We were going to Kamari!

We were excited.

Aunt Mary was excited. She was taking us to her birthplace. She was sharing her life.

We had already become a part of each other’s lives, and there was so much to fill in, the gaps we wouldn’t just talk about but could see in person.

We packed our suitcases for a stay we hoped would be weeks. We left extra things we didn’t need in the apartment because we would be coming back before leaving. We left a stack of travel brochures, extra jewelry, souvenirs and gifts we’d be taking home, like the handmade lace table cloth and napkins we bought in Burano Italy just outside Venice, what we would be taking home as a gift to Shirley’s parents.

So we were traveling light, or at least lighter. Aunt Mary packed what she’d need, a few clothes, and of course her large heavy metal oxygen cylinder that was almost as long as she was tall. She dragged it around and we admired her athleticism.

We stowed everything on the bus, in those under compartments for luggage, except for purses and the oxygen cylinder which we hoisted onto the bus by her seat.

We watched the Peloponnese flash by as we rode west into Aunt Mary’s past.

We arrived and disembarked, and went to the house that was still there, mostly, partly, where she was born.

It was brick, no walls, some standing at the corners and edges but open on all sides and you could see right through like the wind or even rain on a slant. There was a roof over part of it.

Aunt Mary took her suitcase to her bedroom without walls, where a bed still perched, covered and ready. There was a chest at the foot with things that had been there for years, not opened since the last time which must have been long ago.

A step away there was a bathroom without walls, which consisted of a toilet. By it was an empty bucket.

The “house” had no electricity, no water. The bucket was there to be filled at an outside faucet.

Fortunately, Aunt Mary had made arrangements with the neighbors for a room for us.

Themios and Aleka were friendly and welcoming. They felt forever in Aunt Mary’s debt because she had sold them their property. She had negotiated a rent for our room which was ridiculously less than anything we’d have to pay anywhere else. Aleka was happy to receive the money as I handed it over, and I was glad to give it, dimly aware that we had found a bargain. Everybody was happy with the arrangement. Aunt Mary was happy to be able to take care of us. Themios and Aleka were happy to get cash up front. Shirley and I were happy to have our own room and bed.

Aunt Mary was staying in her “house.” We protested. “We can afford to find you something better, with walls.”

“No, no,” she said. “I was born and grew up here. My bed is ready. I can fill the bucket to flush the toilet.”

It was a matter of pride with her. So we became neighbors. She came out to spend the time with us. She and Aleka would prepare food together. They already liked each other. They would chop vegetables together, then prepare a casserole or sometimes meat, while we sat in the patio and watched. The outside oven was on the side of the house, still hot from the morning bread, the bricks holding the heat for the midday meal.

Themios had been working in the field. He was a farmer, and all the farmers went early up and over the hill in their tractors, to their adjacent fields where they could see and call to each other while they worked their own plot of land. Labor-intensive farming, working down the rows, pulling weeds, putting water to each plant, cherishing them with almost religious love because they brought forth the creation of food, fruit, vegetables, tending them by hand, bringing each day the harvest for the midday meal, to the kitchen and the waiting wife, then to the table.

All the farmers had olive trees, and they all had barns with barrels, their olives soaking in brine, cured for food and oil.

They loved showing off their barrels, their harvest, to visitors, to family, to Shirley and me. They would sample each other’s stock, a friendly competition with no losers, as each swelled with the pride of “This is mine.”

Shirley and I ran the gamut of all the neighbors and tasted everyone’s olives, the variations, “This is my special blend, my recipe, I add… can you taste the difference, what do you think?”

Then we would meet for the midday meal, eat too much, and sleep the obligatory midday nap.

All the surrounding neighbors were somehow related, and they scrambled with each other to invite us to their version of the midday meal. “Come tomorrow. Oh? You’re with them. Then come to us the next day.”

We were peripheral family celebrities from America and much in demand. One family, some kind of cousin, were proud to show us they had two houses next to each other as their family grew. We were invited, actually assigned, to sleep in the new house, and the mother lovingly tucked us in.

The teenage daughter, Greek dark haired beautiful, was a swimmer, hoping for the Olympics. We all swam together in the local Mediterranean just down from Aleka’s door where a little sandy strip ran along as a public beach and had an outdoor shower on a pole just beyond her kitchen door.

Even Aunt Mary went swimming. She found a baggy old swim costume in the chest at the foot of her bed, and roly poly bounced and splashed in the water, showing us she could still swim.

“Oh yes,” said Aleka, “she was quite a swimmer in her day, could swim the distance, was known for it.”

I liked swimming with Aunt Mary because she loved the water. I have a picture of me somewhere, I hope I can find it, swimming in the water off Kamari, standing in the shallow, and showing the hefty result of eating so much Mediterranean food for weeks. It reminds me of my first visit to my Kaiser doctor who did the initial ground zero weigh-in, looked at the number on the scale, and said, “You are a little porker, aren’t you?”

I have not always been thus, but my proclivity for making up for lost time with good food plentifully available, was clearly on display, and if I do find the photo, I may decide not to share it.

Little Kamari is a little town with just a few streets, and the little common beach that also rented kayaks. Shirley rented one. I was too stingy to join her, and she paddled happily all over the water, sometimes racing other kayaks. She told me proudly of her long distance kayaking, pointing to both sides of the view, “I went from there to there.”

The young girl cousin, with Olympic aspirations and a black bathing suit, could outswim us all. She had heard of Aunt Mary’s reputation as a swimmer. Family stories are shared and preserved.

As all the relatives vied with each other to host us for dinner lunch, each had their turn, and it came to one family on the lower economic side who, as a matter of pride, killed one of their few chickens in our honor, cooked it, and subdivided it to feed the whole table. I was given I felt too large a piece, and the father head of the family took as his portion the chicken’s head. There’s very little meat, if any, on a chicken’s head. It looked lonely on his plate. It seemed to stare at me in reproach, and I offered him part of my portion, but he said, “No, it’s all good, meat’s meat.”

I bolstered his pride and praised the meal and his hospitality.

We settled into everyday life in Kamari. One morning we heard a truck going by, loudspeakers proclaiming a message in Greek. Aunt Mary explained, “That’s the farm wagon selling fruit and vegetables brought fresh right to your door.”

The next morning, a truck, loudspeakers blaring. Shirley said, “The farm wagon again?” Aunt Mary said, “No, it’s politics this time. That’s the communist party looking for votes.”

The next day it was the local church announcing the Sunday sermon.

We were close to Xylokastro one town over. We could take the bus or walk. We did both.

One time we went over there to look around. The relatives all warned us about the town policeman.

“Stay away from him. During the Nazi occupation, he worked for them.”

We were walking along the street and saw a policeman at the end of the block. We crossed over to the other side and turned the corner.

There was a lovely downtown park, and adjacent, a four story hotel rooming house. We remembered the story Jimmy told about his aging aunt and uncle who were living there. He was passing by at midday and looked in the window. His aunt and uncle were sleeping their daily nap. They were snuggled up to each other, holding each other in their sleep.

Jimmy was near tears, more emotional than I’ve ever seen him, so impressed that two people could still be so much in love at such an advanced age so late in life, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

I had loved Jimmy before, but hearing him tell that story, I loved him even more. He had foretold my own life.

Aunt Mary in her little broken house had no way to keep food cold so it wouldn’t spoil. She said, “Even when we didn’t have electricity, we kept our food cold in a funari.”

We asked, and she described the funari, almost like a birdcage, open wire frame, a little door, hanging from the ceiling. We decided to get her one.

We walked into Xylokastro to a hardware store. They had four funaris forgotten hanging from the ceiling. The storekeeper said, “Do you know what they are?”

He didn’t want to sell to the unwary. We convinced him that we knew, that’s what we wanted. “They’re for Aunt Mary Kenegos.”

“Ah,” he said. He knew her. Everyone in town did. “She’s a real koukla,” a little doll. He lifted down the funari, we paid, carried it all the way back to Kamari. Aunt Mary was thrilled, hung it up, and right away put the butter on the bottom shelf.

Aunt Mary’s birthday was coming up. Shirley wanted to get her something nice. She’d already given her lavender perfume from Grasse in France. She hinted about clothing, maybe a nice dress, but Aunt Mary vetoed it. She said she had all the clothes she needed. Shirley noticed the laundry Aunt Mary hung out to dry. She had old worn underwear, extra large, like old fashioned bloomers. They reminded Shirley of what she remembered from her childhood when she saw Aunt Leoncy’s bloomers hanging on the line, even larger, wider than little Shirley’s arms could reach out in both directions.

So we went into Xylokastro and Shirley bought some extra extra large pretty lady’s undies and wrapped them up with a bow. Aunt Mary was thrilled to tears, and I got the impression that her birthday had been neglected for years.

Sometimes Aunt Mary and Aleka would make special treats, labor intensive. They would take the little squash blossoms, stuff them and fold the petals over. I had read about that, wondered if people still did it in this day and age. It was fascinating to watch their practiced fingers at work.

Some evenings, Themios and Aleka would host a neighborhood movie night. We’d gather in their little patio, sit on all the chairs from the house, neighbors bringing their own chairs, and watch a black and white film projected on the house wall. The films were whatever was available. I remember the one in Russian with Czech subtitles. No one understood either language, and we tried to piece together a sense of what was happening. Some neighbors gave up, took their chairs and went home. Some stayed because they had nothing better to do and nowhere else to go. Kamari was not known for nightlife.

There was one time. A bunch of young people were having a party out of town, probably in Xylokastro. Some were university students on break from Athens, either visiting relatives or passing through. They all wanted to go to the party where there would be music and dancing. Shirley wanted to go. They offered to drive. There was one young eager Greek guy who persistently urged her. I’m not a party guy, didn’t know how to dance, was afraid of anything that might cost money, it was already late and I was tired enough. We went into our room to retire for the night. Without telling me, Shirley snuck off to the party with the eager Greek guy. I was panicking. Where was she? Was she alright? It was late, getting later.

Sometime after 3:00 in the morning, she slunk in. “Where were you?” “At the party.” “How did you get there?” “Niko took me.”

She had run off with another man!

I was not used to being jealous, that green-eyed monster, but I saw green.

It was obvious what the guy wanted! She was so beautiful, how could anybody not? But I felt cheated upon, betrayed! I pounded my head against the wall and cried out in pain again and again.

“It was just a party, we just danced, then I came home.”

I didn’t sleep well that night.

In the morning I realized that Themios and Aleka must have heard my head banging on the wall as I cried out over and over, and must have thought we were making violent passionate love. They both looked at me with astonished renewed respect and served up a special breakfast.

Kamari is not a particularly religious town, but they did have a fairly large active church, with Sunday service. They had settled into a weekly pattern. The women would go to church on Sunday morning. The men would not. They weren’t exactly boycotting church, but they avoided it. To escape criticism, they got in their boats and went out on the water to fish.

The women got together with the priest and planned a strategy. If the men wouldn’t come to church, the church would come to them. The priest turned loudspeakers toward the water and broadcast the sermon out to the boats.

Sometimes you just can’t win.

Speaking of boats on the water, Shirley and I went night fishing.

It may be that the midday nap filled enough of the need for sleep so that the Greeks, probably all Mediterraneans, can stay up late. In the city, they can hang out in tavernas, drink a lot, eat, talk, party, make music, dance.

In Kamari, they go night fishing.

In the calm waters off the coast, the men take their boats out into the darkness. They hang a lantern in the stern of the boat, shining down into the water where you can see the fish gathering, attracted to the light. The men lower a line or string, hooks knotted at intervals, and in a few seconds the string is pulled up, hooked fish squirming along the length.

Shirley and I had become part of the community, went out in the boats, pulled up strings of fish and added to the catch. There was no special skill involved, and no one was not a good fisherman.

The lights on the stern of the boats, shining down into the dark water, formed a pattern in the darkness. A scattered dozen, complete in themselves, floating in flat air, illumination pushing into the depths only visible up close where the little fish were waiting, we were living in several dimensions at once.

Returning to shore, disembarking our proud catch, we brought the fish to the fires already burning on the beach. Pots of oil bubbling the cut potatoes scooped out onto towels, lightly salted, replaced by the new fish, quickly cooked, and all of us together, men and women, feasting on the freshest food just out of the water and then out of the oil, passing the beer, relaxing into the night, no hurry, talking, singing, a little more food, another potato fry, another little fish, and another, for us a continuing moment of magic, for the Greeks, who love it, just something they do whenever they want and the time is right.

Aunt Mary knew we couldn’t stay with her forever, though she wanted us to and tried to convince us. She knew our itinerary, visiting friends in Slovenia on the way back to Amsterdam and the return flight home.

So we packed up in Kamari to go back to Athens. Earlier, we had evaluated our luggage, what we could carry or drag, what would fit in the overhead compartment on the plane. We had looked at the heavy growing pile of maps and brochures, decided they were too heavy, and took them to the Athens post office to mail them home and save the extra charge of extra weight for airplane luggage.

The guy at the post office window weighed our stack and said, “Fifty dollars to the U.S.” That was a lot, too much, and I was unhappy. Shirley was outraged and outspoken. She said, “No, what’s the lowest rate?”

“Fifty dollars, to the U.S. By boat.”

She spun into an outburst. “What kind of backward country is this? Fleecing people with an obvious misjustice to cheat innocent tourists…”

The guy got off his chair and started to open his door, ready to do battle for his country against the abusive tourist. I grabbed our stack of brochures and quickly ushered Shirley out of harm’s way just in time.

When we arrived from Kamari to the terminal in Athens, we were bringing back more than we had taken. Aunt Mary was bringing back loaves of bread she just couldn’t leave behind, and a carton of eggs that would otherwise spoil, wrapped in a towel to prevent breakage and hide them from prying eyes, and large bottles of olive oil from the source.

With all our luggage and the big heavy oxygen cylinder, we couldn’t get a taxi cab to stop.

Aunt Mary devised a plan. She said to Shirley, “You go over there on the little traffic island, look attractive, maybe show your ankle. It worked in the movies.”

It worked in Athens too. A cab driver pulled over right away, came out and around to open the door to the front seat for Shirley. He already had two passengers with luggage in the back seat, but he was willing to add one more.

That was our cue. Shirley sat in the front seat, Aunt Mary and I rushed over with our luggage and the oxygen tank, and the cab driver laughed and admitted, “You got me!”

He helped us cram everything into the trunk and strapped the rest on the roof and Aunt Mary and I struggled into the already occupied back seat where the other passengers gave in with friendly forbearance and said, “Drop us off first.”

When we got to Aunt Mary’s street and her front door, the cab driver helped us unload everything. He had been blindsided, but was good natured. Aunt Mary said, “Don’t give him a tip. He’s just doing his job.”

I thought about her difficult life and the privation she must have endured, years of never having enough, pinching every penny twice. My own sparse upbringing couldn’t match hers. But I gave the driver a good tip anyway because I believe we should all share together, and he had been a good sport, Greek friendly.

When it was time for us to pack up and leave for the rest of our journey on the way back home, Aunt Mary only let us go when we promised that we would try to come back.

We did, the very next summer.