IV
As I look through the bags, I notice interesting details: She has a big, old, fading umbrella around a rough, thoroughly weathered round wooden table, over which she has a "caminato". “Hmm, what does she cook here?” Behind the umbrella is a tiny shack, 5x5 feet, perhaps, door is open. The blinding light of the Cretan sun outside makes the inside all the more darker, can't see any details of what seems to be her on-site residence, be it make-shift. To the left of the shack is a large bench covered with an owning, old and fading just like the umbrella. Four large posts support the owning, all around which bags of citrus are hanging over nails, she probably nailed in herself. In a split second, I recall the good old days when I loved working with my father, who was a carpenter. He would give me a small hammer to nail in small nails. I couldn't believe how competent my dad was, he never hit his hand as he was nailing his nails with 2, at the most 3 strikes when I hammered my poor fingers with every other strike. I was 4 or 5, what could I expect at that age, but didn't know that then, I thought I was incompetent. My father kept on saying “Skill is entering you each time you hit your finger!” I wondered why acquiring a skill had to be so painful, but I endured all the pain since I wanted to be like my dad really bad. I wondered if she hit her fingers while nailing the huge nails.
To the right of her "yard", just before the steep slope down to the ravine starts is a make-shift sink with a make-shift faucet connected to the top of a water pipe, who knows where it comes from. Another car slows down. She is torn in-between the two customers. I encourage her to attend the new customers. I have seen enough around, I'd like to get to know this woman a bit more, if she is willing to talk, or rather if I can talk. There is clearly a life that is lived here and there must be a story behind this. Let's see if my "unborn" Greek will allow me get a glimpse of this woman's life. As she is attending the new customer, I choose a bag of oranges and a bag of tangerines. The fruit monster I am, I am sure I can consume half of each bag during my stay here, and I will share the rest with my hostess and with Peter, my colleague from the UI who will be teaching with me in Rethymno.
As I think of Peter, I can't help smiling to myself. I remember as if it happened today when I first met him at the Java House coffee shop at the hospital a year ago. He had heard and listened to Turkish music played by one of my friends in the hospital a month after his move to Iowa, then introduced himself to my friend followed with my friend referring him to me "I bet a child psychiatrist and a child abuse doc will have common things to work on". I had done search on the internet to learn about his background before meeting him. I had discovered Peter was the partner of the new president of a liberal arts college in central Iowa, the new openly gay president and ex-NIH veteran. Out had gone my vague hope of meeting a single man! Who cares, Peter turned out to be such a kind, fine, and fun soul. The moment we met, we gave each other a friendly and joyful hug. I invited them over to my house, introduced them and their two toddler children to my friends. They are now part of my circle, how heartwarming. Finally we cook up this plan of going to Crete together, where they have an old Venetian house in the middle of the island. I am so looking forward to seeing his house and spending time with the kids.
My vendor is sending her customers on their way with her "Na ei sai kala" and now is back with me. “May you go to good” what a pleasant wish, quite compatible with my philosophy. I incorporate it into my vocabulary right away when I learn from my friend in Rethymno what it means and start using it with the first opportunity and beyond. The vendor is back with me, probably trying to understand why I am killing time there. I ask her what her name is “Lenea” is the answer. “Poli omorfo”, very pretty, is my answer. She asks me if I am from “Ameriki”. Yes, I live in America now, but I am originally from “Turkia”. She gets excited “Oh, esi eine apo tin Turkia”. Even with her rapid speech, I can understand her. I can’t believe this, she speaks with the exact same accent as my grandmother’s. Already different from the accents I heard at the airport.
I continue telling her “my mother’s mother and father went to Turkey from Xania”, this I can say in Greek. I realize I don’t know how to say grandparents let alone both sets of grandparents. But this one sentence is enough to elate her spirit and bring sparkles into her brown eyes, for the first time since I arrived here. She is finally looking out, at me, with excitement and a bit of adoration? Definitely with warmth. She almost exclaims “Esi eine Elinida”. She is happy she found a Greek streak in me, for some reason I don’t mind, actually I like it! I chuckle and continue telling her “and my father’s mother and father went to Turkey from Xania”. Her joy is tangible, she is almost ready to burst into a delighted scream or something. I catch “Esi eine Elinida, 100….” I interpret the missing part to indicate percent. We start laughing together, I agree. Who knows I may indeed be 50-100% Greek after all.
She changes one hundred percent with her discovery of me being 100% Greek. Her shoulders are loose now, her eyes are totally on me with loving looks, her mimic muscles soft, her smile is real, inviting. She says with contagious joy “Ela epaye, kachse…. Eliniko café”. She is inviting me to sit down and I guess she offered to make Greek coffee for me. Ah, that caminato, that’s what it is for. Sure enough, she reaches to the make-shift faucet, fills her coffee pot with water, adds coffee, sugar to my liking, lights the caminato and starts stirring the Greek coffee. I am already sitting on a stool she has offered me next to the round table thinking all the while not to make a mistake of calling coffee Turkish coffee. Peter had already told me “You never ask for Turkish coffee in Greece, that is one of the most offending requests.” She pours the coffee in a huge coffee mug, that is the difference between Turkish and Greek coffee, I guess, the amount served. Turkish coffee is served in espresso size cups whereas Greek coffee is served in American coffee size cups. I try to propose we should share it, she won’t listen, she says she’ll make coffee for herself as well. There is no way but I have to drink this coffee now, I’ll pay for it with palpitations in a bit, who cares; it is one of the best Turkish coffee I’ve drunk for a while, oops, Greek coffee. Good thing, I just thought the thought not uttered it out loud.
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