Spanikopita 
 
 
 

      Sophie and I sit at the kitchen table folding spanikopita as everyone hovers around the hummus and tzatziki yelling. Don’t get me wrong-when most people hear yelling, they immediately think of anger, but in my family nobody is mad, they are just loud people.  My aunt turns to me.

      “ So Anna, you got a boyfriend now or what?”

      “Uh, no…I don’t.”

      I am 11 years old, a boyfriend is hardly what’s on my mind.

      “It’s all right, I won’t tell your mom. You know, you should test those boys out before you end up marrying someone like Tom here.” She says referring to her husband who I’m sure heard her even though he’s standing across the room.

      I smile, not knowing how to respond. I look over at Tom-my mom is showing him the place where she had to cut a hole in the ceiling to fix a leaky pipe. Tom is listening as she points and talks. I don’t see why he’s so bad.

      I go back to folding the delicate paper-thin phyllo dough into little triangles, trying to make each one more perfect than the last.  I’m so engulfed that I almost don’t hear the noise around me.  The spanikopita is the only real connection I have with my Greek culture. My pale pink skin and blonde hair stands out against my family’s olive complexion; my quiet, reserved manner is mysterious to them; and now that my grandfather has lost his English I can no longer even communicate with him. 
 

…………………………………………. 
 

      A year later and I am on a plane to Greece. My brothers next to me, my mom and Janet a few rows back.  My brothers are arguing over which Indiana Jones movie came first. As usual Mike is telling Will he is wrong, and I’m pretty sure Will is right. However, I know better than to get in the middle of it.

      I wake up as we land in Athens.  As I step onto the street, the cars whizzing past shatter my images of a relaxed old city.

      “Pu pameh?” A cab driver shouts at us from across the street.  He is a short, scruffy guy wearing a golfer’s cap. My mom gives an address and he is already grabbing our bags.

      “Get in, get in,” he says, realizing now that we are Americans.

      The whole taxi ride I gaze out the window, searching for redeeming qualities.  I feel an obligation to love this city, but all I can see are grey-washed buildings and construction sites. I see old stone buildings carved with alphas, deltas, phis, and sigmas.  I tell myself that they are beautiful, but all I can really see is the McDonalds next-door.

      Our hotel is a narrow yellowed building squished up against its neighbors, the lobby too small for the five of us to fit in at one time.  It is a homey place with wood floors, real blankets, and shutters on the windows. The windows look into alleyways where laundry is strung between the buildings next door. I barely unpack my bags before I jump into bed, hoping when I wake up in the morning that I will like the rest of the city as much as our hotel.

      Instead I wake to the blaring of car horns outside my window. There is a dog standing frightened in the middle of the street. In Athens the streets are covered with stray dogs, begging pathetically for a bite to eat. These dogs seem to have some sort of sixth sense with which they can pick out tourists from across the street. Then once they’ve latched on, there is no way of getting rid of them.

      I bet they learned it from the business owners. Every restaurant, every store has someone standing outside, pulling you in. “I’ve got something special for you, come look,” they say in their broken English. Or sometimes they simply say “The best,” as they corner you in.  I could feel them trying to suck the money out of my pockets.

      Lucky for me, Athens is only a short stop on our trip. I spend the next few days lost in the heat and smog and before I know it we are on a bus to Lefkas, the island where my grandfather is from. The seat next to me is empty so I have room to lie down. The ride is like any other Greyhound bus ride I have been on in the states.  It is long, uncomfortable, and makes me feel extremely homesick. Images pop into my head of my friends back home. I see them in Gaba’s hot tub, or going out to dinner. I try to push them out, but as we arrive in Lefkas they are still surrounding me.

      The bus stops right before a drawbridge. My family and an old couple are the only people who get off. I grab all my stuff and follow my mom across the bridge. We walk straight ahead to find a reddish-brown house surrounded by a field of wheat colored grass. It is “the” red house. It is the only house on the northern tip of Lefkas. Everyone from the town knows it not only because it is painted red, but because the ferry passes the house as it comes in to the island. The red house sits alone, separated from the town by a lagoon. For a long time a photograph sat in our front hallway that was of a door propped open with a rock, and a faint bed in the background. This photo was the only image I associated with the red house. I had heard it referred to so many times, and I had come up with my own picture of it in my mind.

      Finally, here I am.

      We set down our stuff, and head into town for dinner. As we enter the town, the first thing we see is the Hotel Lefkada. The Hotel Lefkada stands stories above its surrounding buildings. It has a large outdoor patio with a single woman sitting. She is a large woman, with fake blonde hair, dripping in gold. As we approach my mom says to us,

      “That’s Ana.”

      Having no idea who Ana is, we all follow my mom over to talk to her.

      “Ana, I’m Zoe, Zoe Kalkanis, George’s daughter.”

      “OOOOHHHH, Zoe!!” she replies, her voice bubbly, and her perfume overwhelming. “Zoe, how is George? When did you come here? I will show you around!” she instructs.

      Within just moments we are following her to an almond grove. All I see is a large wooden fence. She pushes the gate open into a lush green field. The field has a couple white tables set up with a few adults sitting, and children running around. There is a narrow white house, and surrounding it all is rows and rows of almond trees.  We sit at a table and she orders everyone sweet almond milk. It is as if we’ve entered some sort of secret garden. Only the locals know of it, yet it is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. My mom, Janet, and Ana share stories about my grandfather, my brothers talk about baseball, and I just sit back, letting it all soak in.

…………………………………………… 
 

      My brother woke me up at 7:00 in the morning. I come out of my room to find him tromping out of the house with a box of Cheerios, dressed in his fishing shorts, a wife beater and a huge smile.

    “Where you going?”

    “I’m going to catch us some dinner.”

    “Oh…Lemme get some cereal before you leave.” I say, still half asleep and not actually listening to his words.

      As I sit in the drafty kitchen eating my Cheerios, I start to wonder what the hell he is doing out there. “Going to catch us some dinner”? He keeps appearing in the corner of the window, grabbing a handful of Cheerios and disappearing again.  I watch him do this seven or eight times before I pick up my bowl and walk down to where he is at the beach.  I step up to find him crouched over the edge of the water with a big bucket next to him.  As I get closer, I notice a string in his hand, which he has floating into the water like a fishing line.

      “You’re fishing with Cheerios?” I ask, not at all surprised that he would try to.

      “Look in the bucket.”

      I look in and see what appears to be a bucket of murky water and rocks. Something moves and my eyes focus, seeing the rocks as small, spotted crabs. The bottom is covered in about fifteen crabs, each maybe three inches wide. Mike carefully ties a string around the largest crab in his bucket, then picks up the bucket and turns to me.

      "Let's go wake up Will."

      I scan the beach—it is completely still—the whole town is still asleep except for the few fishing boats. I answer by following him as he cuts across the field, back to the house. The red house has been in our family for years, from the years when the Kalkanis’ were established citizens, governors and such. It feels almost sacrilegious to be staying in the house as a simple American family who barely even speaks Greek. But at the same time the squeaky floorboards and dripping shower make it home. 

      As we step into the house, the floor lets out a loud moan. Mike whips around; it turns out we aren’t simply waking Will--he has a plan. We creep towards Will’s room, and Mike pulls his leashed crab out of the bucket. Opening the door quietly, he sneaks into the room as I watch from the doorway. He dangles the crab over Will’s face and whispers quietly.

      “Will, time to wake up.”

      Will slowly rubs his eyes and stretches, then opens them with fright as he sees the crab.

      “MIKE, THAT’S NOT FUNNY!”

      As soon as I hear Mike laugh, I know it is a good idea to leave. I take a towel and my CD player, and make my way down to the beach. Will’s yells are floating out of his window, faintly behind me.  I sink into the sand, Led Zeppelin soft in my ears. As I close my eyes I am back at home.  Gaba is next to me, sprawled on the couch. “Been Dazed and Confused for so long it's not true. Wanted a woman, never bargained for you…” The sun is warming, the sand is soft, and I am completely comfortable.