•  Olive oil and feta
• Cartoons and Chocolate
• Eden
• Birthday party
• Bench-desks and blackboards
• Pigeons
• The Changing of the Guards
• Shampoo and the blind man
• Mytilini, Lesvos - the bucket in the kitchen
• Fishermen
• videos and links

If you told me that 30 years ago I was in Greece visiting my relatives and homeland, I would have told you it could not be so. I would have said, I dreamed of it last night, and I remember it clearly. In fact, sometimes, I still breathe it in.

My sister was not yet two years old, and I was just turning seven.

Athens was polluted, incredibly so. But you would never know it in my grandparents' apartment. The kitchen smelled of eggs frying in olive oil, french fries, and cheese.

The front room smelled of fresh rain. There was a balcony with french doors overlooking the main street. A little television played American cartoons, just for me. My great grandfather would come in, smile, and sit by me, telling me in Greek what he thought was happening and asked me to translate. But I couldn't fast enough so I smiled back and explained as generally as I could. He felt my strain and pet me on the head, leaving me for his much needed nap.

Each day, my great-grandfather would call me into his room, open his little desk drawer, and reach for a secret handout of chocolates and caramels. I did not have the heart to tell him that they were not Hershey's bars. So I took the most logical step, and I hid them in a drawer in the front hall bureau. I do not think he suspected, because the sweets kept coming, sometimes twice a day.

My mother, however, had her suspicions. I confessed that I wasn't eating the chocolates and caramels, that I was, instead, hiding them because I didn't want to hurt Papou's feelings. She agreed that we shouldn't spoil great-grandfather's little pleasure of sharing his sweets with me. She asked me where I was putting them, because if I kept them in my pockets they would melt and make a big mess. I told her I had already thought of that and whispered my hiding spot for them. My mother tried to hide the smile on her face, the same look I use today, hoping my children won't notice the humor I feel about their serious situations lest I hurt their feelings. She asked what would happen if someone opened the drawer and found out. I explained to her that the drawer was empty, and that I'd never noticed anyone using it so it was okay.

 From Great-grandfather's window, you could see trees, just a couple, and a rarity in Athens. Unless, of course, you were my Uncle Michael, best selling author, professor, and husband to a beautiful, young, wife, Nini.

My Uncle Michael was a gentle man. I found his presence quite comfortable. In fact, I think that he would have been a great influence in my life had I lived in Greece.

I found him interesting and wise; and his gardens were a haven of peace and emotions and Eden. Luckily for us, they were blossomed with spring. The aroma has yet to compare itself.

His home smelled of paper and paper and more paper and pencil lead. I remember his endless shelves of books, not too neatly kept. Neither was his hair, as I remember, which was gray and loose.

 My parents went on a five day cruise and left my sister and I behind. We stayed at my grandparents', and a sweet girl, who was a friend of the family, watched us. They got back just in time for my birthday.

All the neighborhood children and a few old ladies who were friends of the family came to celebrate. I got bible storybooks from the old ladies. The children gave me wonderful fairytale books. They were big books with incredible pictures and smooth pages; and some of them, like Little Red Riding Hood, were pop-ups. The greatest thing about them was that they were in Greek.

school was also in Greek. All the students wore uniforms, blue and white; except for me, they made an exception since I was American and would only be attending for a week. The classrooms were divided into three rows, with children seated two by two in bench desks. The teacher's desk was on the platform in front of the room with the blackboard behind it.

I was seated in the front row, middle, beside Elli, the "best student" of the class. I remember that her name was Elli, because, back home, I had a Greek book about a little girl named Elli and it was my favorite.

At first, I truly enjoyed school. The children loved me and I loved them. In math i got perfect 10s and my teacher was quite enthusiastic about "allowing" me to share my mathematical genius for the class on the blackboard.

Then Composition came. My heart beat so hard I thought I was going to pass out. I could feel my whole body become red and itchy and I wanted to go home. I wanted a hole to appear under my seat and swallow me up. I started crying as silently as I could. I pretended to be looking for something in my desk so that no one would notice. But Elli noticed. I confessed to her, ashamed, that my Greek spelling left something to be desired. She said not to worry, that I could copy off her, but I was too afraid of being caught.

Unfortunately, Composition was not my only distress that spring.

We visited the Kings Palace Gardens, where we took pictures and watched the guards change. There were vendors peddling seeds to feed the millions of pigeons that flocked there daily. It was so much fun throwing the seeds down and watching the pigeons that I never wanted to leave... Until... The wind blew the birdseed into my hair.

Fortunately the disaster was not used as a photo op. This photo was before "it" happened to me.

The pigeons flocked to my head as though I was the lady in the phone booth in Alfred Hitchcock's' "The Birds."  I was in my twenties before I got over that one.

 One day we went to the drugstore so that my mother could buy her shampoo.  She had run out.  They had a very small selection, not like in the states.  Fortunately they had her brand.  Flex.  Task accomplished.

As it had been a few years since they left their homeland for the land of hope and prosperity, things had changed in Athens.  Finding their way around was a bit of a task since their remembered landmarks had made way for new ones.  As they were remeniscing on a street corner, conversing about the sadness of the changes, they were approached by a very old blind man and his walking cane.

He wanted to know how to get to a particular building.  My parents told him where they thought it must be, after much open debate between themselves.  The traffic was rushing by loudly, so they had to repeat themselves a few times for the blind man to understand.  After he left, my parents said, "Oh shoot.  I think the building he wants is over there.  We told him the wrong place.  Oh shoot.  Well, he'll find his way," and entertained themselves with nervous giggles.

I was devistated.  Tears rushed down my face. How could they!  This man was blind.  There was traffic all over the place.  He had to cross the street and could easily get run over.  Not to mention, he was so old I didn't see how he could make it to where they told him to go, let alone the disappointment and embarresment he would feel at finding himself at the very wrong place in the very wrong direction.  How could my parents slight this?  They tried to calm me down.  I sobbed, and tried to stop.  But that night (and for years and years) when I thought of the old man, his walking stick, and the misguided directions given him (by my chuckling parents, no less) I cried myself to sleep.

While my mother's parents resided in Athens, my father's mother resided in Lesvos, (my grandfather died when my father was twelve.) So, we left the city for the island, where the air was fresh, and grays became color.

My grandmother had a large sink in the kitchen, however, other than that, indoor "plumbing" was a luxury on most of the island. It made no difference to me. Until, that is, after dark, when I really had to go.

My father got a flashlight. even with the outdoor lanterns it was still too dark when you didn't know what you were doing. He led me by the hand.

There were noises. Noises that got closer the closer we got to our destination.

The hole was black, and I could not see the end like I could at home. What would happen if I sat down? What if I didn't fit? What if my "hiney" got attacked by spiders and frogs and bats?

I screamed and started crying. My father rushed me inside and they all decided that perhaps the best thing would be to put a bucket beside the door and let me use that until morning. There I sat. The light from the next room provided the perfect ambiance for my uncomfortable, but thankful sit.

The next morning, all was forgotten. The sun shone bright, and we had lunch at a cafe, little Greek hamburgers (Keftethakia), feta cheese and calamata olives. I watched the old men, telling other people's stories, sipping coffee, and clinking their strands of worry beads between their fingers.

Then we walked along the sea, where the fishermen pulled octopus from their boats in the fresh wind... and it was spring!