Back to the Old Country

Around 10 a.m., we met Despina Bogdanou and her 17-year-old grandson Konstantio (Kostas) in our hotel lobby. They are related to us on the Haramis side of the family. After a mild fiasco with the local rental car company (who drives manual these days?—oh yes, much of the non-U.S. world…) We took two taxis through a series of mountainous bypasses (yes, we saw a shepherd with a small flock of sheep), followed by hairpin maneuvers down narrow village roads. If we had succeeded in renting the car, we would have neither found our destination nor been able to navigate the terrain.

We arrived as the village of Tsmandria--the town my grandparents were born and raised. We were only about 15 minutes away from where we’re staying, but we may have well crossed into a universe completely different from the tourist resort on Platy beach and the relative urbanity the capital, Myrina (6,000 of the island’s 18,000 people). Kostas speaks English and translated as much as he could for us. It was difficult for him to translate at times because the relatives spoke so fast. Imagine three radio stations simultaneously blaring different Greek channels—but speeded up by some mash-up deejay, and well, you get the idea. Kostas said a few times, when we asked what was being said, “Nothing very interesting…”

In Tsmandria, we met my grandmother’s side of the family. We were greeted warmly by my grandmother’s sister Auntie Paraskevi (80-something) and her husband Theofani (82). We sat in their home, drank orange soda and met their grandson Vailos. Both Paraskevi and Theofani look fantastic for their age. Theofani credited his years as an octopus and lobster fisherman to his youthful look. My father couldn’t believe how much Auntie Paraskevi looked like his mother (who passed away in 1985). I couldn’t believe how much my father looked like Auntie Paraskevi. She told my dad that his mother Malama mentioned him often, which he was happy to hear. Theo spoke about everything—from fishing to my grandmother—with intensity appropriate to a hostage crisis, waving his arms and shouting.

The highlight of the visit: Auntie Paraskevi showed us the giant Victorola that my grandfather Christos brought over from New York when he returned to Limnos to meet and marry my grandmother. I’ve heard the story my whole life, but seeing the RCA Victrola in person was mythical and magical, and hearing it play an ancient record speeded up or distorted or aged or to sound like Greek “Alvin and the Chipmunks” had all of us swaying to the music (see previous entry for Davis’ jerky video of Victrola and Paraskevi).

As we left the house, Paraskevi’s grandson, shirtless and in a ball cap, led a donkey down the street for the kids to see. He cajoled the animal from the end of a long rope, and seemed pleased to no end when I earlier gave him a lollipop.

We also visited my dad’s second cousin Anthoula, who, we did not know about until she appeared at the end of the street warmly greeting us. She spoke excellent English because she used to live in New York City, where she worked for Jewish furriers for many years. She has children and grandchildren in New York City and New Jersey, and she seems to travel frequently in those places, Athens, and Limnos (where she has a house in Myrina and also Tsimandria.) Anthoula’s mother and my grandmother were first cousins. She gave us Greek coffee and cookies, and the kids marveled at her busy Mediterranean décor and old baking oven now converted into a smaller unit in the corner of her well-appointed but rustic kitchen.

Before we left, we also visited with another second cousin Despina and her husband Voutsae. They had a beautifully lush garden in front of their house, with flowers and lime trees. They served us fresh cherry juice—a sweet mix with candied dark cherries sunk at the bottom of tall water glasses, which we happily mixed—and which Eena and Baba loved, especially when we poured the excess in their cups for the trip back.

Our last stop, to wait for our cab, took us to Haramis Square. The main town-square was named after John Haramis, an ancestor who, it seems, was a builder who constructed much of the town and square. We were thrilled to discover that the square was named after a Haramis—and that the family name lives on so strongly in the life of this small village.

Later this week, we plan on taking Despina Bogdanou and Kostas to dinner to thank them for taking us to Tsmandria and translating. Also, Baba—who has stranger anxiety—loved Kostas and let him hold her hand to cross the street, and also pick her up!

We asked Baba if she made a new friend in Kostas, and she answered enthusiastically with a yes. Eena said “I made the same friend too!,” demonstrating that her newfound cousin has also found a place in her heart.