My Love Affair with Greece Began in 1989

Yasou!

Here is the beginning of Chapter 2 of my book Called to Greece, the story of my very first trip to Greece in 1989 at 22 years old. It begins with a quote that my grandmother, Yiayia Theone, wrote in a Greek cookbook she edited the year I was born. Greece gave me something that summer that Connecticut never did.

And while visiting Mykonos in 2023, I found this bottle of olive oil shown in the picture, the same name as my Yiayia Theone, on the island where my love affair with Greece began. She keeps finding ways to remind me she's still here.

I hope you enjoy it!

Love and good travels,

Katina

Chapter 2 Ellada

 “Reminiscing on my travels I cannot help but long for the beautiful Hellenic sky… the Mediterranean blue of its waters…. The delightful hours spent with the relaxed Hellénes… and part of the picture are the mezedákia enjoyed with the ambrosial ouzo; the meals of fresh fish; tender salads; sun-ripened fruits; delectable pastries!”

 — Theone Angelos Neris Καλή Όρεξη: Treasured Greek Recipes, 1966

Growing up in Connecticut, I was, well, not the norm in my community to say the least. My town was very Irish and Italian Catholic. I had hairy arms, a big nose and grew a female “mustache” when I hit puberty. While the Greek Orthodox religion is Christian, it does not practice the same sacraments as the Catholics do. Hence, I had never even heard of Confirmation and confession wasn’t a big thing in the Greek church. I never felt “pretty” and was made fun of for some of my classically Greek features.

My first trip to Greece was in 1989 when I was 22 years old. Greece gave me something Connecticut never had, the feeling that I was exactly what beautiful was supposed to look like. Everywhere we went while traveling throughout the Greek islands people said to us “orea kopela” as they looked at me. That translates to “beautiful young woman”.  Never in my 22 years of life had I received so many compliments and so much attention from men of all ages. I had spent my whole life feeling like everyone else was pretty but not me. In Greece, I was the definition of beautiful.

For as long as I could remember, I had been hearing stories about Greece from my cousins and family around the table at every holiday. “I’ve been to Plomari. We had to drive a long time over the mountains. Remember, Rene, when we rented that motorbike and drove around?” My cousin Jimmy would say as Cousin Rene would laugh.

“It is a very small village. Like my father’s village Galata,” Cousin Teddy would add.

Then they would speak in Greek words that I didn’t understand.

I yearned to visit Ellada; what Greeks call their own country. I wanted to be there. I wanted to see it. I wanted to speak the language. So many cousins had visited multiple times and told me of the village where our grandparents were from.

After years of dreaming of taking a trip to Greece, that year I finally did it. I planned to spend one month there, long enough to get a real feel for the authentic Greece. Living at home with my mom and brother in Stony Creek and working part time, I was free to go.

My mom, Daphne, had only been to Greece once before, in 1974 when tanks rolled through the streets of Athens during the collapse of the dictatorship. She had gone to care for her mother, Yiayia Theone, who was gravely ill with cirrhosis of the liver. My mom was barely there a week before she realized that her mother was dying, which was a lot to deal with in a country she really knew very little about. The Greek doctors gave Yiayia Theone the wrong medication, leading to her untimely death at the age of 54. After the burial, my mom left Greece, thinking she would never return.

Hesitant when I first told her about my planned trip, my mom later grew excited – and decided to join me. She too had heard stories from her cousins about the beauty of Greece, a side of the country she never got to see. For the trip, we were joined by Estelle, my mom’s gregarious, flirty friend who had grown to be like a second mom to me. They met in 1977, when she returned to work after raising us children. Estelle was a widow with two grown children, was an amazing cook and tons of fun.

At 22, 48 and 57 years old, we all set out on our first trip to Greece. The fun began in Athens where Estelle managed to charm every Greek man we encountered with the slow blink of her large blue eyes. Eating dinner outside in the Plaka beneath the lit-up Parthenon, we ordered youvetsi, something I had never heard of before. It sounded delicious - roasted lamb in the oven with tomato sauce and orzo pasta. Turns out, I made it often at home and loved it but by a different name; manestra.

In a night club, we were approached by a group of four men. Estelle smiled, bowed her head ever so slightly and flashed her bedroom eyes at them. “There are four of us, there are three of you.” One man observed.

I threw up a bit in my mouth. These guys were old.

There was a bit of banter, with Daphne half translating the Greek to English before we hightailed it out of there.

We were approached by various men on the leisurely six-hour ferry ride from the port of Pireaus to the island of Mykonos too. They slowly eased over to our table and sat down. Estelle referred to one of them as “playboy”, for his tight summer pants that showed just how well-endowed he was. Oh, the drinking on that ferry boat – it was contagious – and the laughing too.

Daphne and Estelle particularly enjoyed the island of Mykonos on that trip. It seemed to speak to them with its lovely winding maze of blue and white alleys designed to help protect people from the sometimes ferocious Meltemi winds. We discovered the Thalami Bar, located down a flight of stairs in the basement of a white and blue building next to Niko’s Taverna. The literal definition of a thalami is a cave-like hole in the sea where an octopus lives. Here, they played classic Greek music; just what we wanted to hear. It was dimly lit, low tables, upholstered benches along the wall, and little rattan stools around a tiny, tiled dance floor.

Our threesome loved the music and the atmosphere at the Thalami Bar. But we could not understand why no one was dancing. Evidently, it was a bit too early for Greeks. They don’t even have dinner until 9 P.M. so the bars do not fill up until at least 10 P.M. As we sat at our little table, a Greek belly dance style song came on; a tsifteteli dance. My mom and I loved to dance to the tsifteteli, so we sprang up from our seats and onto the dance floor. Estelle joined us. When we returned to our table, it was filled with drinks; three drinks each! Our waiter Yianni, an awkward, slender Greek with a goofy smile and mustache, had been busy it seemed. I guess everyone in the bar appreciated our dancing.

Watching my mother enjoy dancing, I realized it was less than a year ago that we had all left my dad, after years of being controlled and limited by him and his alcoholism. We had taken very few family vacations together. She was now free to enjoy life the way she wanted. She had spent years raising my sweet but sometimes difficult brother James, now a special needs adult, while navigating a husband who was sometimes a stranger in his own home. And now here she was, free, on a Greek island, dancing the tsifteteli at the Thalami Bar. It was so heartwarming to see the woman I counted on all my life, so happy, so deserving of it.