X
This is the simple but phenomenal restaurant where I had two spectacularly authentic Cretan feasts.
We meet the next morning, but no talk of Lenea. Should I ask Sofia whether she called Lenea or not? It feels so awkward, here I am for professional purposes. I already told her my story with Lenea. I expect her to inform me on what our plan is related to Lenea. I need her to save me the awkward appearance of being obsessed with a woman, with whom I had an hour of contact with nothing verifiable in what she shared with me. But Sofia doesn’t bring up Lenea to our conversation. She is all too excited about spending the rest of her day with me and I am, too. But what about Lenea? That is a question that will linger around as we drive to Chania, as we walk around town, as we look for a place to have “colochitha borek”, authentic pastry with zucchini, and as we check the local jewelry stores. Lenea will not emerge in our conversation. Eventually we choose a restaurant to have a late lunch at. Our server is a young man from Bosnia. I am surprised to learn there are lots of immigrants from the former Yugoslavia in Crete. This young man shares his stories about discrimination against his kind in Crete. How his accent has always been disclosing his ethnic identity. How he made a conscious decision to teach Greek to his children as their first language. Bosnian is disappearing from one generation to the next, it seems.
Venetian warehouses still in use at the dock of Chania
Oh my, can the food be this good? This good and this healthy? Even the lamb dish, which must be full of cholesterol, feels so healthy? Is it because the sheep that sacrificed themselves for us was grass fed? Is that why people lived up to 100 and beyond on this land? “Not any more” Sofia says, which her husband Michail will verify in the next day or two, despite his devotion to Crete. “Not any more. People do not eat horta any more as much as they used to. They eat McDonalds, fried chicken and all the rest, more and more. No more several 100-year olders in a village. Crete is changing…” Thanks to globalization and mcdonaldization of the world I think with resentment. I look at the raw horta that I just treated with a bit of salt and lots of lemon juice and olive oil a few minutes ago with more affection now. “If only globalization could produce you in its conveyor belts, mankind could have been healthier.” But it is not your fault, mankind will find a way through this storm of globalization, who knows when, but a time will come we will learn from our mistakes.
After devouring, the raw horta salad with lamb, fish comes along with steamed horta. We treat it with sea salt, olive oil, and lemon juice, too. My taste buds are celebrating a true reunion with what I used to have day in day out when I was a child. We sample lots of other dishes from calamari, to crab, to feta, to baklava and raki. Here is a difference between two sides of The Water. In Turkish cuisine, raki accompanies the food early during the dinner, baklava is savored on its own terms, solo. Well, when in Rome do as Romans do. I wash down my baklava bite with a sip of raki as Sofia does, we are on Crete. But I have a final request. I know this is not how Romans do it, but I will do it anyway. I wave at the restaurant owner, who is hanging around to make sure he responds to customers readily. He is surprised, he thought we were done, just like Sofia did. “Will you bring me another serving of the steamed horta please, that will be my real dessert.” The restaurant owner is smiling trying to conceal a laughter, Sofia doesn’t. She cracks up with a barely audible “You are a true Cretan, aren’t you?” I nod, “You’d better believe it, I want to leave this table with the top notch flavor on my palate.” We both crack up.
After enough has been said, unexpected welcomed rapport has been built, I feel like “I can tell her about Lenea, now.” and I do. She is in an affectionate and appreciative disbelief. Good, she at least doesn’t think I am insane. I ask her whether she can give her a call to understand fully what Lenea needs since I am sure there are lots of gaps in what I was able to understand. She says she will. We plan our day for the following day. She has to teach until 10:30 and will pick me up at 11 to head to Chania. I give her the phone number Lenea gave me. We walk back to my hotel, part with warm hugs and I head up to my room, she to her house.
We meet the next morning, but no talk of Lenea. Should I ask Sofia whether she called Lenea or not? It feels so awkward, here I am for professional purposes. I already told her my story with Lenea. I expect her to inform me on what our plan is related to Lenea. I need her to save me the awkward appearance of being obsessed with a woman, with whom I had an hour of contact with nothing verifiable in what she shared with me. But Sofia doesn’t bring up Lenea to our conversation. She is all too excited about spending the rest of her day with me and I am, too. But what about Lenea? That is a question that will linger around as we drive to Chania, as we walk around town, as we look for a place to have “colochitha borek”, authentic pastry with zucchini, and as we check the local jewelry stores. Lenea will not emerge in our conversation. Eventually we choose a restaurant to have a late lunch at. Our server is a young man from Bosnia. I am surprised to learn there are lots of immigrants from the former Yugoslavia in Crete. This young man shares his stories about discrimination against his kind in Crete. How his accent has always been disclosing his ethnic identity. How he made a conscious decision to teach Greek to his children as their first language. Bosnian is disappearing from one generation to the next, it seems.
Venetian warehouses still in use at the dock of Chania
I can’t help but think of how the same dynamic is at work with many of my Turkish friends in America. All of us adult Turks are first generation immigrants having a degree of an accent. Some of them make a conscious decision to make English their children’s mother tongue. Something I never agreed with, but I respect their decision for their families; how can I know what motivates them to allow, in fact support their children leave their mother tongue and culture behind to fully integrate into the American culture. Having taken the challenging path all my life (sometimes I wonder what is wrong with me), I had made a conscious decision on keeping Turkish the language of the household when my 13 year-old daughter and I had moved to the USA. To me, a language is not simply being able to say things in just with a different set of words and rules. It opens the door to or keeps it open to a culture, allows ongoing connection with the people of the land of the language. One good expression in Turkish says “One language is one man” meaning, however many languages you speak, that is how many men you will become. I always believed, “When one is freely immersed in a culture, acquiring the language of the new land with some effort will come naturally.” My daughter proved me right, I am so at peace that she is not only bilingual but also bi-cultural with no limitation in her adaptability to either culture and language. She was upset with me, of course, for some time for putting her through the difficulties of immigration at such a tender and critical age. Those days are all behind us now. She has grown only stronger with what didn’t kill her. Kudos to you for that Zeyno’cum.
The street where I bumped into a displaced Turkish Greek at a jewelry store
We are now at a jewelry store run by a family. Sofia allows me practice my broken Greek. It is such a pleasure to see shopkeepers enjoy my effort, sometimes as miserable as they make me look, I don’t give up. My grandmother’s voice in my ears: “You are a Cretan girl, you have to learn our language.” I have learned, the quickest way to finding Greek Turks is to tell them a brief version of the story of my grandparents, it never fails: “Oh, catastorophie, my grandparents, too.” And they start telling me where their people came from in Turkey, how they went back and found their family home and became friends with the current Turkish owners, on and on. When the mother-shopkeeper Maria listens to my story, her face lights up. With a big smile she declares “My husband is from Urla.” Oh my, Urla, the quaint little fishing village half an hour from Izmir. She tells me the story of her husband going back to Urla, finding his family home, staying with the current owners in the very house where his father grew up. This is how Turks and Greeks relate to each other despite what the governments try to stage on their own theater. My heart is full of warmth. I ask whether I can meet her husband. Unfortunately he is out town not to return for a week. Next time, “make sure we plan on meeting ahead of time, my husband can help you find your people’s house.” My heart is full of hope. There will be a next visit to Crete, for sure.
Beautiful Chania, the land of my people.
We are now at a jewelry store run by a family. Sofia allows me practice my broken Greek. It is such a pleasure to see shopkeepers enjoy my effort, sometimes as miserable as they make me look, I don’t give up. My grandmother’s voice in my ears: “You are a Cretan girl, you have to learn our language.” I have learned, the quickest way to finding Greek Turks is to tell them a brief version of the story of my grandparents, it never fails: “Oh, catastorophie, my grandparents, too.” And they start telling me where their people came from in Turkey, how they went back and found their family home and became friends with the current Turkish owners, on and on. When the mother-shopkeeper Maria listens to my story, her face lights up. With a big smile she declares “My husband is from Urla.” Oh my, Urla, the quaint little fishing village half an hour from Izmir. She tells me the story of her husband going back to Urla, finding his family home, staying with the current owners in the very house where his father grew up. This is how Turks and Greeks relate to each other despite what the governments try to stage on their own theater. My heart is full of warmth. I ask whether I can meet her husband. Unfortunately he is out town not to return for a week. Next time, “make sure we plan on meeting ahead of time, my husband can help you find your people’s house.” My heart is full of hope. There will be a next visit to Crete, for sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment