“Gia sou Vasili. Ela. Ti nea? Ti na sou keraso?” Keza always greeted me almost like a son. Definitely like a nephew. His kafeneio is up in the village, a block away from the main square and church, in front of a triangle of roads where three roads meet in a low triangle. “Your health,…
Conversations on Directions
My father always drew a distinction between a house and a home. The former was a shell that was never filled with love or tradition; the latter was filled with family, love, tradition, happiness and sadness. As Zorba the Greek might have paraphrased: “A home held the whole catastrophe”. Before Greece started its cadastral records…
Conversations while Walking
The best time we had together was when we walked. We never walked together in Durban. It was too hot for my father, and he used to get chest pain in the heat. Also, to be fair, I work in Durban and I would rush off early to work and come back late. We used…
Conversations on Rituals
I always questioned my father’s rituals. He had many. Some every day, some every week, some every season. It is easy to see why the seasonal rituals worked well. He used to go to Greece every June and July for six weeks and have a good rest. He would wake up every morning and say…
Conversations with the Baker’s Wife
The straight road from our village Artemisio into Tripolis reaches the first platea or square quickly. The bus stops here as well, and it’s our village square. The villagers alight here, greet each other and bemoan the state of affairs. The square is dry and dusty, with bright light because all the buildings are painted…
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