By Dianna Yalouris Christakos

I suppose it is an abnormal assumption since I have been away for such a long time.  Twenty years have already flown.  I left with my family as a skinny, insecure teenager and now I return as a grown woman with a family.  To the islanders, perhaps I do look like a foreigner. But what they do not know or see is how Greek I have remained on the inside.  Those values that were implanted in my young brain certainly underwent change, but not total eradication.  I stare back and offer a “kalimera”, and grin slyly as I watch the attitude toward me change from tolerance to friendly once they hear Greek.

The thoughts and impressions that race through my head are hard to verbalize as I walk by the old elementary school where I first learned to read, write and respect and fear the teacher.  The agonies of mathematics and the joy of composition come flooding back with bittersweet memories.  The old-maid teacher who whacked me with her ruler for staring out the window, yet later taught me the value of reading fine literature, will remain forever in my mind.  I loved and feared her with an inexplicable awe.  I reflect on the attitudes of my students today and chuckle with mirth, because times certainly have changed.

There is now an eerie quietness about the town and a real stranger might not understand about European siestas.  I remember vividly the endless hours spent at pretending to be asleep but only long enough to allow the adults to fall asleep then creeping out into the blistering sun to gather capers or to sneak some fresh fruit.  How foolish to have imagined adults were really fooled.  It was such a fun game.  I lovingly remember my mom in America who still took an afternoon siesta every day.  Old habits are hard to break.  The town actually sleeps for about two hours and all noises are prohibited. I love the stillness which allows full reign on my memories.

I pass the cafe where my father spent hours after work playing backgammon with his buddies.  I wonder if they are still alive and remember Matheaki, my dad.  It was quite acceptable for my father to dress up after work and go out, leaving my mother at home with her friends.  Yet, she never complained.  She certainly was not left alone.  Our small balcony overflowed with friends and children who played and sang and certainly never felt the loneliness our children often feel when left alone with babysitters and television.  There was so much human interaction, so much comradeship, so much love.  The memory of all that leaves me warm and melancholy.

As my heel catches on the cobblestone street, again I feel as though time has stood still.  Those stones have been tread upon for thousands of years and remain in unchanged condition.  Yet, the modern tarred streets are cracked and in need of repair after only a few years of wear, which makes me wonder what progress really accomplishes.  On the right I remember the old stucco buildings which are now gone and in their places are efficient, new concrete high-rises which crown the harbor.  Oh yes, the harbor itself brings me such emotion and pleasant memories of endless hours of fun on the boats while watching the fishermen unload the catch of the day or beat the octopus on the rocks in order to tenderize it.  And I remember the sunsets – oh, those brilliant orange sunsets that bathed the universe in gold.

There, too, is my old gymnasium.  I wonder what it houses now since I had heard that there is a new one.  My brain aches when I remember how hard I had to study for my entrance exam.  I was so nervous that I nearly lost my speech, probably the first and last time in my life that this ever happened.  How I hated those black uniforms and the braided hair and how I rejoiced when I discovered that American public schools did not require uniforms or braids.  Freedom is not appreciated until it is lost.

There is the drugstore where I used to run to get prescriptions for my mother who was a nurse midwife.  They were nice people and always had a piece of pasteli for me.  There is the ice cream store, Kronos, which made the best ice cream in the world.  What a treat it was on Sunday evening to be given money to buy one for me and some yogurt for my parents.  It’s very curious that ice cream never had the same fascination for me since childhood.

There is the old bakalico where we used to buy so many of our staples from Mr. Venetos, and the manavico which provided our fresh fruits and vegetables.  The stores are still pretty much unchanged by time yet they look a bit shabbier and neglected to my adult eyes.  I wonder if the old shopkeepers are still alive and if they remember my family.  Time has not stood still for any of us. 

There, at last is my homestead. It is difficult to control the tears as I gaze upon the dear abode which housed in its walls my growing years as well as all my secret dreams and ambitions.  The new owners have been kind to the old place, and it looks quite good.  The long balcony in the front is sporting some basil just like mama’s and the shutters are drawn against the heat of the day.  I wonder if this family has children who sneak out to gather capers instead of sleeping.

The nostalgia is overwhelming and I weep in secret joy and sadness at the years gone by and a world nearly forgotten.  I return to my hotel to bring my children along to relive with them my past and their heritage.

An Afternoon of Nostalgia was first published in a literary magazine from University of Maine.