the people around me were humming along, sort of stealthily, under their breath. By the time we got to La Paloma, I was certain of it: everybody, uninvited, was singing along! Before the end of the evening they were all singing at the top of their voices, including Demetrios. On the last song, the maestro began conducting the audience as well as the ensemble, making motions to the audience when we should clap to the music, when we should sing, when to stop clapping, etc.

Only in Greece.

It Was Bound to Happen (Sooner or Later)

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This morning we hurried off to our nearest church to get there in time. Hurrying is always a mistake, but we didn’t know it yet, so off we trotted, happily.

In church I noticed two things I hadn’t before. The first was at the Small Entrance, when everybody began singing a hymn that somehow seemed familiar, and after a moment, I realized it was the Christmas hymn: “Your birth, O Christ…” How odd, I thought, to begin singing that so early! But then, what do I know? There is so much of which I’m ignorant.

I must not have had enough sleep last night or something. It took half an hour before it dawned on me: this is the Church of the Holy Nativity! Hence they sing that hymn at every Divine Liturgy, year 'round. Duh.

The next thing was another, by now familiar hymn: the one to St. Demetrios! What? His feast was three weeks ago! Surely we aren’t still singing that!

Yes, we are. This is his city. In Thessaloniki, it, too, is sung at every Liturgy. Somehow I never caught on to that before.

There were about 1500 people crammed into that church, but we didn’t have any trouble finding each other afterward this time, thank goodness. This wasn’t a day when we each needed a cell phone and each needed a key, although of course one would have been nice. So, still ignorant of our mistake, we walked the few blocks to one of our favorite bougatsa places, where they also serve spinach pie, more appropriate for the fast. The weather is beautiful; it rained all night and cleared out the skies, and the sun was shining on us, with now and then a cat wandering by, the occasional leaf spiraling down from a tree, and there we sat, chatting happily, still unaware of the Impending Doom.

Okay, well, that’s an exaggeration. We’re still alive and well and no harm done, after all.

It began so innocently, when we got ready to leave the little corner eatery. “Where’s your key?” asked Demetrios.

“At home. Where’s yours?”

“You didn’t bring yours?”

“No, because I thought you had brought yours.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Are you?”

“I am.”

We just sat there, dumbstruck, staring at each other for a long moment, and then suddenly the ridiculousness of it all hit me so hard I began laughing uncontrollably. Then Demetrios started in. I suppose it took us five minutes to sober up.

Now what?

“Is Christos perhaps coming today? He could bring his key.”

“He’s sick in bed with a virus today. Do you suppose we’ll have to go to Katerini [an hour’s train ride away], and get it from him?”

Upon further consideration, we decided to go home, ring Thomai’s buzzer (our downstairs neighbor), hope she was home, and then, from her house, decide what to do next. Maybe she would have some advice. Maybe she knew a locksmith.

Thomai opened her door with loud laughter, wrapped her arms around us, and brought us into her living room, where two of her girlfriends were already sitting, Demetra and Soultana. Next thing we knew, there were little plates in our laps with baked quince and some of the chocolate I had brought Thomai yesterday.

No, she said, even a locksmith probably wouldn’t be able to pick the locks in this building. They are special security locks, Soultana explained, whatever that means. (We use one of those old fashioned skeleton keys you hardly ever see in America anymore.) Even if he could open the door, Demetra added, he would likely damage the lock in the process.

The thing to do, they said, was to call Christos, have him put his keys in an envelope and write our names on the envelope, take it down to the bus station, and have the next bus bring it here. It would only cost a Euro or two. Then Christos should call us and tell us what time the bus would arrive. We could take a taxi to the bus terminal and back, and voila!

Christos, however, said he felt better today and he would come. Thank you, Christos! So all we had to do was enjoy Thomai and company for the next hour or so. That was easy!

Demetra and Soultana were full of questions for Demetrios. Were there many Protestants in America? There are quite a few in Katerini. What are Protestants protesting? Are they the same as the papistes? [That's three syllables, accented on the second.] Why is their Pascha on a different day from ours? Why are there two calendars, and which is the more accurate, the Julian or the Gregorian? I really had to admire them, knowing how to make the most out of the opportunity of being with an educated man.

Thomai reiterated what she had told us last year, that Demetrios and his friends were always so pious she had for years and years assumed they were all Protestants. Today she said actually she had supposed them to be Jehovah’s Witnesses! It wasn’t until my mother-in-law’s funeral, when all the friends attended and did the chanting that she realized they were Orthodox after all! So we laughed a lot over that.

Zisis arrived, Thomai’s husband, and he, too, got a good laugh out of our predicament, and then people began swapping stories about the times they had locked themselves out.

It seemed too short a time before Christos rang the bell, and we hurried off with him, lest he give his virus to any of the company.

Back home, we each grabbed a key. Demetrios affixed his to his belt, although losing it was never the problem, and I zipped mine into its special pocket in my purse.

Then, off to Mena’s and Kostas’ for Sunday dinner, in Christos’ car (after having phoned Mena to be sure it was okay to bring him along).

One good thing about living in an Orthodox country (and/or having Orthodox friends) is, you know what to feed each other. Everybody understands what may and may not be eaten on any given day.

The thing Elpida (their daughter) complained of was, it’s been fish every day all week.

My rule is just close your eyes and eat it. It will taste good. It always does. Don’t ask too many questions. Today I didn’t have to. I could see what it was: boiled squid with macaroni. French fries and coleslaw on the side. A second course of barbouri (I think that's the word) a small, local fish, very popular, baked in the oven (I think), crispy and quite good. Just don’t look, as it comes compete with head and tail. It really was all delicious. We had clementines, a.k.a. Mandarins, for dessert.

We were discussing that play, Waiting for Godot, and Christos said, “Godot comes when a person accepts his life as it is and decides to be happy with it. Otherwise, Godot will never come.” Christos smiled a lot during the meal, which was nice to see, although later his pained look returned. He is often in pain from an ulcer. I said it was the worst play I had ever seen – in fact, Demetrios and our friend Vada and I had walked out at intermission – but it was also the one that made the biggest impression on me of any play. (I read the second half of it later; it is very little different from the first act, so I was doubly glad to have given it a miss!) Elpida was trying to remember who had written it, when Kostas’ deep voice, like a tolling bell, said, “Samuel Beckett.” It was so startling to hear the English name, spoken perfectly!

Now they’ve all gone off to the clinic, to see why Kostas’ thigh is swelling up again. Demetrios says he is almost certain it’s just drainage, and that the hole for the drainage was simply stitched up prematurely. Still, one wants to be sure that’s all it is, and not take any chances. I came home, courtesy of Christos, to write this and to take a nap.

Tourists, at Last (Sort of)

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After a day of rain and gloom, today shone bright, dry, and warm, so we at long last decided to do something touristy, namely to go see the Laographico Mouseio Makedonias, Cultural Museum of Macedonia.

As usual, we hadn’t walked three blocks before we ran into Old Friends, Stelios and Anastasia, who live very near us. They were just getting outside for a walk. So Anastasia linked arms with me and we chatted, and our husbands chatted, until we got to where our ways parted. They were going to walk along the waterfront.

That, of course, is the place to walk, because besides being beautiful, the promenade there is very wide and open, whereas everywhere else in town is an obstacle course. The reason is that when this city was massively revamped, in the 'Sixties, nobody dreamed Greece would one day be so prosperous that more than a few families could afford cars – much less could they foresee every family owning two! The result is, nobody made provisions for parking. There are no parking garages, parking lots, etc. Cars park wherever they can, and double park, and park partway on the sidewalk if necessary, and between them and the dumpsters (nobody saw those coming, either; they populate every other corner) and the illegal sidewalk cafes, there’s no good place to walk around here. Heading toward the sea is the thing to do if exercise is what you want.

We had just parted from Anastasia and Stelios when we looked up to see – another Old Friend. Nikos was in medical school with Demetrios. They were also together in Zoe, a para-ecclesiastical movement, and they sang together in the Zoe choir. Nikos went to Germany to continue his studies, and Demetrios met him again there, in Stuttgart, when he (Demetrios) was in the U.S. Air Force, stationed at the military hospital there. Nikos is an oncologist and a surgeon. Before he retired, he was head of the Cancer Institute here. He speaks English and German, so we were all able to have a nice conversation.

We had almost made it to the Museum, when we crossed the street and a man we were passing suddenly stopped, staring and staring at Demetrios. I glanced up at Demetrios to see that he was staring back. There was a long moment of silence while the two stood looking at each other. Finally, the man said, “I know you…”

“And I know you, too…” said Demetrios.

It only took them only a few moments to realize they had been in high school together. The man’s name was George.

Please tell me, how do these people recognize each other after fifty years?? They were only kids; now they’re senior citizens.

They hadn’t been particularly close or anything, so a few words sufficed and we finally reached our goal.

The museum is well worth the visit. It has a whole floor of traditional costumes, not only from Macedonia, but from all over Greece. It has another floor full of 19th and early 2oth Century technologies. There are two 20-minute videos, each with English subtitles, and the guides also speak English.

The basement was full of children’s drawings of what they had seen at the Museum, and it was delightful.

The whole place had once been a private home, a mansion, owned by a Jewish family. We live, as a matter of fact, in what used to be a Jewish neighborhood. That was before Word War II. What happened to them is similar to what happened to Jews all over Europe. During the German occupation, they were made to move into the center fo the city (with the connivance of the rabbi, according to rumor) and to wear the yellow star. Then they were carried away by rail, and mostly never seen or heard from again.

There's a synagogue near our house, with a Jewish school. Both school and synagogue are behind a tall, iron fence topped with barbed wire. There are concrete-filled barrels in front and behind the property, to keep car bombs at bay. There are two security checkpoints in front of the synagogue.

The Museum, in Demetrios' student days, housed a military school. Young men lived there who were studying to be doctors; the Army would pay all your expenses, food, clothing, housing, etc., and you would owe the Army 15 years of service afterward. Demetrios applied, but (fortunately!) was rejected. He had top marks in school, but the students who were accepted were those who had the right connections. (Demetrios' mother, who couldn't afford to keep supporting him, was so furious when he was rejected, she wrote a letter to Queen Frederika about it!)

Demetrios bought some postcards showing costumes, and then we headed home by a different route – which, however, had been taken over today by an outdoor market. I love these markets! As the prices of vegetables were half of what we usually pay, we bought as many as we could carry: tomatoes, bananas, chestnuts, romaine, green beans, eggplants, clementines (in season and very sweet just now), and fresh spinach, among other goodies. We’re all set for the fast, now, for a while. My tiny refrigerator, about 4 feet high, is crammed full.

After dropping off our purchases at the house, we went to a nearby eatery for a very late lunch. I had just finished eating when I noticed a short, very thin, grizzled and stooped man heading in our direction. He had a grimace that suddenly was – familiar! Christos. I waved; he spotted us and sat down with us. Unable to reach us all day by phone, he had been heading to the Bambolina, a coffee house where he and Demetrios often meet for coffee, hoping to find Demetrios there. That’s where they are now. I came back to put my new fruits and veggies in order and start cooking some of them.

The doves know when we get home. Don’t ask me how they know; they just do. They come right away to be fed.

They also know which room you’re in, and they come to whichever part of the balcony looks into that room, and they sit there on the railing cocking their heads at you as if to ask, “Where’s our food?” Who has whom trained?

Nowadays an intrepid house sparrow often comes with them. The male dove, performing his duty assiduously, usually drives it away, but sometimes the sparrow sneaks in unnoticed and gets a share of the spoils.

Demetrios is particularly fond of the sparrows. He wonders how such a tiny brain as a sparrow’s manages to contain all the information the bird needs. “He knows how to build his nest, how to rear his young, how to fly and how to land, and he knows what to eat and where to find it. How does he know which foods are good for him? Yet he does! Such a miracle, a bird is!”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KELLY, my sweetie! You are growing up so fast!

A Reminiscence

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Demetrios has gone to Katerini to visit his brother. Two friends of his are going to be there, who want to ask Demetrios some questions about a friend of theirs who is suffering from depression. I elected to stay home. In the first place, the conversation will be in Greek, but also, I think the proceedings need some privacy. (You never know, for example, who the “friend” may turn out to be.)

That leaves me Home Alone for a good 8-10 hours, I estimate. That’s good! Everybody needs some alone time. There’s plenty to do. That wind storm the other night blew all sorts of dust into our house! And the writing bug has bitten me, so I’m working hard on my book. And should I get tired of that, Demetrios took me to a yarn shop he discovered yesterday right here in our own neighborhood, and I picked out two different kinds of yarn. Of course, like any True Knitter, I have my knitting bag with me, complete with everything any knitter could reasonably need. So I look forward to creating something lovely, don’t yet know what.

Last time we were here, it was I who went without Demetrios to Katerini with these two friends. They are very nice. Chara is from right here, this very neighborhood. Paul is Greek, but born and raised in Cairo, Egypt. He later lived in America for many years, 30, I think, and when he retired, he came here – for the first time! He knew and can tell you stories about all sorts of famous people, like Aristotle Onasis, La Jackie, Maria Callas.

They want to take us to Egypt one day. They love it there and they say the Egyptians like the Greeks. (They do not like Americans, though!) Well, maybe. Maybe they’ll make plans with Demetrios today, for all I know.

The time I visited them, we all took a bus back to Thessaloniki together that evening, arriving about 9:15. Then, at the main terminal, they hurried me onto the bus to get back to my neighborhood. That was when one of my favorite adventures in Greece took place, which I here reprint from the journal I kept at the time. The entry is dated 01 June, 2006.



It wasn’t until after the bus had gotten underway a moment later that I thought I’d really better check what number it was. I knew I needed a 3, 33, or 39. (Thank goodness I had learned all the Greek numbers over the winter; before then I could only count to twenty!)

There was a young blonde damsel sitting across from me, with spiky hair and gothic makeup. I said, “Excuse me; what number is this bus?”

“Trianta-ena,” she said with a smile, and then, in English, “Thirty-one.”

“Ohhh, I’ve made a mistake.”

“Where are you going?” in Greek again, very sweetly, eager to be helpful.

“Hippocratio,” I replied, the name of a hospital in our neighborhood – and the name of the corresponding bus stop. (Yes, the genitive form of Hippocrates, the Father of Medicine, as in the Hippocratic Oath; isn’t that fun?)

“This bus will be good, then,” she replied.

Well, okay, but I had never taken a 31 before and didn’t know where it might stop. (Afterward I discovered it would have been perfect.) In fact, I had never had to get around town by myself before at all, so I sat watching nervously. Yes, okay, we were on the Egnatia, as we should be…we were passing all the elegant shops I had seen before…

Then the bus stopped, not even at a regular stop, and the driver said, “All out.”

I looked quizzically at the spiky-haired blonde, who said, in Greek, “The road is closed.”

Sure enough, there was a big ribbon across the main road of Thessaloniki, and blue police lights swirling. And as I climbed down onto the pavement, a roar met my ears, thousands and thousands of men shouting, chanting. I thought every motorcyclist in Thessaloniki under the age of 40 must be there, and quite a few over 40, too, many with girlfriends. There were not hundreds, but tens of thousands of motorcycles, with hundreds more automobiles, and all blinking their lights, leaning on their horns, and gunning their motors.

Flares were lit; there was smoke everywhere. Horns were honking; flags were waving, unfamiliar flags. In the intersection was a monument of some sort, and two men atop the statue were leading the crowd in shouting slogans and singing songs. A car sitting with an open sunroof had a bass drum mounted on its roof; a man was standing up through the sunroof beating it vigorously, keeping time for the chant. Other men along the route were functioning as more cheerleaders and traffic directors.

I didn’t know whether to be frightened or not. This was obviously some sort of extremely passionate protest; on the other hand, the guys looked peaceable; in fact I thought they were rather enjoying themselves. Several of them were taking pictures with their cell phone cameras.

Everything else had come to a standstill. Store owners and employees were standing outside their shops watching the commotion. You couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t go anywhere. You couldn’t even cross any street. Not only the Egnatia, but several cross streets were blocked off for blocks and blocks. More motorcycles were coming from everywhere to join the throng, traveling along sidewalks if necessary.

I thought about telephoning Demetrios; there was even a phone booth nearby; but on second thought I wouldn’t be able to hear him, or he me. Nothing to do but stand there and enjoy the show. How to get home would have to be worried about later!

I stopped and shouted to a young couple, “Excuse me. I am a foreigner. What is this?”

“You speak English?” asked the girl, shouting back.

When I nodded over the din, she yelled, “It is a problem with our football team.”

Then I looked at the flags more carefully. They said, PAOK, the name of the local soccer team. It is in some financial trouble and is scheduled to close down or be sold or something, much to the outrage of its fans. This was a gigantic pep rally! These were the team’s fight songs!

After a while, I managed to wiggle my way behind two teenaged girls who were determined to cross the street. Eventually, they did, darting in and out recklessly between motorcycles, and I was right behind them.

Once out of the major part of the congestion, I thought, well, we usually catch buses on the road nearest the sea, so heading toward the sea seems the reasonable thing to do. I walked a bit and found myself between the YMCA and the sports arena. Two policemen had cordoned off that intersection, as well. I went up to them to ask where to catch my bus, but they ignored me and kept talking into their walkie-talkies.

There were no cabs in sight; obviously they were giving this event wide berth!

I spotted a number 39 bus, my bus, headed in the wrong direction and unable to move. So I motioned to the driver, who slid open his window, and I asked him where to catch a 39 to Hippocratio. Pointing down a cross street, he said, “Go right down there, to the first stop.”

So I did, arriving just in time to catch the right bus!

The only seat left on it was facing backward, so sitting there wasn’t very smart. I almost missed the stop, only realizing at the last moment we had arrived!

It was 10:45 when I walked in the front door, and Demetrios and Christos were on the phone, worrying about my absence.

“Turn on the television,” I said, “and you’ll see why.”

Demetrios asked, when I had told him all about it, “Did you ever see anything like that in the States?”

I said, only the protests against the Vietnam War and never before that or since.

I went to bed enormously pleased with all the day’s adventures, especially with having met Chara and Paul, and having gotten home all by myself in adverse circumstances. Not bad, for someone whose sense of direction is totally dysfunctional.

November Day

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The sky is bluer than blue, the sun is shining so brightly you need sunglasses outside and your sheers drawn inside. It's what my mother-in-law used to call "the sun with teeth," meaning the cold will nip you, but it's still dazzling. The trees still have most of their leaves. You can hear dishes clattering as people get ready for their main meal in the early afternoon. "Our" lovey-doves are preening each other. Somebody's laundry is stirring in the breeze.

THIS, not that, is a perfect November Day!

Well, not quite perfect; for that, it should be 80 degrees outside.

A Pleasant Sunday

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For the first time since we’ve been here, we finally got around to attending our own neighborhood church yesterday. I like it quite well. They do things in good order, no objections. Afterward, we went for our favorite Sunday breakfast, bougatsa. It’s that crème-filled pastry made with fillo. It was fresh and hot out of the oven. They serve it sprinkled with confectioners’ sugar and cinnamon. Yum!

After that I began the first draft of the (I hope) last chapter of my book. It may turn out to be two chapters. Demetrios is also working again on his book about human brain function. He has made some milestones in the development of his theory.

In the evening we, together with Manolis and Vasilea, went to visit Kostas and Mena. Kostas looks much better than before the surgery, better than he has looked in years, as well he should, now that he has a new valve in his heart and it is pumping more blood than before. His color is much improved and he looks a lot younger than he used to. He looked so contented and happy. Mena was radiant.

The swelling in his leg, where he had bled so much, is down. That thigh used to be three times its normal circumference; now it is almost normal.

Demetrios and our two cardiologist friends, Andreas and Tasos, are still marveling that Kostas’ cardiologist never told him anything was wrong. They can find no explanation. To me, with my suspicious nature, it seems obvious. You find no rational or medical reason, you are left with corruption. Wake up, guys! That cardiologist was/is in cahoots with the surgeon who messed up so badly ten years ago! They are either blood relatives or koumbaroi or childhood friends or the cardiologist was being paid off not to recommend another surgery, or something like that. Because of course a second surgery would lay bare, literally, the willful, inexcusable, major malpractice of that surgeon who failed to finish the job. He had shown the extra lousy judgment of doing his malpractice upon, of all people, a lawyer, and it was important for him that Kostas die before it would ever be revealed. (Surprise, surprise! He lived! Alleluia, a thousand alleluias!)

As that surgeon is by now retired, and the need to put him out of practice is moot, I doubt Kostas will sue. The subject hasn’t arisen. But you never know. He once sued the School for the Blind to force them to keep him as their attorney when they tried wrongfully to fire him – and he won! (Maybe by now he wishes he hadn’t, as the School owes him 30,000 Euros and cannot pay it. The entire staff has been unpaid for more than six months now. Although Mena urges him to sue them, he won't, for fear of depriving the blind.)

The whole company all began to share memories of their childhood together. Mena, at my request, brought out some photo albums showing everybody in the high school and university years. Our husbands were all so dorky looking! I wouldn’t have looked twice at any of them, with the possible but unlikely exception of Demetrios or maybe Ioannis the Theologian. They certainly all have improved a lot since then; Kostas is very handsome; Manolis is even dapper and distinguished looking on top of being handsome; George (Pelagia’s husband) has also become dashing in his latter years. Demetrios I cannot tell because his face is my favorite in the world in any case.

Well, okay, Leonidas, an exception, was handsome all along.

With the women the reverse is true. All of us used to look quite a bit better than we do now. How is that – they grow better and better looking while we do the opposite?

A Blustery Day

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We are having a lot of fun today on account of the weather! It’s clear and bright and not too cold, but the wind is ferocious. Demetrios tells me this wind, which comes about this time every year, even has a name. It’s called the Varthares (Var-THAR-ees) from the region where it originates. It comes tearing down the mountains from what used to be Yugoslavia.

I suppose it must not be the strongest wind I’ve ever been in, since it isn’t dropping trees. But even Hurricane Isabel, which did smash trees into many houses in Richmond, and flattened cars, did not seem as violent as this wind.

One reason is probably that we are less sheltered from it than in Richmond. Our doors and windows are single-glazed and badly in need of weather-stripping. They’ve been rattling loudly all day. In fact, one of the doors, one of the sliding doors (!) kept blowing open – this despite the fact that the shutter had been closed over it. I finally thought to lock it. The wind still comes right through, blowing the curtains.

Then again, the tall buildings apparently magnify the sound of the wind as it comes screaming between them.

And everybody has awnings above his balcony. These are pretty well rolled up this time of year but a portion of them hangs down even so. You know the sharp crack of a wildly flapping sail or flag or tent. Well, multiply that sound by a hundred or so times and you get the effect. Also, our shutters turn into whistles in this wind; the result is almost spooky.

Above all, perhaps, is the fact that our apartment is right at tree-top level, so while pedestrians on the street, where the tree trunk sits motionless, may be vaguely aware that the trees are moving ‘way up there above, we are right up here where the trees are taking the brunt of it. These trees, still with virtually all their leaves (although they are beginning to turn yellow), are bending and swaying tumultuously, like huge waves. You could almost get seasick watching them. The ravens, who seem to have trouble landing in them anyway, are going to have a hard time of it when they come to roost tonight! I’m not sure why, but whereas other birds seem to pick out their branch during their approach and alight on it in one, perfect try, the ravens sort of crash land. They come barreling into the tree and seem to fall a foot or more before clutching onto a branch that will hold them. That’s in calm weather; tonight should be very interesting!

Occasionally we hear the sound of shattering glass (which reminded us to bring in our little wrought-iron and glass table from the balcony) or of things falling.

Christos’ tenant, the one who recently provided us, through the wall, with a live, x-rated sound track, moved out and Christos gave us a key to his apartment, across the hall from ours, so we went over and checked it out, too. Everything there seems okay, and everything on our balcony is secured (except one rag I had drying out there which blew away).

We felt very cozy, eating our dinner at the kitchen table, where the oven had been on for the preceding 45 minutes. Tonight we are going to have a traditional Greek soup of milk, butter, flour, and salt. You buy it dried and add water.

We may add an extra blanket to the bed, too.

More Notes on the Greek Table

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There are at least two kinds of fruit here in Greece that I never tasted in the States, and they are both delicious.

One is “Queens.”

“Queens?” I asked Demetrios.

“Queens.”

“Queen’s what? Queen’s crown? Queen’s slipper, what?”

“Just Queens.”

“Spell it?”

“Q-u-i-n-c-e.”

Quince looks rather like an oversized pear. You bake it with water and sugar and cinnamon and I don’t (yet) know what else. Mena adds cognac and orange juice. Vasilea is going to give me her recipe. It tastes somewhat like baked apples, but with a special perfume all its own.

The other fruit new to me is Lotus. Remember Odysseus and the Land of the Lotus-eaters? If you started eating the lotus, you would be trapped there and never leave? Well, perhaps it isn’t quite that good, but it's delicious.

I saw some at the fruit and vegetable stand the other day and I asked Anesti, the proprietor, “How do we eat these?”

“Peel them and eat them just like an apple,” he said. “They’re very good.” So I bought one, and it was so good I went back the next day and bought five more.

(“I was right, wasn’t I?” said Anesti, with a grin.)

They look like tomatoes, from a distance. They feel harder, though. Inside, they have approximately the color and texture of a very ripe cantaloupe. They are juicy and mildly sweet and do not taste like a cantaloupe, but more like a peach.

There are also pomegranates here, but you can find them rather easily in the States, too. I find them not good enough to be worth the trouble it takes to eat them.

Hint from Helen: Wear a bib when eating pomegranates, or at least do not wear white.

Today I made roast red peppers, copying the way I once watched Mena do it. You rinse off the peppers, toss them into a medium-high oven, whole, until they burn a little. (Your nose will tell you.) Then you plunk them into cold water until you can handle them. Cut them open, discard the insides, cut the rest into strips. Season to taste with lemon juice, salt, olive oil, and, optionally, a sprinkling of sugar.

Demetrios loves them. Christos, too.

Note to self: The main (midday) meal should always be cooked for three, not two. (You should have figured this out a couple of years ago.)

We've just finished our midday meal, and Demetrios and Christos have gone to the office of the gas company, to see if they can understand why we have been charged such high bills for natural gas when we weren't even here.

A Delightful Evening

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We are still in the “Demetria,” the days surrounding the feast of the Great Martyr St. Demetrios. Last night there was a free concert at the University as part of the Demetria. We went, in part because it featured Manolis’ and Vasilea’s daughter, Maria, as one of the two conductors. Her children’s choir won a silver medal at an international competition somewhere (Paris, maybe; I forget) and split the gold medal with China at the Berlin competition, featuring 150 children’s choirs.

It was a wonderful evening! The music was inspiring and the occasion nostalgic for Demetrios, who used to sing in the university choir. (This was not the university choir, but still…)

The program started with a children’s orchestra, featuring grade-school kids. But the beauty of it was, the two pieces they played had been especially composed for them, so were within the children’s ability to perform very well (once several adults had passed among them helping them tune their instruments). In fact, each piece consisted of exactly four notes. (Yes, I counted!) These were played first in one order, then in another order, numerous times, now softly, now loudly, now slowly, now quickly, with different instrumentation, and a very complete tympani section adding special touches – variations on a theme! I thought it an ingenious way for small children to be able to make very enjoyable music.

The children were dignified and mature for such small tykes; their parents, the whole time, waving wildly and gesticulating, vying with the conductor for their children’s attention.

Then came Maria’s gold-medal children’s choir, with Mozart’s Alleluia, the one you’ve all heard, beautiful. This choir sang three other delightful songs from around the world, and got big applause and bravos.

Then the whole conservatory, from teachers to adult students to the youngest, all together, with great gusto, played the two wedding marches everybody knows, the Verdi and the Mendelssohn, great crowd pleasers. The conductor said they were in honor of all newlyweds, especially two of the flutists playing tonight, and he introduced the young couple.

They had an excellent tuba player, too, which made me laugh, because it reminded me of Demetrios' tuba. Note to family and friends: If you have never persuaded Demetrios to play his tuba for you, put it on your "To Do" list. You are missing a real treat! He plays several other invisible instruments, too, but the tuba is his best.

We clapped until our hands were sore.

During the intermission, Demetrios began sounding rather apologetic that we hadn’t done more of this sort of thing; in fact, we’ve done just about nothing this trip. No side trips anywhere, no sightseeing. I said that was okay; we had looked after Kostas and that was the important thing, and anyway, “We’re very lucky just to be here.”

“And especially to be here together,” he added, and the tears in his eyes made me cry, too. (Play those wedding marches again, will you?)

“Okay,” I thought to myself when the intermission was over, “Now they’ve got the crowd-pleasers out of the way,” and I settled back to wait for the part one has to endure. You know, the part where the conductor thinks you need to have your musical tastes broadened, the esoteric stuff.

But perhaps the most delightful part of this wonderful concert was that it didn’t contain any such rot! It was all joyous, beautiful, and actually musical instead of cacophonous, all the way through.

The grand finale was Vivaldi’s Gloria.

“The one we listen to every year at Christmas?” I asked Demetrios.

“Yes, that one. And it was the first song I performed with the university choir, too. First Western music I ever sang.”

I just don’t know how a human being can compose anything that magnificent. More tears in my eyes. I turned to Demetrios afterward and said, “I can’t help thinking how glorious a creature is mankind! I mean, even in his fallen state, sin and all. To be able even to conceive such beauty, much less compose it and orchestrate it! To be able to play it, even to be able to appreciate it – in spite of everything else, how glorious is that!”

“Indeed!”

The next thought was, how interesting that the Western music made me think immediately of the glory of man! Never mind it is a doxology, viz., written to the glory of God. Well, to be fair, one can hardly think of the glory of man without reference to his Creator, and I did think about that, too—secondarily.

Thing is, although the words take the form of a prayer, you can’t pray to that sort of music. Well, okay, if you put our mind and heart to it, you can pray under any circumstances, but what I mean is, this music is not conducive to it; in fact, quite the opposite. For starters, it stirs up the body, which in prayer ought to be quiet.

The same goes for a lot of music I’ve heard in non-Orthodox congregations: not conducive to prayer.

We waited for Vasilea and Manolis and Stephanos, their son who is spastic. We hadn’t seen him since he and I danced together at his brother’s wedding. He came running toward me with outstretched arms.

We congratulated them on their daughter’s great musical gift, and before we parted company, Vasilea promised to tell me how she prepares the baked quince she had sent over to me a couple of weeks ago.

Demetrios told me that whole family is musically gifted. He used to envy Manolis, he said, because he could play the piano so well. “Not that I particularly like piano, but he was so talented, and I was wishing to be able to play an instrument. I thought I should study violin. However, everybody told me I was too old. I was twenty.”

I said, “The musical gift God gave you is your sweet voice.”

We got to bed some time after 1:30 in the morning. The last thing I remember is being almost asleep when I heard, “Are you asleep?”

“Not now.”

“Oh, good.”

“Good?”

“I’d feel lonely if you fell asleep first. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my love, and good morning.”

Lamb for Dinner

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Today I went to the butcher shop across the street to buy a shoulder of lamb.

I had to stand in a short line. Ioannis, the butcher, was weighing a piece of meat for the man ahead of me. He weighs it first, to know how much to charge you, and then he trims it up for you, removing fat and skin, and chopping it if you like. Well, in the process of chopping, about an ounce of meat flew off the chopping block onto the floor. Naturally, Ioannis left it there. Until the customer said, “I’ll take it. Pick it up!”

Ioannis looked startled, but the man insisted, “Yes, put it with the rest!” He was paying for it, after all.

I couldn’t help myself; I shrugged and said aloud, “Why not? The wife won’t know!” with what I imagined was a sly smile.


Ioannis said nothing.

The customer just stared at me.

O judgment, where art thou fled? Where art thou, discretion? They’re wherever they always are; I just never have discovered their hideout.

I didn’t much care; I chuckled all the way home.

Then I turned on my oven and went to work. The secret of good lamb, ladies, is to stuff it with fresh garlic. Chop the garlic into small slivers or spears, poke holes in the lamb with a sharp knife, and insert the slice of garlic. Do this everywhere you can. The more you don’t like the rather strong taste of lamb, the more garlic you need. Then salt and pepper it well. Put a little water in the bottom of the baking pan. I turn my oven to the 200 mark, which is supposed to be just over 350 degrees Fahrenheit, but with this ancient oven is actually an unknown temperature by any measure. Takes about an hour an a half or more to be done, done meaning the meat is falling off the bones. I cover it with foil after the first hour.

Only way to do it better is over charcoal!

Kostas is Restored to Us

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My ISP provider apparently went on the fritz for a couple of days; I couldn’t get on the Internet. I took my laptop to my friend, Nektarios, at his shop, Nek Net. He checked it out, no problem. He speaks enough English and we both speak enough computer to be able to communicate fairly well. Anyway the thing is working now and he put a pretty moonlit picture of somewhere in Greece on the desktop, too.

Kostas is finally out of the hospital. He was discharged Monday, the 15th day after his surgery and the 18th day since he was admitted. We went to visit him Tuesday night and he looks great. He looks better than he did, say, three weeks before the operation. He had taken a long walk through his neighborhood earlier in the day, and was planning, per doctors’ orders, an even longer one tomorrow. Glory to God! I had tears in my eyes. Kostas was all smiles.

Lots of people were there to celebrate, including his brother George, who had come from Athens, and his friend Demetrios, who had just returned from a 10-day trip to Israel, and his daughter Elpida and her fiancé, Panteleimon. Pantelis (for short) had cut off the top of his thumb earlier in the day. It’s going to be okay, according to my husband.

Demetrios (the friend, not my husband) regaled us with stories of his visit to the Holy Land. He told us a million Russian Jews have emigrated to Israel since 2000, and there were already a million and a half of them there. That, he says, has significantly altered the demographics, because most of these immigrants (coming from a Communist culture) are atheists or at best non-observant Jews. Orthodox Jews are now a minority in Israel.

(“Orthodox?” asked Mena. –“Orthodox Jews.” –“Ah, Jews!” This happens all the time; when you tell a person you are “Orthodox” you have to specify Orthodox Christian.)

Demetrios also told us an interesting thing about St. Catherine’s Monastery, atop Mt. Sinai. Apparently Mohammed came there once. Yes, the Mohammed. He found the monks there worshipping God and obeying the commandments. So he had a document drawn up ordering that no Muslim should ever harm the place, and he “signed” it with his own handprint. It’s the only known handprint of Mohammed still in existence. And it puts the monastery in the peculiar position of being under the protection both of the Holy Theotokos (as all monasteries are) and of Mohammed!

After a delightful evening with our dear friends, making them renew their promises to come back with us to America next year, Demetrios changed Kostas’ bandages, and then the bandages on Pantelis’ thumb, and we caught a bus for the short ride home.