Listening in Silence

Demetrius smiled ear to ear as he came rushing out to meet his long lost family from America. The sun shone high behind him, isolating each hair on his balding head in its rays. I heard the crackle of the warped gravel in the road, and observed the herding of sheep in the plot of land behind us. The crisp air of the Greek countryside played with his sleeves as he dashed towards us with open arms and embraced his cousin’s wife and daughters, whom he had never met before.

I was traveling with my best friend, Chrystyna, whose mother had not been back to Athens for twenty years. Chrystyna, her sister, their mother and I would spend a week in Athens, they to reconnect with their family, with their past, I to escape the hopeless, self-pitying doldrums of a recent romantic dead end. A trip to the spot where western civilization had begun was to be the perfect remedy for my blues. I would feel the souls of all the people throughout history who had lived through my problem. Furthermore, I would do this with a friend that loved me very much.

As it turned out, my week in Athens would be one of mixed emotions. In the beginning of the week, we visited the Acropolis, Parthenon, Temple of Zeus, several historical stages, and many a taverna. At times I felt just grand. The history at the Acropolis, the joyous singing at the tavernas, my friend’s relatives’ hospitality, and of course the ouzo were all very special. There were still times, however, when the problems I was facing at home would creep into my exploration of Athens. I felt empty and unfulfilled. Not to mention my beloved Chrystyna complained about the cold showers half the time.

In the middle of the week we embarked on the adventure of retracing the Kouros family’s steps in Greece. Our destination was Nestani, a village near the town of Tripoli, just about two hours North of Athens. We hopped in an old jalopy that belonged to a family friend, and endured three hours of Greek banter from the driver’s two-year-old son, a rather spoiled child named Yianni. Yianni had two favorite games. One was to point repeatedly at the surroundings and ask, “Aftó?” (“That?”), asking about each new object that attracted his gaze. What’s that? What’s that? I understand the curiosity of children, but his reluctance to listen once his question was answered, and then his repetition of the same question a moment later, would have driven anyone insane.

His other favorite game was to walk along a ledge, a bridge, or some other dangerous outcrop of high altitude. After acknowledging the warnings of all five maternal “hens”, Yianni would step backward off the ledge, gaining momentum to race back over but nearly careening to the bottom every time. Each of the women did their share of in-the-knick-o’-time grabs, resulting in collective, hourly heart attacks. At one point, this tot even hit Chrystyna in the face so hard that she began to cry!

Now we all laugh about the little one and his antics, but at the time, the trip was looking awfully dire. When we arrived in Nestani, the village of Chrystyna’s father, who was still in America, I breathed deeply, took in the scenery, and was left to my own devices to make the day special. That’s when Demetrius came to embrace us.

He led us to the house, introduced us to his brother, George, who was deaf and dumb, and prepared us for our trip around the village where my friend’s father had lived until forty years ago. George had a round, rutty face adorned by a bushy moustache, and wore a leather vest. Out of context, one would expect to see him starting the weekly brawl at the local biker bar. To tell you the truth, he frightened me a bit. He had calloused, almost swollen hands, and breathed very loudly. No one in the family had learned sign language, so he built his own type of communication with flails, points, and grunts. After I grew accustomed to the occasional moan, however, I noticed that he was more skilled and able than any of us hearing folk could ever hope to be. He herded the sheep and goats, he cleaned the stables, he kept everything in the house in working condition, and he even cooked most of the family’s meals.

Mr. Kouros’ two cousins, Demetrius and George, had begun to intrigue me. I almost completely forgot about the toils of the car ride. The whines of Yianni and the sound of the straining engine were replaced with the chirps of the crickets, and Demetrius’ laughter. They had no television, no telephone, and no verbal communication among themselves. Still, these brothers were the most hardworking, appreciative and content people I had met in a very long time, and after the reunion with their distant relatives, they were also the happiest.

Demetrius first led us to the monastery on top of a mountain where the Virgin Mother apparently stopped a boulder from crashing into the village below. He went there every day to pay his respects to the elderly nuns that resided there, and to find his peace. On our exhausting trip up the stairs (What is it with Greece and inconceivably long flights of stairs?) we were shown the boulder that rested miraculously on the tip of the ledge. It was about the height of two basketball hoops, and about a door’s width. Physics may never explain how it stood vertically on its tip, and not on its side. If you looked closely, and with a very open mind, you could see the shape of a giant hand imprinted into the side of the rock where it would have tumbled over the edge. However, if you ask me, the hand looked more like a man’s hand than the Virgin Mother’s. Perhaps they had their Saints confused.

When we finally reached the top of the dreadful staircase, which was carved into the mountain, we ambled through the monastery. From the rusted beams in the open roof, a chapel bell hung and touched the pristine blue sky that peered between each beam. I walked along the balcony of the monastery and saw the Greek countryside as very few had. I looked over the clay tiles on the roofs below me, and peered into the rolling mountainside. The sky was clear and the rocky hills were speckled with green shrubs. Farther back the peaks were topped with snow. I felt as if everything on the ground was placed there just for me. The land below may be rough and unpredictable, but the magic walls protected me in the middle of my mountain. This was how the gods on Olympus must have felt. The village of white houses and red clay roofs where my friend’s father had grown up lay in a tiny valley among the spotted mounds of land. I was grateful that the boulder was halted so miraculously.

I discovered a chapel filled with beautiful icons and burning candles. Despite the schism our churches underwent almost a millennium ago, I was awed by the holiness that could only be felt in a place with that history and altitude. Without uttering a word I felt my first real connection to this place and its people. Without my speaking, the room could hear me, and without my noise, it could feel me.

In the main room one of the three remaining nuns who cared for the sacred place greeted us. We were led into the sitting room where we would be served coffee and loukomi, a jelly-like candy covered in powdered sugar. The room smelled of incense and my grandfather’s carpet. Two nuns were here, and one was peeling onions. She was truly beautiful with the wrinkled prayers in her face. The perfect movement of her hand over the onion could only come with years of patience and practice. I raised my camera to take a picture, but my friend’s mother told me it would be disrespectful to photograph there. My memory would have to do.

I sat down, without crossing my legs, which I was also told was disrespectful, and received my coffee and loukomi graciously. I listened to their sounds and admired the impenetrable conversation that was floating about the room. I could not understand the language, so I remained silent, imposing my own interpretations.

Then, my friend told me the nun who brought us the coffee had noticed the cross on my neck. She was dressed in black as the others were, leaving only her face and hands exposed. She carried wisdom in her jawline, and her hands rested peacefully in her lap. Instantly, she began to speak to me, and although I could not understand her, her connection to me through our faith was more comprehensible than words. Her warm and perceptive eyes taught me my next lesson in silence. Without noise, human ties from any culture or age can pack a more powerful and lasting punch than any confusing banter that may come from words. That nun’s lines ran deep in my veins, not in my head.

Demetrius and George brought us all back to the house to feed us. They served us eggs picked from the coop fifteen minutes earlier, with aromatic, flavorful olive oil, bread baked by their sister and cheese made by George, the shepherd himself. I ate the egg whites first then popped the entire yolk into my mouth. It burst on my tongue like the climax of a water ride, soothing and golden. I sopped up the yolk from another egg with my delectable, chewy bread, and finished it all off with freshly cut and fried potatoes sprinkled with creamy feta. This meal was the most exquisite meal I have had to this day. The freshness, simplicity and care that this family bestowed upon us touched my heart and renewed my spirit like nothing else could.

Afterwards, I drank my coffee and read my fortune in the sludge like my Godmother had taught me. It said I had a heavy heart, and that good fortune and freedom were to come. I remember the sediment on the rim of the cup indicated that I’d be traveling. Incidentally, all of my Greek coffee since then has said the same thing, so I have made it my business to journey through this world. Never doubt the sludge, my friend.

Hours of conversation unfolded. The two reuniting families shared many tears and even more laughter. Every once in a while I was clued in on what the conversation entailed, but for the most part, I felt almost as deaf and dumb as George. When I glanced at him, however, he was just as enthralled by the conversation as everyone else. His eyes no longer looked sad and confused, but twinkled in the excitement of the day. We all understood his gestures, and suddenly what made him special was his lovely feta, and not his handicap. He was just as whole, if not more so, than the rest of us, and I started to trust his motions as my interpretation. I realized that I could be just as happy as everyone else in the room, just loving and immersed in the moment.

These people did not touch the outside world very often. They had their routine, herded their sheep, and visited their monasteries. They were content, some even without ears. When their long lost cousin’s wife and children came to visit, however, each brother, with or without words, went from content and peaceful, to truly joyous. This is what it means to be human. Each and every one of us has this connection, otherwise, how could I have felt it? I was inherently connected to the mountain, to the chapel, to the nun, and to this family. The day was special, even without words or television, because no matter where we go, we will always have that bond with whomever or whatever we find.

After this, the sun was even brighter, the grass smelled greener, and even Yianni was more pleasant. I enjoyed watching him run from the goats on the field that George playfully unleashed on him. The rest of the week, I visited more churches, historic prisons, museums, and Athenian nightclubs. Each place was just a bonus after the day I spent in Nestani. Now the klick-klack of worry beads and the enchanting luminescence of ouzo transport me back to the same glorious day that I truly saw the sun shine in the Greek countryside. To the simple pleasures of life. Opa!