Echo
The taxi dropped us off at San Francisco International Airport. My dad and mom led me through the airport. They said words like “security”, “gate” and “terminal” and were walking very fast. I trailed behind half-heartedly trying to keep up, but mostly looking at the array of shops lining the airport corridors. Every so often they would say “Hurry up!” and I would briefly quicken my pace. I had been in airports before, but at nine years old they still amazed me. We continued our hike across the airport: Through security, up escalators, down elevators, over moving walkways, around people, into the airplane. We were going to Greece. My dad was born there, but at seventeen he left in order to escape military service. Almost forty years later he was going back, wife and son in tow.
On the plane I sat between my parents; they were asleep most of the time.
“Would you like something to drink?” the flight attendant asked me over the engines’ noise. I shook my head.
I listened to the plane’s radio stations. They played the same programs over and over again; I listened to the kid’s station. It was afternoon when we flew over the city. It didn’t look as big as I had imagined, just beige.
My dad’s Greek came back to him as soon as we stepped off the plane, and on the bus towards our hotel he was already at home again, pointing out landmarks and buildings he remembered from his childhood. In the city center the bus got stuck. The traffic was so bad people were turning off their engines and getting out of their cars; they stretched or sat on their hoods. My dad was laughing.
“This is what Greece is like,” he said, “You never get anywhere on time, but nobody cares.” We got off the bus and walked across the presidential gardens, with our luggage, all the way to our hotel. I noticed the people looking at us as we rolled our bags over the cobblestones. I tried to keep the rhythm of the clicking of the wheels against the stones. “Clunk, clunk, clunk—clunkityclunkity—clunk. Clunk, clunk, clunk—clunkityclunkity—clunk.” We arrived at the hotel sweaty.
“Come and see this,” my dad yelled through the glass door that separated the balcony from our hotel room. He took a puff from his cigarette and glanced down towards the street. I was laying on my bed watching a soccer game on the TV. I looked over at him. “Come look,” he said and signaled that there was something going on below. I got up and pushed open the sliding door. I peered over the edge of the balcony. We were six floors up.
“Don’t lean too far,” my dad cautioned and grabbed me by the shoulder. On the street below there were cars zooming by while people cheered from the sidewalk.
“It’s the start of a car race around Greece.”
“How do you know?” I asked as my mom slid open the door and stepped out with us.
“That’s what was stopping the bus,” he said blowing smoke out of his mouth as he talked. I couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke and I leaned over the edge of the balcony to breathe fresh air.
“How do you know it’s a car race around Greece?” I repeated.
“That’s what they said.” My dad extinguished his cigarette and retreated inside.
“Who said?” I asked my mom.
“I don’t know.” She sat in the chair on the balcony and pulled out a book. I lingered a few moments, but I wanted to get back to the soccer game.
My mom shook me awake.
“Elliot,” she said, “Elliot, wake up.” I turned over drowsily; the sheets were tangled at my feet.
“We’re going to get breakfast. If you want to come you should get up.”
“Jet-lag isn’t affecting you?” My dad chuckled in the corner. He had a map spread out on his lap.
“I think my ancestral village is down here,” he pointed to a spot on the map. “I went there when I was six, on a donkey with my grandmother. I can’t remember the name though.”
“Hurry up,” my mom insisted.
The streets of Athens were crazy. Cars drove on sidewalks, people walked in the street, and stray dogs and cats ran rampant everywhere. My dad stopped to look at restaurants and stores. He held his hands behind his back and leaned forward, his forehead almost touching the window. He looked at menus, and at jewelry. He pointed things out to my mom saying, “Here, come look at this.” My mom was taking pictures. She squatted to capture the architecture and held still for what seemed like minutes waiting for just the right shot. I looked at the tourist “schlock,” as my parents said: little statuettes, key chains, T-shirts, flags, sea sponges, olive oil soap, post cards.
We decided to explore the countryside. We had a plan mapped out, drawn in red pen on our map of Greece.
“We’re going to rent a car tomorrow,” my dad was excited. “We’re going to drive down to the Peleponese—that’s where my ancestors were from; from the middle finger of the Peleponese.” He laughed as he showed me his middle finger. “They lived in a tiny village with all stone houses.”
“Is it still there?” I asked.
“I’m sure,” my father replied.
I watched the road float by from the back of the rental car. It still smelled new if you put your face up to the seats.
“Are we lost?” I leaned forward to put my head between the two front seats. My mom was struggling to read the Greek road signs, so that she could place us on the map.
“I don’t see this road anywhere here,” she said.
“I’ll get us there,” my dad said as the paved road ended and dirt started swirling around the car, “My nose will smell it out.” Potholes made me fly off the seat.
“Do you have your seatbelt on?” he said. I nodded.
We pulled into a gas station in a small town. My dad stepped out of the car and approached the attendant. Chest hair and gold chains spilled out of his blue polo shirt. The language sounded sharp, almost like an argument, but they were laughing. My dad motioned for me to get out.
“Don’t you need to pee?”
He presented me to the attendant as I came to stand next to him. The attendant leaned down a little to talk to me, his golden cross dangled back and forth in front of my eyes, and he smelled sharply of cologne.
“You, American?” the man asked in broken English. I managed a faint smile; I was almost embarrassed. I felt the blood in my cheeks as I opened my mouth to say something, but the man had turned away, and only a gasp escaped my throat.
The man drew a map in the dust on the hood of our car. He made curves and circles, and my dad nodded in approval. We settled back into the car.
“What did he say?” my mom had been listening intently, trying to pick up some hint of the conversation.
“He says we’re headed the right way,” my dad said.
“Where are we going?” I piped up from the back, but there was no reply. We drove on winding roads until I fell asleep and woke up and fell back asleep again. The car was silent except for the sound of the tires against the road. When I awoke the second time, we were driving slowly, through narrow streets. There was an old woman sitting on a plastic chair, but other than that it seemed empty. The houses were all made of stone.
“Leave your camera,” my dad told my mom as we got out of the car. Across the street there was a small restaurant, a taverna, and an old woman stood in the darkness of the doorway, barely visible. She was dressed all in black, and wore a headscarf. She held green beans in her left hand, and she stared at us as we walked across the street: My dad, in a collar shirt and khakis, my mom, in jeans and hiking shoes, and me, checking both ways before I crossed the deserted street. A man walked into the doorway from the darkness of the taverna. He was hunched and wrinkled, but you could see muscles, bulging under his sleeves.
My dad addressed the man in Greek. I stood behind my mom, inspecting the building we stood in front of. Vines grew up the face; cigarettes littered the ashtrays that sat on the tables outside. I could hear chickens behind a metal side gate. I looked carefully at the marble sculptures in front of the restaurant. They were rough, not like the ones in the museum.
The old man invited us into the restaurant with a forceful wave of his hand and disappeared into the darkness with his wife. We sat at a wooden table with no tablecloth.
“He says that he was my grandfather’s tenant, and that my family land is just up the road.” My dad was beaming; he hadn’t looked this happy the whole trip. “They don’t have much food for us because they’re fasting; it’s the week before Greek Easter.” He was anxious to get back to his conversation in Greek. I waited until my dad spoke to me again. The drone of my dad’s voice was interrupted by screams and shouts. A troop of five boys had walked into the restaurant.
“These are his grandsons,” my dad said, “go on and play with them.” I was scared; I couldn’t speak their language. He spoke in Greek to them, pointing at me, then pushing me towards them. As I walked into the bright light, I felt alone. They tried to speak to me all at once. My eyes darted from face to face. They were swinging their arms and yelling over each other at me. I didn’t remember any of my Greek, or even how to nod, “yes,” or shake, “no.” I followed them as they walked, and as they lost interest in me. All I wanted was to be able to express something. I followed them further and further from the taverna, hoping I would be able to get back. I stopped to look back from where I had come. I couldn’t see anything I recognized. The boys waved me on.
We walked in narrow streets between stone walls. The boys yelled at cats to scare them, and kicked rocks down the street, and greeted the old women dressed in black. We stopped in front of a house and one of the boys ran inside. Attention turned to me again.
“Posolenemeleneelephterisiseamer
“Me,” I made very sure to annunciate, “Elliot.” Their eyes widened more and they leaned closer. “Elliot,” I said again.
I watched as a look of understanding spread across their faces. They leaned back, bit their bottom lips, scrunched their brows, cocked their heads, and then gave the slightest of nods. My body relaxed; I hadn’t realized it was taught.
“Elot!” The smallest one yelled. I paused for a moment, considering whether I wanted a new name. Then, I shrugged and nodded.
“Elot! Elot! Elot!” the boys were screaming as the last one returned from the house, basketball in hand. I watched them as they danced down the street.
“Elot! Elot!” the shouts, and the ball bounced off the stone.
“Elot! Elot!” as we reached the basketball hoop in the square.
“Elot!” the silence of my footsteps echoed through the town.