XI
The Orthodox Church in Chania
It must be okey for me to join the group. I enter the coffee shop with a “Kali mera.” They respond with the same. One of the men and the woman clearly look like working class people. They are more reserved in greeting me compared to the other man, who has a hippyish air to him. I ask if I can have a cup of Greek coffee before I sit down to make sure I am welcomed as a female customer. They all greet me enthusiastically and show me a seat at the table the two men are sitting at. I lower my pleasantly tired body from all day’s walking into the simple wooden chair with no armrests, how familiar. All rustic cafes and coffee shops, even some water-front restaurants use this very kind of wooden chair around The Water. The woman gets up to make my coffee, apparently she is the server. Something you’d never see in a Turkish all-men coffee shop.
I introduce myself and ask their names before I ask about the church. The hippyish one is Petros and the more modest one is Dimitro. Our server is Elena. Petros responds in great detail to my question about the church, he seems to be the more educated and knowledgeable one of the three. His relatively longer hair, beard and mustache distinguish him from the rest of my audience. Dimitro and Elena submit to his knowledge. I am pleased with all that I learned. My coffee now has arrived, made exactly the way I like it. I smile to her with “Efharisto poli.” She responds with a warm innocent smile. I appreciate the power of a smile one more time. I wonder if we should force warmongers and stagers of war to smile more to their perceived enemies. I wonder if they could still massacre millions all that easily. I know what a utopia it is, still I can’t help wondering.
Light tower in Chania
It is their turn to learn about me now. Petros finally asks me what brings me to Crete. I tell them my story. They all listen to me attentively, never fails. The more I tell, the bigger the shy smile grows on the face of pleasant Dimitro. He is tall, sturdy with dark hair, dark and slightly wrinkled skin from the unforgiving Cretan sun who knows how long has been beating up on his skin; hard to guess his age. When I am done, he utters “My grandparents came from Cesme”. No wonder his face has been lighting up as I was talking about Izmir. It is now my turn to spread a big smile across my face. Cesme is almost a suburb of Izmir, a fishing village of the earlier last century, now a summer paradise for Izmirites, right on The Water. “Aliphia?” flows all too naturally through my lips and my hand reaches out to his arm. Really, indeed, really? Am I going to bump into anybody who hasn’t moved here from Turkey, who doesn’t have somebody in their family who hasn’t been a victim of Catastrophie?
Non-functioning mosque in Chania
He tells me he would like to go to Cesme and find his family house. I do, too, Dimitro, I also would like to find my families’ homes. Hope one day I will, hope one day you will. We chat a bit more until it is almost time to leave. I ask the young woman how much my coffee costs. She looks toward Dimitro and says with a smile “It is paid.” Dimitro has a sheepish smile on his face, too. It is not hard to tell my fellow Izmirite from Cesme paid for my coffee, a sweet tradition around The Water. My heart is full of affection, I get up, take the step toward him and give him a warm hug. He is so big, even in his seat he is as tall as I am standing next to him. I know he is caught off guard, somewhat embarrassed, but I have to share my heart with him at this point. He sees what is in it, he responds to mine with as warm a hug, to my pleasant surprise, despite his shyness. The Turk, whose roots are in Crete and the Greek, whose roots are in Cesme are now one world citizen in that warm hug. When we untangle, the other two also have a big smile on their faces. I can tell they also witnessed a story they will tell many people in the next week or two at least if not remember all their lives just as I will.
Maria, the jeweler, hands out one of their business cards to me, I give her one of mine. After warm goodbyes with hugs, Sofia and I are out on the market street again. The lovely, small, personable stores line the narrow back allies and streets of Chania. They don’t scream at us, which I appreciate greatly. We vist several more of them as I fish for authentic nick-nacks for my daughter and friends back in Iowa City. Eventually, the time comes that we need to head back home. We will meet two lawyers from Athens tonight and will go out to dinner together. I am looking forward to that. We haven’t done anything about Lenea all day. That guilt and feeling of helplessness. I keep trying to calm myself down that less may be more at this moment and patience may be win win for all involved. With these thoughts we head back to Rethymnon and have a great night at yet another authentic Cretan restaurant, although I must say Stefano’s food was overwhelmingly superior to this man’s food. I still savor my horta!
I don’t know, yet that I will have several similar encounters during my solo visit to Chania on a day Sofia will have to teach all day. That Thursday, I will walk into a square with an old orthodox church... My Lonely Planet book doesn’t have much information on it. I want to use it as an opportunity to talk to locals, anyway. Here is a small coffee-shop that looks just like the shops in remote Turkish villages. The difference is that the latter would be exclusively for men. This one, on the other hand, has two men and a woman in it. This small difference between being a Turk and a Cretan, I grew up with and felt all my life. Women were allowed in all circles and activities of men in Cretan culture even in Turkey, which startled and mesmerized the local Turkish women at least in neighborhoods we lived in.
It must be okey for me to join the group. I enter the coffee shop with a “Kali mera.” They respond with the same. One of the men and the woman clearly look like working class people. They are more reserved in greeting me compared to the other man, who has a hippyish air to him. I ask if I can have a cup of Greek coffee before I sit down to make sure I am welcomed as a female customer. They all greet me enthusiastically and show me a seat at the table the two men are sitting at. I lower my pleasantly tired body from all day’s walking into the simple wooden chair with no armrests, how familiar. All rustic cafes and coffee shops, even some water-front restaurants use this very kind of wooden chair around The Water. The woman gets up to make my coffee, apparently she is the server. Something you’d never see in a Turkish all-men coffee shop.
I introduce myself and ask their names before I ask about the church. The hippyish one is Petros and the more modest one is Dimitro. Our server is Elena. Petros responds in great detail to my question about the church, he seems to be the more educated and knowledgeable one of the three. His relatively longer hair, beard and mustache distinguish him from the rest of my audience. Dimitro and Elena submit to his knowledge. I am pleased with all that I learned. My coffee now has arrived, made exactly the way I like it. I smile to her with “Efharisto poli.” She responds with a warm innocent smile. I appreciate the power of a smile one more time. I wonder if we should force warmongers and stagers of war to smile more to their perceived enemies. I wonder if they could still massacre millions all that easily. I know what a utopia it is, still I can’t help wondering. Light tower in Chania
It is their turn to learn about me now. Petros finally asks me what brings me to Crete. I tell them my story. They all listen to me attentively, never fails. The more I tell, the bigger the shy smile grows on the face of pleasant Dimitro. He is tall, sturdy with dark hair, dark and slightly wrinkled skin from the unforgiving Cretan sun who knows how long has been beating up on his skin; hard to guess his age. When I am done, he utters “My grandparents came from Cesme”. No wonder his face has been lighting up as I was talking about Izmir. It is now my turn to spread a big smile across my face. Cesme is almost a suburb of Izmir, a fishing village of the earlier last century, now a summer paradise for Izmirites, right on The Water. “Aliphia?” flows all too naturally through my lips and my hand reaches out to his arm. Really, indeed, really? Am I going to bump into anybody who hasn’t moved here from Turkey, who doesn’t have somebody in their family who hasn’t been a victim of Catastrophie?
Non-functioning mosque in Chania
He tells me he would like to go to Cesme and find his family house. I do, too, Dimitro, I also would like to find my families’ homes. Hope one day I will, hope one day you will. We chat a bit more until it is almost time to leave. I ask the young woman how much my coffee costs. She looks toward Dimitro and says with a smile “It is paid.” Dimitro has a sheepish smile on his face, too. It is not hard to tell my fellow Izmirite from Cesme paid for my coffee, a sweet tradition around The Water. My heart is full of affection, I get up, take the step toward him and give him a warm hug. He is so big, even in his seat he is as tall as I am standing next to him. I know he is caught off guard, somewhat embarrassed, but I have to share my heart with him at this point. He sees what is in it, he responds to mine with as warm a hug, to my pleasant surprise, despite his shyness. The Turk, whose roots are in Crete and the Greek, whose roots are in Cesme are now one world citizen in that warm hug. When we untangle, the other two also have a big smile on their faces. I can tell they also witnessed a story they will tell many people in the next week or two at least if not remember all their lives just as I will.
Maria, the jeweler, hands out one of their business cards to me, I give her one of mine. After warm goodbyes with hugs, Sofia and I are out on the market street again. The lovely, small, personable stores line the narrow back allies and streets of Chania. They don’t scream at us, which I appreciate greatly. We vist several more of them as I fish for authentic nick-nacks for my daughter and friends back in Iowa City. Eventually, the time comes that we need to head back home. We will meet two lawyers from Athens tonight and will go out to dinner together. I am looking forward to that. We haven’t done anything about Lenea all day. That guilt and feeling of helplessness. I keep trying to calm myself down that less may be more at this moment and patience may be win win for all involved. With these thoughts we head back to Rethymnon and have a great night at yet another authentic Cretan restaurant, although I must say Stefano’s food was overwhelmingly superior to this man’s food. I still savor my horta!
Olga and her friend are two lawyers, who work in the field of child protection. Two other phenomenal women, who do wonderful good work. I don’t want to be sexist, but sometimes I can’t help but notice one thing: Almost 90% of child protection related professionals are women and almost all of war makers, especially decision makers of wars are males. Why is there this disconnect? When and how did mankind hand in the game of war-making to men? When and how did caring and doing good become “commodities” at least some men looked down on? Will such women eventually be able to raise sensitive and sensible enough men in critical numbers so that mankind with its men can reclaim its caring about the wellbeing of all humanity not only the rich and the healthy and the strong?
Politics land in the middle of our conversation very early as it is a must at a table with Turks and Greeks around. We have to pass beyond nationalism and explore whether everybody is on the same line of appreciating that we are of the same roots around The Water and if we eliminate nationalism we can make the lands around it paradise. We certainly do pass beyond that barrier, everybody around the table is a world citizen. We talk about Nazim Hikmet, Pablo Neruda’s contemporary and passion-sake. We talk about Zulfi Livaneli, a contemporary Turkish composer with progressive, liberal politics, an important cultural bridge between Turkish and Greek progressives. Olga recommends me a film co-produced by Turkish and Greek producers: “Politiki cuisina” in Greek, “Touch of spice” in English. Better, yet, she promises, she will drop off a copy of it at my hotel after the teaching we will do together tomorrow. When we finally depart, I am so full of hope, peace, and love for humanity. I want to believe globalization and those whose minds are full of nothing but profit will not be able to say the last word, but the good citizens of the world will.
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