Afternoons in Ithaka Page 13
‘Well, do something for them, Spiri,’ she encourages me.
In Korumburra, a community worker tells me, ‘The Italian women never come to anything. It’s really hard to get them to leave their farms.’
‘What if we gave them information in their own language? Perhaps I could invite some bilingual workers from the Cancer Council …’
‘You can try. But I really don’t think they’ll come.’
We organise a health day for Italian-speaking women, and there is so much interest, a bigger venue must be found. The women speak excitedly, switching from English to Italian and back again. They laugh a lot. And they bring food, cramming the table with plump Italian doughnuts, biscuits and pickles.
My days at work are full and I come home late. Every Friday, I make my way to Melbourne, where I overdose on its delights for two days. Sometimes Judy joins me. At breakfast, we all sit together and chat, Mum talking with her hands to Judy when she can’t find the words.
At other times, I go away for weekends: abseil down cliffs, snorkel along reefs, swim in the sea by moonlight. I avoid being home as much as possible. My childhood room feels so small.
My father rants, ‘You treat this house like a hotel. Stay home. Help your mother with the housework! You used to listen to us.’
‘I’ve got to live my life, Dad. I’m not a child anymore.’
We are angry at each other all the time. I feel guilty, but I cling to my newfound freedoms with a vengeance. I know that, despite his ranting, Dad can’t stop me going out. Mum hangs back anxiously, wide-eyed at this newly assertive daughter of hers.
When we are alone, she says, ‘What will people say that you are going out all the time? They’ll call you a slut. Isn’t it time you settled down? Got married? So many of our friends want to introduce you to their sons …’
‘I know who I am, Mum. I don’t really care what people say. I’m young. I’m just having fun. I don’t want to meet those men. I’m capable of meeting men myself.’
‘You’ll make your father sick. Can’t you see how much he worries?’
‘I can’t be responsible for Dad. He did similar things when he was young …’
‘It’s different for women …’
‘That was then, Mum. We don’t live in the village anymore.’
Back in Warragul, I slowly start to make more connections. I play squash and create recruitment flyers to revive the flailing women’s team; I volunteer at the neighbourhood house to teach Greek for beginners, making participants stomp around the room as they call out the alphabet; and I start having Friday afternoon drinks with my neighbour, a cheeky veterinary nurse who has lived locally all her life. I make friends with a naturopath in her fifties, a young gay couple and their children, and the eccentric Katya from Coco’s. I’m surprised at the type of people I’ve met living in the country: interesting people living their own lives, unpretentiously.
Katya and I establish early on that we are both obsessed with food. ‘Come over and we can have a Malaysian steamboat – we’ll dip fish and vegetables into the curry. I’ll show you our garden,’ she says one day.
I go to the cottage she shares with Elke and David. The walls inside are painted purple, peppered by mosaicked mirrors and bright paintings. Outside, a rambling cottage garden brims with herbs and vegetables. There’s a dog, three cats, and Coco the galah. The home is warm and relaxed, the hospitality generous. I recognise in Katya the urge to feed, to nurture, to create a home. I have a hankering to do the same, and wonder when I too will be able to make a real home for myself, one where I truly belong. But I don’t reflect for too long; I am brought back to the here and now: Ella Fitzgerald plays in the background; Coco squawks loudly; and a divine-smelling Malaysian steamboat beckons.
Katya’s poppy-seed cake
Serves 8
Katya has fond memories of visiting her grandmother Charlotte in Berlin on Sunday afternoons. They would sit on her balcony surrounded by the geraniums and eat Charlotte’s delicious poppy-seed cake. Katya remembers that the cake was usually still warm and always accompanied by a rich cup of hot chocolate.
Equipment
1 × 26-centimetre gugelhupf (ring) tin
Ingredients
300 grams unsalted butter, plus extra for greasing
A pinch of salt
250 grams sugar
6 eggs
150 grams plain flour, sifted
150 grams ground almond meal
200 grams poppy seeds
½ vanilla bean (seeds only, scraped from the pod) or 1 teaspoon vanilla essence
1 tablespoon icing sugar, to garnish
Method
Preheat the oven to 180°C. Grease your gugelhupf tin with butter. In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter with a mixer until it is white and fluffy. Add salt and sugar and mix until combined. Add the eggs one at a time and beat each for 1 minute on a low setting. Add the flour and almond meal and beat for another minute. Fold in the poppy seeds and vanilla seeds or vanilla essence.
Pour the mixture into a cake tin and bake at 180°C for 50 minutes. When it is cooked, remove from the tin and place on a cooling tray. When the cake is completely cool, sprinkle with icing sugar.
My language on Homer’s shores
The way of speaking honours the person
Greek proverb
‘Me lene Spirithoula. Eimai apo tin Australia …’ I stutter. My name is Spirithoula. I am from Australia …
What am I doing here? I cannot be sure of my place and I sit down, red-faced.
I’m in the epicentre of Minoan civilisation, where the palace of Knossos, legendary home to King Minos’s mythical Minotaur, gleams majestically in the summer light. But I will barely have time to explore its wonders – I’ll be spending the week with the people in this room, learning how to engage kids in meaningful discussions about drug and alcohol use, even though all I want to do is drink at seaside bars and dance on tables.
I’ve managed to secure a scholarship to Greece to research her preventative health programs. I am twenty-six and have been working in the health sector for a few years now. The scholarship represents a professional milestone, but more importantly means a four-month Greek sojourn, which I have craved. I’ve been living with my parents again, and although I come and go as I please now, I still can’t seem to make the break from my parents’ home into my own. Being in Greece is a chance to get lost again in chaos and passion and beauty, to view my life anew through a different lens.
Greece’s innovative health programs are few and far between. I visit the health department in Athens, where a heavy-lidded, chain-smoking bureaucrat laughs sardonically at me – You’re here from Australia to research our systems? – but I doggedly persevere, in between clubbing in Athens with cousins and planning which islands to visit.
Finally, I connect with a well-spoken educator who invites me to participate in a one-week program on drug education. If I cover the cost of my own flight and accommodation, she’ll cover the cost of the course.
‘We’ve just run one in Athens. The next one is in Heraklion, Crete.’
I can barely contain my excitement. My goddaughter, Chrysoula, whom I baptised in Albury when I was ten, now lives in Chania, a mere two hours from Heraklion. Another family friend, who grew up in Melbourne but now lives in Greece, has suggested we hire a car and go exploring. I imagine rocky beaches and retsina-fuelled taverna meals. I just need to do a little work before I can start my holiday proper. How hard can a one-week course be?
I am the youngest person in the class. When the teachers start speaking their lingo, I am painfully aware of my inarticulateness, my lack of anything to contribute. The course is based on a psychotherapeutic model: we are challenged to face our own fears, unpacking what makes us uncomfortable, what personal barriers stop us from talking about difficult things. I start to think the organisers must be sadists; even if we reach the elusive nirvana of self-awareness, we will be shrivelled shells of our former selves, bled dry by all
this self-examination. We break off into small groups to brainstorm and take notes. This feels too much like my work life in Melbourne, except that it’s all in Greek, spoken at top speed.
I can name all the herbs in my mother’s garden, the most obscure vegetables. But translate ‘subconscious’, ‘archetypes’, ‘collective consciousness’? We never spoke of such things when I was young. I discovered them for myself as a young adult through Jung and Freud – in English. I am astounded at the level of consciousness in the group and begin to understand what it means to be an educated Modern Greek speaker. I feel out of my depth, a fraud. Everyone is kind, but I know I’ve got to step up if I’m going to survive the week. I can’t skim the surface here.
Early in the first day, to break the ice, we are paired up and told to explain the meaning of our names to one another. ‘My name is Spirithoula. “Spiro” means to sow; “doula” means slave, or a handmaiden or midwife. Together, these words might mean a giver of life – a facilitator of sorts, perhaps?’ I feel proud of myself – what a clever interpretation.
The woman I have teamed up with promptly refutes my theory. ‘Spiro does not mean to sow – that word is spelt differently.’ She stops short of saying that my name means nothing.
The next day the onslaught begins again – this time, we are required to look at our own upbringings and how we deal with conflict. I think back to accompanying Dad to the pub; to family arguments when I slunk back, wishing for peace. I think about my own desire for self-determination, the battles I still have with Dad on a regular basis, even though I am twenty-six. It occurs to me I can’t keep blaming Dad for my woes – I too have to take responsibility. It’s a confronting thought, one I will need to digest. As the week progresses, I begin to talk about my fears and concerns, my family life and my role in it. I start to feel safer as, in pairs and small groups, others divulge their innermost thoughts too.
Back at the hotel each night, the middle-aged hotelier is very attentive; he has no idea of my existential angst, nor does he really care. He is more interested in luring me into his bed. He takes me to a tavern on the outskirts of town, where we drink Campari with orange juice from long glasses and feast on pickled octopus and sea urchins. I am not sure if I like their salty sea smell, but there’s something undeniably sensual about them. At least here I can lose myself yet again in the decadent pleasures of food. It’s a contrast to the bland offerings at the workshop: sandwiches and packaged juices, ubiquitous conference food, even in this little Minoan oasis.
Every morning, I sit through the agony that is ‘circle time’, when we spontaneously share our insights from the previous day. Sometimes we sit in silence for minutes on end. I try to melt into the background, become as inconspicuous as possible. But on the last day, before I know what I’m doing, I find myself standing.
‘My name is Spirithoula,’ I announce to the group. ‘At the start of the week, I wasn’t sure why I was here. I was scared, not sure what I had to offer. I have learnt a lot about myself through this program, and how I might become a better practitioner. Thank you.’
My voice bounds across the room, clear and strong. I can barely contain it. Where is it coming from?
I sit down. The organiser smiles at me. The workshop has shifted something in me. I feel very still, very calm. This is my voice. It doesn’t matter if I don’t get all the words right in my kitchen Greek: it is mine. Unbidden, a strand of poetry comes to mind:
GREEK the language they gave me;
poor the house on Homer’s shores
My only care my language on Homer’s shores.
Later, I ask one of the teachers about it, and she tells me it was written by the Greek poet Odysseus Elytis; it is from his epic poem To Axion Esti. She recites the rest of the fragment in Greek and I am mesmerised.
There bream and perch
windbeaten verbs,
green sea currents in the blue
all I saw light up in my entrails,
sponges, jellyfish
with the first words of the Sirens,
rosy shells with the first black shivers.
My only care my language with the first black shivers.
That night, the participants and teachers all meet at a local taverna for dinner. We sit outside under a grape vine. A balmy breeze moves across its leaves. Our work is over and we laugh and gossip about the week’s events. The facilitators make light of their heavy-handed tactics. They worked, didn’t they? The local priest has been invited along, as has his daughter. When the shared plates of calamari, horta and chips, fried fishes and tzatziki are finished, the priest’s daughter stands and we all fall silent. She starts singing a song made popular by Greek singer Eleftheria Arbanitaki. In a clear, high voice, the young woman laments that she needs to be touched, kissed, loved; treasured like old wine; embraced as one might their homeland.
I feel shaken by the beauty of her words, by the depth of meaning she has managed to convey. I try to stop myself from crying, but tears roll regardless. Everything that has happened during the week – the bubbling up of my voice, the breeze, the music – it all connects me to a bigger presence, brings me closer to myself. I reflect how far I have come in just one week on Homer’s shores.
Heraklion octopus salad
This ‘salad’ is more of a pickle. The cooking time will depend on how well the octopus has been tenderised. Traditionally, this was done by fishermen at the port by hitting the octopus against a stone. This dish is best served as an appetiser with tsikoudia (a Cretan grappa) or ouzo.
Ingredients
1 whole octopus, about 1½ kilograms, washed and dried
1 cup olive oil
1 cup red wine vinegar
1 cup dry white wine
1 bay leaf
6 black peppercorns
1 teaspoon dried oregano
Method
Place the octopus in a heavy-based pot, tentacles first. Pour in ¼ cup oil, ¾ cup vinegar and all the wine. Add the bay leaf and peppercorns and simmer over a moderate heat for 40 minutes or until the octopus is tender. Remove the octopus and place it onto a platter. While it is still hot, sprinkle it with oregano. Allow it to cool, and then cut it into bite-sized pieces.
Place the pieces in a clean glass jar, add the remaining oil and vinegar and mix carefully. To serve, drizzle with a little oil and a few drops of vinegar. This will keep for up to 10 days in the refrigerator.
Cafeneion laments
Better a drop of wisdom than an ocean of gold
Greek proverb
I spend the next day exploring Crete’s Rethymno, walking along the café-lined port. I find myself at the Fortezza, a castle built in mediaeval times. It feels barren, forgotten somehow. There aren’t many tourists on this windswept day. I wander into the newer parts of town where the locals do their shopping and come across a thriving town square. Young people nurse their iced coffees, laughing and smoking. I grab a piece of spanakopita from a bakery. The pastry is golden, the spinach and cheese fresh and creamy. I sit on a bench and revel in my simple feast, watching the passing parade.
When I get back to the hotel, there is a message waiting for me. It is Theia Kanella, my father's sister. I ring her back immediately. She is the only person who has my phone number at the hotel. She wouldn’t ring unless it was an emergency.
‘Theia, is everything okay? You sound terrible.’
‘Pappou died last night.’ She waits. I say nothing, shocked. ‘Are you able to fly back for the funeral? It’s tomorrow. I’ve been trying to ring you all morning.’
I shift into autopilot, thinking about the logistics of what I must do: make my way to Heraklion’s airport, find a flight to Kalamata, and take the bus to Kyparissia a few hours away. There is no way I’ll make it back in time.
I arrive soon after the funeral. My aunt and grandmother are still in shock. I think back to the first time I met my grandfather, a dapper man with a trim moustache, the mayor of the village. A man who was generous, who pushed his new daught
er-in-law on a homemade swing under the mulberry tree. The next time I saw him, he was still regal, sprightly, even in his early eighties. The last time I visited him, just before the workshop, he was quiet, removed; his spirit seemed to have receded to some deep, inaccessible place.
I ring Dad and he can barely speak. I feel his angst at being so far away, and imagine how unreal it must seem to him. It’s so much easier being close, being able to speak about Pappou, to cry and reflect.
My aunt and I stay with my grandmother in the village. The back window looks onto the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. We all avoid sitting in the chair where Pappou used to sit. I stand on the veranda and remember him smoking his pipe, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
We fall into a rhythm over the course of the week: cooking, cleaning and sitting by the fireside at the end of each evening. Theia Kanella is concerned for her mother – how will she cope here on her own? – but Yiayia is stubborn. This has been her home since she married; it is where she had each of her children, where her husband died. She is not leaving. The goats are long gone, so she can’t make cheese anymore, but she still has a few chooks. She can still bake. She still has her garden. She agrees to my aunt sending supplies on the twice-weekly bus service from Kyparissia, but this is her only concession. She holds up a familiar clenched fist, and my aunt knows this is a battle she cannot win.