Afternoons in Ithaka Read online

  ‘Your mother, she’s the one responsible,’ he says for the tenth time. Our guests look away, embarrassed. My patience finally snaps.

  ‘My mother is a good, kind woman. It’s not her fault. She has tried her best. I don’t want you to speak about her like that.’ I spit it out, vitriolic. I don’t care who this man is, or that I’m staying in his home. I need to protect my mother from his harsh tongue.

  I can see he is taken aback, but there is a new respect in his eyes. I am trembling, full of anger and frustration. I don’t regret speaking up. I remember standing up to the bullies at school and how right it felt.

  For the next few days, we skirt around each other. When I am ready to leave, my uncle sees me off on the bus. He kisses me on both cheeks and says, ‘I’m sorry if I have been hard on my sister. I can’t help it. I was upset. I have no home.’

  I look into his blue eyes, into the face that reminds me so much of my own brother’s, and say, ‘Entaxi, Theio. Okay, Uncle. I will have a talk with Mum and my aunts when I get back, to see if this situation can be resolved. But you must understand that this is not Mum’s fault.’

  He doesn’t say anything. I climb onto the bus and take a seat. When I look down from the window to wave goodbye, I see that he has already gone, back up the hill, back to the family home.

  Natasha’s fasolakia (string bean stew)

  Serves 6

  This dish is best made when string beans and tomatoes are in season. It is a one-pot dish, like many peasant recipes. It’s easy to prepare and the flavours are deliciously simple.

  Ingredients

  4 tablespoons olive oil

  1 kilogram string beans, trimmed and cut in half

  2 brown onions, peeled and quartered

  2 cloves garlic

  4 medium, ripe tomatoes, quartered and grated (discard the skins)

  1 cup boiling water

  1 teaspoon dried oregano

  6 medium potatoes, peeled and chopped into large chunks

  2 medium zucchini, quartered lengthwise

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Method

  Heat the oil in a large pot. Cook the string beans, onions and garlic over a medium heat for 10 minutes, stirring regularly. Add the tomatoes, 1 cup of boiling water and oregano. Simmer over low heat for 20 minutes, checking every now and then that there is enough moisture. Add the potatoes and zucchini and cook for a further 20 minutes or until the potatoes are soft. If it looks a bit dry, add more water. Season to taste.

  Serve hot as a main course or side, or cold as a salad. Best accompanied with crusty bread and a wedge of creamy feta.

  Naple’s finest

  You could sell the whole of Naples for a dollar, but nobody would have the dollar to buy her

  Neapolitan proverb

  ‘I have to take you there. They have the best food in all of Naples,’ Paolo insists. ‘It’s just around the corner.’

  It’s hard to imagine such a place in this neighbourhood. We’re staying at a pensione on a dingy lane full of backpacker staples: pizza cafés with spruikers out the front, mini-marts and mouldy laundromats. The houses on the street are in various states of decay. Our pensione houses tiny rooms, each with a wash basin and three sagging beds. We can hear suspicious scratching noises at night. My travel companion Kathy, she of the short spangly skirts that so terrified my father, is too scared to put her bare feet down of a morning lest her toes get nibbled off.

  Paolo is an Italo-Australian with a mysterious illness; he has come back to his native Naples for treatment. We met him in the pensione, where he has been staying for a few months already. I can’t even begin to imagine the state of hospitals in this town. I hold my tongue when he waxes lyrical about the superior quality of medical care he is getting compared to that available in Australia.

  Kathy and I met up in Greece and flew together to Rome. There we overdosed on tourist attractions and art galleries. Kathy has just finished a Fine Arts degree and is determined to see every notable piece of art between here and London, where we are heading. I am happy to tag along provided I can visit a few rambling markets and have a decent coffee wherever we go.

  Naples is a refreshing change after Rome. There’s a sense of danger in the air, an electric energy in the seedy backstreets and derelict shopping strips. Everything feels more intense: the tomato flavour bigger, the people more generous, the colours brighter beneath the grime. And now, Paolo has led us to the rundown café. It reminds me of the dark coffee shops frequented by old Greek men back in Australia, where women are certainly not welcome. He turns to us.

  ‘This is it.’

  Kathy and I look at each other. Are we going to get mugged in there? But it’s too late to turn back.

  Inside, we sit down at one of the tables. At the next table is a dark-haired teenager doing her homework. And at the next, a group of elderly men, smoking and drinking coffee.

  ‘Hello, Paolo. What will it be?’ a stout woman asks in Italian; Paolo translates for us as he orders.

  ‘Whatever you have fresh today, Sophia.’

  ‘We have sardines today, and spaghetti puttanesca.’

  Paolo nods. ‘And three glasses of the house wine, please.’

  Sophia places a pot of water on the stove in a corner of the room. She pulls out a newspaper-wrapped parcel, carefully tears it open, and lifts out the sardines. She runs them under the tap, tosses them in flour and salt, then switches the heat on under a heavy black fry pan. Soon the smell of frying fish fills the room. When the sardines are done, she removes them from the pan, adds a twist of lemon and brings them to the table. They taste of the sea, their flesh crisp on the outside and deliciously moist and white on the inside. She stands above us as we eat, pleased when we make sounds of appreciation.

  ‘Bellissimo, signora,’ I say shyly.

  ‘Grazie.’

  Next I watch her throw a few handfuls of pasta into the boiling water. She fries up anchovies, garlic, green olives, capers, a generous sprinkling of chilli and tomato puree. When the pasta is done, she tosses the sauce through and brings it to the table. On first bite, I know that I am tasting Naples’ best. Can it be possible for a tomato sauce to taste this good, so complex and simple at the same time? The spaghetti is al dente; the sauce clings wetly to it. Paolo looks at me and knows I have reached a higher plane. His look says, I told you so. The bill comes to just over five dollars each.

  After Naples, we make our way up to Florence, where there is beauty everywhere we turn: the architecture, the art, the fashion. How can I appreciate it all? I begin to hanker for less civilised pleasures; I want to get away to the countryside. But Kathy is determined that we follow our itinerary, and I don’t have the confidence to go my own way. We carry on to Venice, paying an exorbitant price for a gondola ride as soon as we have put our bags down. I love getting lost in the little alleyways, relying on my instincts to find my way back to our hotel. It’s hard not to get carried away by the mystery of a city built on water, like a mystical dream in a fairytale. We visit the graveyard island, Isola di San Michele, and I am moved by its eerie silence: geraniums and Cypress trees blowing in the warm breeze; the Franciscan nuns moving slowly around the austere church; the many thousands of marble and stone monuments to the dead. Like the Greeks, the Italians are practical about death, burying their dead away from the mainland for sanitary reasons.

  Our next stop is Cannes, where we clamber up a tree to see famous people on the opening night of the film festival, and pay handsomely for the privilege of sunning ourselves on the beachfront. By the time we get to Nice, I am tired of packing and unpacking my bags, of eating out, of going from one beautiful site to the next. We are staying at a backpackers’ hostel, and I ask the staff if I can prepare a meal in their kitchen. They are perplexed; not many visitors offer to cook their own dinners. But I miss the grounding pleasure of creating something from raw ingredients. They give me access to their freezer and pantry. It’s full of frozen chicken schnitzel and chips. I am disap
pointed that the ingredients are not more exotic – but once I am in the kitchen, I feel at home again. The sound of the pan sizzling with oil soothes my spirit. When the meal is ready, Kathy and I eat shyly with the young staff. We are united by a shared table, but language lets us down.

  Once I’ve seen so many Dalís and da Vincis that they could just as well be Miros and Munches, I keep track of my travels by the remembered taste of countries in my mouth: oversized lobster in a fishing village in the south of Portugal; pistachios in a bar in Seville, the whole floor covered with shells; coq au vin in a suburban restaurant in Paris; a glass of champagne at the Moulin Rouge. But nothing even comes close to the sardines and spaghetti puttanesca in Naples.

  As we move from place to place, I become fascinated by watching people on trains. In France and Italy, commuters flirt, laugh, kiss and argue. I stare openly, entranced by how different people live their lives. Many do it passionately here, it seems. I want to stop and stay for a while, experience these lives, live as the locals do. But we have to keep moving before our money runs out. There are gypsy children and refugees who try to steal our cash and belongings. At a border crossing, we are pulled up in the middle of the night for not having a visa. But we keep our wits about us, then revel in telling these stories to our fellow travellers. I speak with my parents only rarely and when I do, they are anxious. I haven’t told them that I plan to work in England, that I have prepared the paperwork to have my social work qualifications recognised overseas.

  ‘Are you still in Europe? Go back to the village. Better still, come back home. Why are you staying so long?’ Dad worries. But he also listens intently when I tell him where I have been. When I ring from Paris, he can’t understand why I won’t be going to the Palace of Versailles; there are so many treasures, so much history. I sense that he is envious; that he would have loved the opportunity to see some of the things I have seen. He probably would have appreciated them more, what with his knowledge of history. I want to say that my senses have been saturated by history, by beauty. It’s as if my brain can’t hold it all in. I think back to Cavafy:

  … may you stop at Phoenician trading stations

  to buy fine things,

  mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,

  sensual perfume of every kind –

  as many sensual perfumes as you can …

  All these ‘sensual perfumes’ have intoxicated me, dulled my senses – I have inhaled them too quickly. By the time we get to London, I am exhausted. The weather is grim. As the ferry pulls in past the Dover cliffs, I feel a sense of déjà vu, as if I have been here before. On the train to our hostel, I get the same feeling; people are reading their newspapers, quietly going about their business as they do on Melbourne trains. At the station, a voice on the loudspeaker instructs us repeatedly to move to the left of the escalator if we are standing still, to overtake on the right.

  I stay in London for two days. It’s long enough for me to realise I don’t want to work here. I’ve also made another important realisation: I can’t escape myself, or my family. It’s time to go home.

  D.O.C.’s pasta puttanesca

  Serves 4

  Our family ate at Carlton’s D.O.C. Gastronomia Italiana recently and I was reminded anew of eating in Italy: waiters who move quickly, flirt fabulously and down espressos speedily; simple, good-quality ingredients executed elegantly; and a pasta puttanesca that sent my tastebuds a-buzzing.

  When I approached D.O.C. and explained my desire to pin down a recipe for the fiery sauce and to get the story behind its wicked name, head chef Michele Usci wrote:

  ‘There are a few different ideas about where this sauce originated. Puttanesca means prostitute. Some say that this was a whore’s favourite meal because it was very quick to make, so she could go back to work without wasting time.

  ‘Others believe that the real story goes something like this … Late one night, some patrons showed up at their favourite restaurant in Ischia, an island east of Naples. The owner quickly explained that he was about to close and had nothing left to serve them. The clients, being hungry, replied, ‘Facci una puttanata qualsiasi’: ‘Just cook us anything!’ So the owner improvised with what he had left in his kitchen, creating the puttanesca sauce.’

  Ingredients

  Pasta of your choice, to serve 4

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

  1 handful Kalamata olives

  1½ tablespoons small capers, drained

  ½ small red chilli, cut in half

  2 anchovy fillets, chopped

  A few tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley, plus extra to serve

  250 grams tinned San Marzano tomatoes

  Parmesan cheese, if you like, although this is not traditionally served with puttanesca sauce

  Method

  Bring a large pot of water to the boil and add the pasta. Heat the oil in a heavy-based frying pan. Add the garlic, olives, capers, chilli and anchovies. Reduce the heat so that all the flavours come out and the anchovies melt. Add the parsley and tomatoes and cook for 5 minutes. Remove the chilli pieces.

  When your pasta is cooked, drain it, then mix through the sauce and garnish with more chopped parsley. Serve immediately.

  Warragul adventures

  Sit on your eggs

  Greek proverb

  ‘For the price you want to pay, you won’t even get something that Aborigines would live in.’

  What have I done?

  I put an ad in the Warragul Gazette: ‘Affordable apartment wanted to rent.’ My budget is limited and I don’t want to go through a real estate agent. Now, I’m standing in front of an elderly woman, a long-time resident of Warragul. She is the only person who has responded to the ad. I look around the room with the dark brown brick wall, the low ceiling. Her comment disturbs me, but my chances of finding another place within my budget are slim. I take the apartment.

  Back in town, there are a few elderly people shopping on the main street, some teenagers smoking outside the local supermarket. I go into a café with lace curtains on the windows and order a cappuccino. The woman places a teaspoon of instant coffee into a mug and stirs in boiling water. She froths milk with a battery-operated beater and pours it into the mug. My spirits drop further.

  I was offered two jobs following my return from Greece: one working with elderly dementia patients at the Australian Greek Welfare Society in Richmond; the other delivering health education programs with the Gippsland Women’s Health Service. The first was just minutes from my parents’ home; the second required me to move to a country town. I took the Gippsland job – omitting to tell my parents about the local offering. They were upset about my moving away, but they knew I had to start my career somewhere.

  The Women’s Health Service is based in Sale, but I will be doing outreach from the regional town of Warragul. I start my training at the Sale office and meet my colleagues. One woman, Judy, bowls me over in a loud voice.

  ‘Your name is Greek. I love Greeks. So much passion, such good food. I was there in the ’70s. I had a lot of fun. Have you been there?’

  She’s delighted when I tell her about my recent trip and insists I bring baklava to the next staff meeting, even though I’ve never made it before. Over the next few days, she takes me under her wing. ‘Now, you’ll find there is no good coffee in Warragul. In fact, there’s no coffee anywhere around here like you’ll find in Melbourne. Except at Coco’s in Yaragon. It’s run by Katya and Elke and David. You’ll love it there. Just tell them I sent you.’

  At the first opportunity, I drop into Coco’s. There’s a handsome, gentle-looking man at the counter and a tall, athletic-looking woman with a German accent making coffee. Through the kitchen window, I can see someone preparing food.

  ‘Um, hi. A woman called Judy said I should come and introduce myself. I’m Spiri.’

  ‘Ah yes, Judy. How is she? She hasn’t been in for a few weeks. Sit down. Coffee?’

  From the
Gaggia machine comes the tantalising aroma of well-brewed coffee. A woman emerges from the kitchen. She’s carrying a large cake plump with poppy seeds. She looks my way, smiles and comes over.

  ‘Elke says you’re Judy’s friend. Welcome. I’ve just made my famous German poppy-seed cake, from an old recipe my grandmother handed down to me. Do you want to try it?’

  I love this European way of offering food, whereby a special dish is recommended. I order the cake – it’s soft and buttery, with the pleasant crunch of poppy seeds. I know I’ll be back.

  Over the next few days, I settle into the apartment. My cousin John brings my few belongings in his courier’s truck from Melbourne. I hang bright pictures taken in Greece on the brown walls: me with a Santorini sunset in the background; on a gondola in Venice; a picture of my grandparents squinting in the sun. I cook myself a meal. And then I run out of things to do. I ring my friends in Melbourne, one after another.

  ‘How is it there in sunny Warragul?’

  ‘Quiet. I start work tomorrow. How am I going to get through the week? There’s nothing to do here. When can you visit?’

  It’s the first time I’ve lived alone. The streets are deserted and it’s only six o’clock. I’ve decided not to have a television. I sigh and pick up my book – at least I’ll get lots of reading done.

  My employer has hired an office for me at the local agricultural college. The next morning, I am greeted there by a burly, bearded man. He leads me along corridors filled with posters showing different grades of pear and breeds of cow. We pass pimply male students; there are very few women to be seen. I am taken to an office where the desk faces a large window; it looks down a hill towards a pasture dotted with grazing cows. I know I would never have an office like this in Melbourne. Maybe Warragul isn’t going to be so bad after all.

  My manager is in Sale, over an hour’s drive away. Although I need to attend fortnightly meetings there, I am free to define my role creatively. I introduce myself to people at the hospital, at the neighbourhood house, at the migrant resource centre. I run workshops on self-esteem for women who have experienced family violence, help organise health sessions for Koori women, deliver information on pap tests and breast screening to women twice my age, and teach young girls about conflict resolution. I scream up and down the highway, from Morwell to Moe, zoom past dairies and potato farms. Most of the time I improvise, flying by the seat of my pants – but people are hungry for information and forgiving of my youth and inexperience. And because they show faith in me, I blossom, grow in confidence. Over coffee at Coco’s, I tell Judy there are groups of women – Italian potato farmers, Greek fish and chip shop owners, newly arrived Filipino brides – who know very little about preventative health.