Afternoons in Ithaka Page 20
Today, I happily leave the street directory on the bench top, strewn amongst school notices, bills and the morning’s breakfast dishes. I place guilty kisses on George’s lips and the children’s heads before heading off, giddy with anticipation.
We let the car guide us, heading roughly northeast. We leave the suburbs behind and the landscape gets hillier, the air fresher with the smell of pines and gums. We stop at a small shop selling crafts and Devonshire teas, where we finger purple crystals and dusty postcards. We debate whether it’s too early for scones. Yes, it is, but the smell is too delicious to resist so we buy some to eat later.
‘There’s a rainforest about 200 metres down the road,’ says the woman at the counter when we ask her what we might do locally.
We make our way along a muddy track to the forest floor and sit on a wet seat.
‘It would be nice to meditate here,’ Katerina says.
‘I’ll try not to fidget.’ I’m not good at meditating.
‘Just let the thoughts flit in and then out of your head, like we learnt at the Ian Gawler workshop.’
I close my eyes.
What will the next stop be? Will we be home by dark? I shouldn’t have left the chops out to defrost … it’s turning out to be a warm day …
The noises of the forest gradually drown out the incessant clatter of my thoughts. I hear the chirp of rosellas, the drip of moisture somewhere far away, the rustle of huge gums as their leaves stretch up to the sunshine, the wet foliage underfoot shifting and moving. It’s as if the forest floor is sighing, resigning itself to the relentless activity.
As the moisture from the mossy seat on which we sit seeps into my pants, the fog in my head begins to clear. I feel Katerina shift next to me as she makes herself more comfortable, her eyes closed too. I feel my breath slow and move down lower into my abdomen.
I am transported back to the memory of another seat, dry and hard, its legs embedded in baked red soil. Even now, I can almost feel the warm desert sand as it tickles between my toes. That self seems eons away in space and time; we were unencumbered then, sleeping in strange men’s caves and blissfully unaware of what lay ahead.
The forest breathes and sighs, breathes and sighs.
I wriggle, uncomfortable with the moisture on my skin. I wait for Katerina to open her eyes. When she does, we shift easily back into conversation.
‘It’s hard to place the sounds of the forest – where they’re coming from at any given moment,’ I say, disconcerted.
‘I like that. It reminds you that there are some things you can’t control.’
‘Yes, but there are some things we can control. Like my bum getting wet. Should we head back to the car?’
We walk back slowly. Inside the car, our conversation moves to more serious terrain. The lymphoma has come back. The prognosis is not good; Katerina’s doctors are saying that palliative treatment for controlling the pain is the only option left.
‘Spiri, I’m not ready to die. I will miss seeing my nieces and nephews and godchildren grow up, my friends and family …’
It feels like we are talking about someone else. A sense of unreality pervades the conversation. Katerina presses on.
‘I’m scared about what comes after, about not being here … will people remember me five or ten years from now?’
‘Of course we’ll remember you, you dill. How can you doubt it?’
We talk about things she wants to do, now that time is limited. Collate her poems and blog entries. Write letters to her nephews and godchildren. Update her will. Perhaps even organise a small fundraiser for the Leukemia Foundation – to give back to those who have helped her.
The car leads us to a small winery looking down onto a hill of grapevines. We order a ploughman’s lunch of creamy blue cheese, prosciutto, crusty bread and impossibly small tomatoes that look like grapes. I have a glass of wine and a coffee to finish. The smell of the coffee makes Katerina feel sick; I drink it quickly, guiltily.
We continue the conversation as if we hadn’t left off.
‘When I do die, I’d like you to call a few people to let them know. I have made a list.’ She dips into her bag and hands over a piece of paper.
I look down at the vines. The dark green and brown patterns are comforting in their simple, symmetrical beauty. It’s unimaginable, Katerina not being alive. It’s surreal to think about telling her friends, telling our children, that she has passed away. Died. Gone to heaven, perhaps. I’m not sure I’ll be able to find the words. Katerina looks at me.
‘I know it’s hard. And, who knows, it might not happen for a long time. But I just feel I need to be prepared.’
On the way home, we stop at a deserted roadside stall and buy some lemons, leaving our money in a tin. We move away from the sticky terrain of life and death as we leave the countryside, and slip back into comfortable banter. Little roads feed into bigger ones lined with massive homewares stores and hardware barns, service stations and takeaway food chains, marking the way home.
At the door, the kids jump on us as if we have been away for a month. There are toys and books strewn on the floor and they’ve turned the kitchen table into a cubby house. George has put the chops into the fridge. I kiss him gratefully.
Katerina sinks into the couch, tired from the day’s adventures. The kids clamber onto her lap, nestle into her bosom. She plays word games with them and listens to their stories. I take out the scones, lather them in jam and butter and put the kettle on.
Tina’s scones
Makes 14 scones
Tina Tasiopoulos is a school counsellor and scone connoisseur. She is also the mother of my goddaughter, Fransene. Whenever our families go away together, Tina is attracted to every little Devonshire teahouse and country fair. She always asks them for their scone recipe, and has consequently tried making scones with everything from butter to beer. She assures me these are the fluffiest and tastiest.
Ingredients
3½ cups self-raising flour
75 grams caster sugar
200 millilitres cream
250 millilitres milk
A pinch of salt
Method
Preheat the oven to 180°C.
Sift the flour. Mix all the ingredients together in a large bowl until the dough is light and fluffy. Do not over-mix. Place the dough on a lightly floured board and gently flatten it with your fingers or a rolling pin until it is about 3 centimetres thick. Cut out the scones using a scone cutter, clean glass or biscuit cutter. Arrange them on a baking tray 2 centimetres apart.
Brush each scone with milk. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes. Enjoy with jam and cream.
The Arrival
Age brings experience, and a good mind wisdom
Greek proverb
As we approach the island, I remember …
Keep Ithaka always on your mind
Arriving there is what you are destined for …
It is now the eve of my fortieth birthday. It has taken me this long to reach Ithaka’s shores. I feel overcome with emotion and relief. We are finally here.
Except it is not Ithaka we are approaching, but the nearby island of Kefalonia. The ferry docks, slowly unloading its cargo, and we realise we have got the wrong island.
My husband laughs at my mistake. I too am amused. I remind myself that Cavafy was speaking metaphorically. I check my high expectations, protecting myself from disappointment – but Cavafy has already been here too: If you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you …
When we finally approach Ithaka, she stands before us like a beast jutting out of a sullen sea, her 800-metre tip nestled in dark rain clouds, mist clinging to her sides. I think of a line in Arnold Zable’s book The Sea of Many Returns: ‘Ithaka. I cannot recall the first time I heard the word. It has always been there like an ancient longing welling up from the sea.’ I imagine Zable penning that line as the ferry approached Ithaka’s shores, the physical reality of the island converging with a more primal longing. His need, like t
hat of many before him, to capture the idea of Ithaka in words, to immortalise it on the page.
The ferry pulls in at the small harbour of Pissoaetos – the ‘eagle at the back’. We find a taxi and the driver, Theodoris, immediately asks where we are from. Once this might have raised my hackles, but now the question makes me feel at home. I have been asked the same thing my whole life in Australia: by other Greek-Australians wanting to know which part of Greece my parents were from, and by Anglo-Australians wanting to know my origins on hearing my name. It’s a question that seeks to place and define.
I tell Theodoris we live in Australia, that my family is originally from the Peloponnese and my husband’s family is from Malta. He tells us he has travelled all over the world with the navy, but has regrettably never visited Australia. He reaches into the glove box and pulls out a tourist brochure with a kangaroo on the cover – he really would love to visit.
We cross the island, passing moody cypress forests glistening with rain. We round Vathy Bay and wind our way up the mountain to our accommodation, the Odyssey Apartments – what else? Theodoris hands us his card: if we need anything – anything at all – please to give him a call.
The view from our apartment takes my breath away. The dark mountain opposite the bay, a sprinkling of houses dotting its side, is framed in the doorway. Fishing boats bob in the water below. Even though it is still drizzling, we put our luggage down and sit on the balcony. I breathe deeply, and the stress of travel – of catching early-morning ferries and late-night planes, being delayed by strikes in Athens and carting luggage through grimy port towns – dissipates.
At times in the past four weeks, I have felt like one of the harried wooden puppets we saw in a Sicilian museum. The challenges of travelling with children are fresh in my mind: sheltering in a wind-blown restaurant in Malta, just off the plane, jet-lagged and cold; lost in the rough-looking streets of Catania, my heart beating fast and the children’s hands clutched tightly in mine; tussling with George about who will piggy-back Emmanuel when he refused to walk any further. Without the structures and routines of home, we have had to learn anew to be a family. Now, I sit on the balcony and put it all behind us. We have finally arrived.
The next morning, I can hear George and the kids blowing up balloons in the room next door. I pretend to be asleep, feigning surprise when they bring me coffee and cake in bed. Once the kids have delivered their birthday blessings, they quickly want to know how soon they can use the pool. Would I like to come with them, since it is my birthday?
I watch them splash about in the freezing pool, the first we have come across so far in our travels. Not for the first time, I wonder whether we should have planned a more sedate holiday – Surfer’s Paradise or Fiji, the sort of trip I hankered for when I was a child. Instead, we have made them traipse around Europe, meeting relatives, exploring our family history, visiting enough ruins to tire even the keenest archeologist.
While they are swimming, I go for a walk to get supplies. I make my way along a monopati, a small path down the mountain. It is lined with fig and olive trees; their roots twist into the earth. Sage and fennel bushes blow in the breeze. Fat grasshoppers and bumblebees fly above bright green lizards. Everything is glistening, larger than life, bombarding my senses and filling me with joy. I am finally here, and I am not disappointed.
At the end of the path, steps lead down to a tavern that juts out into the sea. It is called the Paliocaravo – the old ship. Fishermen untangle their nets nearby and yachts with English and Australian flags are moored in the port. After the pollution and din of Athens, I had nearly forgotten that such places still exist in Greece.
Young guns on mopeds zip across the main road that rounds the port, while old men drink coffee in waterside cafés and women cart food back home. I bump into the owner of our apartment, who recommends the best places to shop for food and offers me a lift back up the hill when I am finished.
Later, we head to the taverna for lunch. We are welcomed into the dark interior and choose barbounakia, red mullets, and yopes, minnows, which are whisked off to be cooked. The kids add chips and calamari and I order horta. George and I toast our arrival with retsina. When the food arrives, the kids loyally pronounce that the chips are not as nice as Yiayia’s, but manage to finish them regardless. The fish has a perfectly crisp golden skin; the flesh in the middle is white and moist. We sit for hours as the children play at the water’s edge. We drink too much, just as Odysseus did on arriving at the shores of his homeland after his long absence: When they had poured libations to the blessed gods, they drank the wine as sweet as honey – just as much as each one willed.
The next day, I join a walking tour led by a stout Dutch guide, Ester, who has lived here for years. We start at the north side of Vathy Bay, walking past vineyards and olive groves. We soon leave the smart homes that line the port and climb the mountain, where the landscape is lush with spring growth. We pass a field of yellow asphodel flowers, their fleshy stalks bending in the wind. Ester explains that in Greek legend, the asphodel is one of the most famous of the plants connected with the underworld. Homer describes them covering the great meadow, the haunt of the dead: The disembodied spirits of common dead dwell, in the field of these fragrant pale yellow flowers, weeping, wandering around like phantoms, being confused like dreams. The ancient Greeks planted asphodels near graves, as it was thought they were the favourite food of the dead.
Further up the mountain, the ground is littered with collapsed stone fences. Outside one rundown house, a large dog is tethered to a stake and growls at us as we pass. Finally, we reach a one-room chapel, its whiteness a stark contrast to the grey detritus surrounding it. We sit on benches outside and eat our packed lunches, our backs against the chapel’s cool walls. Someone starts talking about metaphysics and the existence of God. We debate the issue, our English and German and Australian accents mingling against the ancient landscape. The sun beats down on us as we make our way back to the town. We have met no one in the four-hour walk. Back at the bay, we rest in an expensive café and I look at my feet. They are not clad in stout boots like the rest of the tourists. I order my drink in Greek. My parents were born not far from here. But still, I too am a mere tourist in Ithaka. I try to ignore the stares of the locals as we speak loudly in English.
Over the next few days, we are lulled into a soporific rhythm. We swim each day at a secluded back beach; we eat at the taverna. I feel like we are being seduced by the goddess Circe, who fed Odysseus’s men to keep them from returning home: On thrones she seated them, and lounging chairs, while she prepared a meal of cheese and barley and amber honey mixed with Pramnian wine.
For the first time on this holiday, there is no pressure to go anywhere, to see anything in particular – no ruins or relatives, museums or markets.
By the fifth day, we snap out of our stupor and decide to see a bit more of the island before we have to leave. I ring Theodoris the taxi driver. He quotes us a price for a personal tour of the island.
The taxi ride is like a potted lesson in the history of Greek-Australian migration. Did we know that since the late 1800s, more Ithakans have migrated to Australia than live in Ithaka now? He points to houses belonging to expatriates who return year after year to the island, in some cases third and fourth generation Australians.
He takes us to an outdoor folk museum set up by the late Stathis Raftopoulos, who emigrated from Ithaka to Australia in the 1930s but returned to the island many times. The display includes olive and wheat presses, towering obelisks and statues. A small plaque states that the museum is dedicated to ‘the memory of past generations who for a thousand years cultivated the soil of Ithaka, to remain here until the end of time’.
‘The island bewitches you,’ Theodoris says matter-of-factly as we twist and turn along steep roads to isolated monasteries and windswept bell towers. We stop at a cafeneion and go inside to borrow the key to an old church next door. The elderly café owner asks where we are from. Theodoris offers to sh
out us a coffee and a treat for the kids. I am reminded of the Greek word filotimo, which translates loosely as honour, generosity, pride. Theodoris is doing all he can to show us his love of his island home, and of those who have left its shores.
A few days later, we embark on the next leg of our journey, visiting my family in the south of Greece. When we say goodbye to the owners of our apartment, they give us a metal cast of Odysseus’s boat, decorated with ribbons and beads. Down at the tavern, the owner invites us in for syrupy baklava and tells us to look up her sister, who lives near my aunty in the Peloponnese.
On the last day, Theodoris drives us and our luggage down to the port in the early hours of the morning. He waves away our offer to pay him. I hand him our contact details back home and say, ‘If you come to visit Australia, look us up if you need anything. Anything at all.’
Taverna-style fried fish
Serves 4
Ingredients
1 kilogram small fish, such as whiting or sardines, and/or squid
3 cups plain flour
1 teaspoon salt or to taste
2 cups olive or vegetable oil for frying
Method
Clean the fish by slitting the underside of each and running a finger along the spine to remove the innards. Remove the scales by running a sharp knife against the sides of each fish, working from tail to head. This is best done outside, as it is a messy business.
Prepare the squid by holding the body firmly with one hand and pulling off the intestines and the cartilage that run down its length. Discard these. Cut the tentacles off (retain them) and discard the head. Peel or scrape the mottled skin back from the body of the squid and discard it. Pull away the flaps on the side of the body and slice these thinly. Slice the body lengthwise into ‘rings’. Rinse the fish and squid pieces and pat them dry with a paper towel.