LENEA AND CRETE -7-

VII

What could really happen if I accepted her offer to host me in her house for the night? I imagine we would chat here until dusk. Then we would secure everything around the shop and climb up the hill to her house. She would greet me into the house with delight and unbelievable hospitality. We would prepare dinner together. She must have horta, one or more of the more than 1500 kinds of wild greens that non-Cretans may call weed, delicious and so healthy.  The Cretan in me has found at least some of the horta in the woods, on the sidewalks, even in my back yard, over the years. I am sure some people in Iowa City are talking about this unusual woman foraging for weeds! Who cares, it takes me to my childhood memories full of sweet moments. The women of my family would make a picnic out of “picking horta” or simply put foraging. Female spirit at its peak of independence, out in the meadows, dancing with the spring breeze, kneeling down for horta that would become food for the family, that would bring health to everybody. We would return home with bags of a variety of horta, which would be sorted to “steamables”, to “sautaeables”, or to “raw edibles”, etc.  I am so looking forward to finding the real thing again, the real Cretan horta, on Cretan soil. 

Perhaps she would serve soup with “kreas”, lamb chops of highest quality with potatoes, tomatoes and rice or orzo. Soup is all I need at this phase of my travels as is always the case. At the height of exhaustion, that warm liquid lining my insides for some reason is so soothing and comforting for my soul as well. My best friend of my entire life Bill had learned this so well. After a trip, home partially meant going to his chicken soup with parsley, celery, mushrooms, potatoes, and lemon juice waiting for me. All of a sudden I realize how much I miss Bill one more time. And the pain cuts through my chest one more time; that I will never be able to hear his voice any more, look at his eyes any more, nor will I receive a warm hug from him anymore. I can’t believe it has been only 24 hours I received the horrible news of his choosing to exit this world on his own terms. I force my thoughts move away from that, I know if I give in to the urge of allowing Bill and my thoughts about him engulf me, I won’t be able to complete this trip, and I have to. Such trying times on earth, we never know what is ahead of us.

I manage to divert my thoughts back to Lenea, she deserves it at this moment. What would we do next? We would light a fire in her fireplace, she would tell me all about her son and daughter and husband and the rest of her family. She would show me their pictures. Pictures, yes… One of the most fundamental tools of creating a history of a place, of a family, of a person... The desire to accept her invitation escalates with the thought of viewing her family pictures. I recall how much fun my daughter and I would have looking at the pictures of our history together from Turkey to America. Every time we would both re-experience the challenges to a certain extent. But the elation that came from “But we overcame all the obstacles and here we are, happy and strong and together.” was the highlight each time. Every time I think of our camaraderie through the challenging years of my life, the feeling is a delicious bonding that I have with nobody else and sense she has with nobody else, either.

After looking at her pictures, she would make a bed for me covered with white linens with hand-made crochet or needle-point ornamentation all around, perhaps, from her dowry. I would collapse onto the white pillows breathing in the scent of local soap, olive oil based soap. I would have the most peaceful dreams. I would wake up in the morning to toasted bread aroma filling the house, to a bowl of olive oil, in which would be a block of feta cheese, to olives from her own orchard, to Greek (or was it Turkish?) coffee, to tomatoes in olive oil with local thyme, cucumbers, arugula, and green peppers, and to quince jam of her own production... Maybe she would allow me make Turkish tea for her. We would set the table on the deck looking down on the market, her own one-shop market beyond the ravine. We would top it all with oranges and tangerines form her own orchard. We would savor the morning breeze, the warmth of the sun blinking at us from the east. We would become true friends for life by the time we would start loading ourselves into the car. If she is indeed a Cretan woman like the ones I lived with and got to learn all my life, wouldn’t it be a fantastic story to have lived?


The bed I imagined Lenea would tuck me into.

Fortunately (perhaps unfortunately?) my cortex is gradually taking over. I can almost feel it slapping my daydream left and right to put off the flames: “Are you crazy? You came here to start a national training and intervention program. You haven’t even met your hostess, you are planning to stand her up at the hotel lobby to spend the night with this woman, about whom you know nothing? She may even have a mental condition. How do you know you will be safe in her house? How can you even consider staying in the house of a stranger?” Ok, Ok, got it, of course it is out of question, it must be. If nothing else, I can not not keep my appointment with my hostess that is to occur in 2 hours. “You win Ms. Cortex, let’s get going.”

I turn to her with as much affection as I can fit into my looks and thank her gratefully. “My friend is waiting for me Lenea, I don’t have her phone number (white lies are sometimes helpful) and we have to meet tonight. I can’t stay with you. I wish I could (I guess I just thought this, I don’t have enough Greek to express this the way I felt). But I will give you my hotel phone number and when you find your daughter’s phone number, call me and give me the number. I will visit your daughter in Chania and tell her you miss her and she should come visit you.” A bit disappointed, but she understands. I give her my business card with the hotel phone number scribbled on the back. She is content. I take a picture of her. I will send it to her. I try to imagine the beautiful smile that will cover her face the day she receives it. I smile. I linger around a bit more with hopes another customer may stop by to take a picture of both of us. Why didn’t I think of using the delay mode? Must have been overwhelmed with all the emotional stimuli. Alas nobody stopped by to memorialize our encounter. That’s when I decide to write her story to never forget her.

Difficult moment is approaching. We have to say good-bye. She gives me two additional bags of citrus. I want to pay, she doesn’t accept. “These are for my daughter, if you find her give these bags to her, if you don’t ….” I bet what I couldn’t make out was something like “May it be health to you” or as we say in Turkish “Afiyet olsun”. I promise myself to find her daughter even if Sofia may think I am crazy, silly, or whatever she may label me with. We look at each other, next thing I know we are in each other’s arms giving and receiving the warmest hug I never expected to give or receive from anybody throughout this trip. I give her the hug I wish I could have given Bill before departing for this trip. I caress her cheek, it feels so natural, she lovingly accepts. I collapse to the driver’s seat, I hate departures of this sort not knowing if there will be and when there will be a return to the departed. As I start the engine, my eyes follow up her big, strong hands resting on my window to her shoulders, to her face. Pearly drops are rolling down where my fingers touched her face a moment ago. I smile, her image is slightly blurry, she smiles.

This is the last I saw her, I thought it might also be the last to hear from her. I should have known better. Women of Lenea’s kind never give up; with their strong roots, with their powerful reach, they emerge at the most unexpected moments to stir up the most unexpected, unimaginable things in their lives and in the lives of everybody they touch.