July 7th

Everybody left today. Jack and Sue drove over the mountain to Athens. They're flying to San Francisco tomorrow and won't be back for three weeks. James and Joan took the 12:30 flying dolphin to Monemvasia. They'll be cruising around the Peleponisos and returning here around the 20th of this month. Martha and her daughters and friend Christine caught the dolphin on it's return trip and will be getting off in Spetsis. It was sad because they all wanted to stay except for Christina who was antsy and wanted to find a place with discos and night life and long sandy beaches full of sunbaked tourists. I think what she really wants is some muscular, mustached, Greek God to help her find the complete holiday experience and unfortunately I'm the closest thing to that around here and I'm married bald and fat. It was a prime example of the rule of the vocal discontented. Everyone else loved it here but because one person was unhappy they sacrificed their happiness to appease her. That's the trouble with traveling in grou ps. The nice guys usually lose out. Maybe they'll come back when they get off the boat and find themselves in the midst of the stampeding upper caste tourists of Spetsi, or when they get the bill for their first meal. Maybe they'll look longingly at the flying dolphin schedule and wonder if there is any way to return before tomorrow. Or else they'll go to Hydra, the next island with its beautiful amphitheater village and its gold shops. They might like it a little better even though there are no beaches and people just swim on the rocks outside the port, packed together like seals at the Cliff House in San Francisco.

The bottom line is that my gang has dwindled down to Andrea, Amarandi and Elaine. I could get a little claustrophobic if I didn't console myself by remembering one of my purposes in coming here was to relax, write, and study A Course In Miracles. With Elaine constantly on my nerves I may also have some opportunities to practice it.

Last night was a fitting Grande finale for everyone. Jack ferried us all to Vrissi in his tiny rental car, making just two trips by packing us in beyond capacity. We had ouzo and mezedes at their house with Theodorakis playing in the background. Jack took me over to the stereo to hear a passage from Zorba that gave him goose bumps. He was so moved by Theodorakis I realized he would make a good German. They think Theodorakis is a God. I told him about my friend who plays in his band and how difficult it was for his musicians because Theodorakis does not have a good sense of time. They all have to watch each other and stay together. I thought that was funny because all the photos of him on his album covers he's conducting in such dramatic fashion it's hard to believe that his presence is just confusing the musicians. But to the Germans he is heroic. Aleader of the opposition against the Junta. Composer of the soundtrack of "Z" and many other pieces.

"Yes Jack, there is no doubt that the man is a genius, but there are many genius's who had difficulty keeping time. I can't think of any off hand but I have heard that Lord Byron was a terrible dancer." I was grasping at straws and Jack's sharp mind recognized it as professional envy. Maybe he's right. Is there anyone on this planet who listens to my music and gets goosebumps besides me? Jack could see me tearing myself apart with self-doubt and made his move, herding the crowd out the door and up the street to Lefteris restaurant where we continued the party at a large table that was waiting for us. Elaine and some of the girls who had begun dancing at Jacks, continued on the big outdoor patio while the locals looked on smiling. The Greek experience took a sudden detour when half of our party ordered pizza, myself included, (though mine was a respectable feta, olives and garlic pizza). We started drinking their homemade wine on top of the ouzo and it seemed like the evening was always just on the verge of going out of control. Then Amarandi, who had refused to take a nap and until then had been happily playing and dancing with everybody, became hysterical and demanded ice-cream. Rather then try to reason with her and wanting to shut her up as quickly as possible we agreed to let her have some. Elaine carried her inside to pick out her flavor, then hurriedly returned.

"Those Jackasses, don't have ice-cream!" she said and then repeated it for all to hear. I got angry and told her not to call them jackasses. It's a lame excuse for a swearword. If you are angry enough to use one then stop pretending to have class. "Those cock-sucking mother fuckers don't have ice-cream" is what she should have said. And if she had we would have all rolled on the floor with laughter instead of getting so angry with her. She said that they were and how could they be so stupid to not have icecream in the summer. Jack said later that was when he reached the boiling point. It was the first time Elaine had actually broken through his calm demeanor.Now if she had known how to swear he might have respected her.

I took Amarandi for a walk to calm her down. Just before she fell asleep she asked "Am I very tired?" I told her she was and she was instantly asleep. I returned to the table feeling like a successful parent.

Finally it was time to go. All of us except Elaine wanted to walk down the mountain so Sue gave her a ride to Parilea while I went to Jacks to borrow his Greek-English dictionary for the next few weeks. Sue returned very quickly, so quickly I was afraid she had taken Elaine as far as the bridge and thrown her off it. We said our good-byes and I started down the hill. I ran into Andrea, wheeling a sleeping Amarandi in her stroller, as she was leaving James Crispys house. Everybody else was still there having coffee and brandy so I went in to join them. James was holding court on his back patio, the silence of the olive groves obliterated by the Wagnarian opera blasting out of his large speakers. It was an odd juxtaposition of a lovely village scene and the soundtrack of Hitler invading Poland. I admired his work, sat for a moment, and then continued my journey home with my brother and Joan as companions.

So now it's a whole new ballgame. Probably by the end of the weekend we will have a new set of friends to eat and drink with. Mitch will be here in either 3 or 10 days according to the letter I received at Katinas yesterday. He said he was arriving in Athens on Sunday but he didn't say which Sunday. We had to search his letter for clues. He mentions a trip to Ottawa on July 6th. The letter is postmarked June 28th. Not much to go on. We'll know on Monday when the flying dolphin arrives with or without him.

Tonight is the ferry boat. It comes from Athens once a week on its way to various ports on the Peleponisos and Crete. It returns on Sunday to take the weekend visitors back to Athens. It's a major event and the population of all three villages come to meet it. I can't wait.

July 8th

At last, the waves have come. It's a cool cloudy day with a wind blowing in from the sea. Storm clouds are hung up on the mountain peaks creating a traffic jam that might eventually bring rain. I was sitting in our house fuming because I had suspected that Elaine was smoking in the outhouse with Amarandi in there with her. I wasn't sure but I heard their voices and when they came out, Elaine, Amarandi and the outhouse smelled like cigarette smoke. It bothered me because Elaine is one of those people who watches all those Current Affair and 20/20 style shows on TV so the dangers of second hand smoke is no secret to her. It's one thing to be smoking in the same room, but when that room is three feet by three feet it seems like the dangers might be intensified. Andrea told me to speak to her about it because she's afraid that if her mother thinks that she knows about her smoking then she'll start lighting up in front of her. So I'm suppo sed to confront Elaine so Andrea can continue pretending she doesn't know and Elaine can continue thinking she's fooling her. While I was mentally struggling with this they were having a conversation about the Avon lady. I couldn't take it anymore so I walked out. Elaine tried to stop me by asking me to move the bed so Amarandi could get her little plastic ring that came as a gift from an ice cream cup and had fallen underneath. Not that Amarandi even noticed it was missing. I politely declined and she thanked me sarcastically. The last thing I heard was Andrea screaming my name, "Matthew!!!" It sounded like a horrible mother shouting at her spoiled child, which is how I felt. I realized that I went from being single and solo to having two mothers and a daughter. The scary thing is that Amarandi won't be a child forever. I could potentially have three screaming women in my family. If my relationship with Andrea is going to continue with me being the abusive child to her domineering mother act, maybe I should buy a case of rubbers and find a girlfriend one night at a time. Someone I can tell about my terrible homelife after incredible sex. I'm supposed to be a poet, a musician, like Leonard Cohen and Ray Davies. I should be living with women like Rebecca DeMornay for a year or so and then move on to the next young beautiful and brilliant woman. I should be like Henry Miller, bald yet incredibly attractive, emenating life , humor and sex appeal. I shouldn't be trapped with three difficult women, getting sucked into daily bickering sessions. I suppose I can stand it until Amarandi is old enough to leave home but if the old adage that "If you want to know what a woman will be like in 25 years, look at her mother", is true, then I could be in big trouble. They both remind me of my grandmother on my mother's side. Perhaps I am paying off some karmic debt. I was not very tolerent of her, maybe this is the lesson I have to learn in this life, how to get along with women who badger and pick and have no idea what the hell I am talking about most of the time. My grandfather had the answer. He had a mistress for thirty years. Nobody knew about her until after he died.

So I go to the beach and there is a thin film of tar specks on the waves. Some tanker has emptied its bilge or something. In some places it has collected on seaweed into black patches. It's very disturbing. Here I have been waiting for a day like today where I could body-surf myself to exhaustion, and the sea is a black filthy mess. I walk down to the next beach beyond town and it's a little better. At least the tar hasn't arrived yet and I am able to bob around and ride a wave or two before it does. Then I quickly get out and walk to Katinas where Amarandi and Elaine are sharing an omelet. Amarandi is playing with her nine year old boyfriend, Little Panayotis. Old Panayotis offers me the liver of a freshly killed sheep for lunch. Following the ancient advice of never turn down a Laconian when he offers you the liver of his favorite sheep for if you do tomorrow someone may be offered yours, I accept. Anyway with all the drinking I can use the B-vitamins.

Last night's arrival of the ferry boat was a spectacle, at least compared to other non-events of the week. We sat at the bar, drank ouzo, and ate salty peanuts and pistachios and talked about who might possibly get off. James Crispy was waiting for his friend Christina who we realized was none other then my cousin. We finally saw some lights on the horizon and in half an hour the enormous form of the THESEUS was filling up the harbor. We went to the end of the dock to take in the scene. Amarandi was mesmerized, especially when the big door came down and all the people, cars, trucks, boats and animals spilled onto the dock into the waiting embraces of friends and family. Greg, Anastasia and Nora who had helped set off Yannis' tirade in the Plaka that evening which seemed so long ago, were among the new crowd of vacationers, along with several familiar faces who's names we didn't know.

When the excitement had ended we walked to Katina's and were greeted with a plate of chicken, kontosouvli, salad, potatoes and a plate of fried moray eel that old Panayotis had promised me. The food was delicious but the company was terrible. Andrea ate her food in silence, claiming she had a headache while Elaine took advantage of the lack of conversation to talk non-stop through the entire meal. Even Amarandi ran off to play with Little Panayotis and her cousins, returning for the watermelon that Jack had left for us with Katina three days before and she had forgotten about. It was a sad experience, that watermelon being the last remnant of Jack, a sweet tasting Eucharist. It wasn't until the next day that we noticed the bespectacled, bearded stranger, who had magically appeared to fill the void Jack had left. If Jack had needed a stunt double, this man would have been him and we thanked God for the gentle reminder that Uncle Mister Jack would one day return to us at this first supper without him.

The girls went off to bed and even though I was invited to continue drinking and eating with the construction workers and Niko the cop, (or ex-cop depending on who you ask), I went to the "phone-card" telephone booth and called my mother. Everything was fine in America so I went back to the house. Andrea was reading with the flashlight. I talked to her but I could tell she wished I would stop talking so she could continue with her book. She would much rather read a book or a magazine then talk to me. When I was friends with her and Stewart we would go to a cafe, order drinks or coffee, and the two of them would pull out books and begin reading, leaving me to wonder what kind of relationship they had. I can understand if you are alone, going out for coffee in the morning and reading the paper, but when you are with someone you supposedly love the idea is to communicate, especially when you are sitting face to face, or even laying next to each other in bed. I don't think Andrea likes to communicate. If I talk t o her while we are making love she tells me to shut up. She says I remind her of Woody Allen when I talk. What does that mean? I'm funny? I'm nuerotic? Maybe when I get my mistress she'll have a wonderful sense of humor and laugh at all my bedside mannerisms. Andrea's like a guy. After we make love I can tell she wishes she could be the hell away from here, but since we live together and she can't, she does the next best thing. She closes her eyes and goes to sleep, or pretends. She complains that she is an insomniac and yet after sex I ask her a question and she doesn't answer, no matter how many times I ask. It's not like our sex is so wild that she passes out from sheer exhaustion. It's a puzzling situation but there are remedies. Going to the bar is one of them.

When I got there I had a beer and talked to Maria, the ex-rock'n-roll bride from Atlanta, and my young cousin, another John Clombotos, who kept us entertained with stories about how much he could drink.

"How many beers is that for you Mattheos?" he asked, pointing at my half empty Amstel. I exaggerated and told him three. He pointed to his. "Twenty-five" he said proudly as Maria tried in vain to contain her admiration. They were reluctant to call it a night and asked me if I wanted to come with them to the disco at the far end of the bay. Even the possibility of dangerous sex with Maria was not enough to entice me to accept their offer, especially since my potential rival suitor was on his twenty-sixth beer, and seemed unfazed as he began to tell us stories from his stint in the Greek Marines. Besides, I had a sleeping girlfriend, daughter and mother-in-law waiting for me at home. Maybe I would get lucky with Andrea. I thought about the octopus I had let go the day before telling myself that if I spared his life I would be rewarded by an even larger and tastier one. If only it were the same with women.

So it rains all day, just like it did last Saturday. By the time the flying dolphin is due to arrive the waves are huge, breaking on the road in front of the bar. The dolphin sails into the bay and comes right towards where we are standing on the dock. They pull up alongside, start to tie up and then think better of it as the boat is lifted about twenty feet into the air and dropped with a giant splash. They back up and speed off to the fisherman's dock on the sheltered far side of the bay. It reminds me of the reason that my father is against fixing the house here. Or one of the reasons. Before they built the dock into what it is now, capable of handling ships, all the flying dolphins and ferries used the dock at Agios Nikolaos because it was the only place sheltered and deep enough. My father arrived on the Ionion with Angela, his wife to be, and stood on the dock watching the activity as people piled into cars and pick-up trucks for the two mile ride into town. My father, still living under the illusion th at Greece in the eighties was still Greece in the sixties assumed that if he and Angela started walking with their heavy bags, some nice villager would offer them a ride, so they didn't bother asking. To their dismay they were left behind. Maybe the villagers were caught up in the excitement of their own arriving relatives or maybe they thought my father and his wife were a couple masochistic elder hostel types who enjoyed dragging a hundred pounds of luggage up and down hills on dusty back roads. Who knows? Whatever the reason my father never forgave them and always compares Kalotrelochoro and Kalithea, my Grandfather's village, which he prefers, by telling me about the goats they slaughter to celebrate whenever he visits there and the fact that nobody offered him a ride that day he arrived here.

So now the rain has us house bound again. Andrea is cleaning and rearranging the little there is to clean and rearrange. Elaine is pretending to be asleep so she can hear what we say about her, and Amarandi is sitting on her potty, singing a little song. We hung the hammock and were swinging her slowly back and forth when the downpour started. She was moments from falling asleep but now she seems revived and happily plays with her toys and books.

I am laying in my bed reading when Andrea suggests we go to the beach. When we get to the port it's raining and the wind is blowing. The waves are incredibly large, crashing on the dock. Panayotis is braving the storm with his little drop-line and cheesy bread trying to catch a kefalo. For the weather being so nasty there are a lot of people around. Kosta the bouzouki player has parked his truck with his family in it on the end of the pier and he's casting into the waves, trying to catch melanouria. Marina's husband and his friend are in a small speedboat trolling back and forth after the same fish. To the right of the dock on the small town beach teenagers swim in the big waves while children on the other shore run from the spray as those same waves hit the rocks and explode fifty feet into the air. I look at the long beach and see that's where the really big waves are breaking.

As we come down the steps to the beach the geese leave their shelter to greet us, probably having been ignored by their caretakers because of the weather. Usually they run from us. Besides us, there's another couple with their son playing along the shore. Nobody else. By now it's pouring and the wind is blowing harder. It's very unpleasant for Andrea who is afraid to go in the water but for me it's heaven. The sea is warmer then the air and the waves are perfect for riding. Andrea suffers on the beach watching me come in and out a dozen times until I get roughed up by a giant wave and have to rest for awhile. After a few more rides we start back but I stay on the pier while Andrea goes home to read. The feeling I have while standing on the dock is like being lost at sea in a storm, fearing the elements but awed by the beauty. I'm not the only one. People are everywhere, swimming, fishing, standing in doorways and at the bar watching the giant waves. Suddenly it starts to pour again and the wind stops dead. Th e waves continue rolling in larger then ever but their faces are smooth except for the tiny splashes of raindrops. The sea turns an amazing turquoise and I stand on the edge of the dock in total awe. I'm the only one left out here. When the rain began falling heavily, everyone else ran for the bar to watch from there. Just as I am losing myself in the beauty of the moment I hear a car horn and my name being called. It's Panayotis. I think he wants to warn me not to stand on the edge of the dock because I might be struck by lightning or washed out to sea, but instead he asks me to retrieve his fishing line that is tied to the dock, since I am already soaking wet.

"There is a kefalo on it", he says. As I walk to his line a huge wave hits the dock in front of the bar washing over Greg's brand new motorcycle and me, and washing Panayotis fishing line into the sea on it's return. It's still tied to a steel rung on the dock so I am able to retrieve the end with the kefalo on it and bring it to Panayotis, sitting in his car. "Put it in the bag in the trunk" he tells me.

A couple of the men are swimming and call me in. I join them and we are all bounced around for awhile. "It's not the Atlantic, but close," one of them says to me in English. Afraid that it might be washed overboard, some of the men try in vain to move Greg's motorcycle. By now it's seven o'clock and I am freezing. I wave good-bye and go back to the house to try and get warm, but having only T-shirts and light clothing it is difficult. There are no blankets, only sheets and I don't feel completely comfortable until we go to Katina's and have a couple ouzos.

It's a totally different night at Katinas. All the action is indoors because of the weather. The construction workers are here, Katina's grandchildren and a teacher from Naphlion named Dionysious who lives in one of the old mansions across from the dock. The TV is on showing scenes of cars being washed down city streets in Skopji and floods in Thessaloniki. We drink and eat and talk to everyone. It's like a party. Even Elaine is pouring herself retsina freely and Amarandi is running back and forth playing with the children. I tell the story of my Grandmother's house for the hundredth time. "Ti crema" they always say. What a shame.

They all have advice.

"Just take it."

"Wait til your father dies".

"Get a lawyer and sue your family".

Who knows what I will do and how this will eventually turn out. Today Elaine woke up inspired to buy the house next door for a million drachma. There's only one problem, and we told her. They want fifteen million for it. That didn't dim her enthusiasm. Andrea says it's the first time she's wanted a house. She can see the possibilities of retiring here rather then in a mountain village in Mytilini where you spend the rest of your life walking up and down steps. Andrea's father can move here and become a fisherman, Elaine says. It will be one big happy family again.

Today is Sunday so Elaine gets all dressed up and takes Amarandi to church. While are are gone, John Zaferis comes with the Bulgarian guy and has him clean up the yard which in his mind meant cutting down all the bushes. I try to stop him by appealing to Yannis, but I can't locate him. We convince the Bulgarian to spare the butterfly tree that shades one of the windows on the east side of the house. Elaine is bothered by his presence and perhaps the fact that he looks like a gypsy.

"Now he knows the layout of the house" she mutters from the kitchen.

What layout? It's one big room and a kitchen, like most of the houses here. Did he take this job so he could case the joint? Besides, he was the one living here before we arrived. If anyone knows the layout of the house it's him.

Church was canceled this week because the priest is at another church. Probably Metropolis or Vrissi. The girls go to Katina's and have an omelet instead. All the regulars are already there drinking, probably disappointed because the priest is out of town.

The sea is again an incredible shade of turquoise, probably because the storm has stirred up the sand from the bottom. The waves are smaller but occasionally ride-able and I spend an hour floating in the surf. While we eat lunch at Katina's the TV is tuned to some stupid Hulk Hogan low budget adventure movie. I'm absentmindedly watching it while waiting for my salad. There's a scene where the muscular giant Hogan is meant to show his soft and sensitive side as he takes a little girl on different rides in an amusement park. There is a cool instrumental guitar intro and then the song dissolves into the flakiest of pop melodies. I think to myself, "How typical. You have this cool riff attached to this song of zero substance." The song begins to irritate me, as does the pretentious video that it goes along with. Andrea comes in and I point it out to her laughing. It sounds like someone trying to imitate our friend Rick's style. Suddenly I realize it is Rick. It's Rick's voice. And the music is Rick's style, thoug h not a song you will find on his 100 Greatest Hits Album. I want to call him this moment. "Please Rick. Tell me that you didn't write the "Merry-go-round-of-Love" song in the Hulk Hogan movie."

The entire village is sitting at the bar, on the steps, on the curb, against buildings, like the sea is a big screen and the arrival of the ferry boat Theseus on it's return to Pireaus, is the film projected on it. I think of taking one of those group shots where you have the silhouettes numbered so you can identify all the people. It would come in handy. Whenever I hang out at Katina's with Vassili the Greengrocer I ask about the people who walk by. "Who is he? What's his story?" Vassili is obliging and informative but keeping track of everybody is difficult especially when half of them are named Panayotis.

So the boat comes and goes. Exactly one person gets off and a hundred get on including Monemos, Greg and Panayotis, who's last words to me are "I will return in two days and then I will fish for kefalo every day. This is the best time to catch kefalo." I tell him the only ones who won't be sorry to see him go are the fish. As the ship sails off, the remaining people linger as if reluctant to end the party. As Andrea and I walk through the bar, the owner, Yannis Rovatsos, asks what's going on with the house. We explain how my hands are tied because of my father and Andrea tells him the whole story about how we had gone to see our friend Nikos Papapavlos, the lawyer in Molaos and he had given us the papers we needed to begin to clear up the mess, that my father had found out and accused me of "showboating" and conspiring against him and refused to let me do anything with the house. Yannis says that we have to do something or they will tear down the house and that will be the end of the story. Talking about it i ncites my anger about the whole stupid situation and I think about what action I can possibly take from my position of helplessness with a view. I can sue the entire family, father, uncles, cousins, for control of the property and challenge them to hire lawyers and face me in the Greek courts, or make a commitment one way or the other, to become involved in the restoration, or sign away their claim. Another option would be to illegally restore it and move in and challenge the relatives to get me out, if they even realized I was there. It's a ridiculous situation. Nobody cares about the house enough to do anything and yet there is violent opposition to my efforts to restore it.

Inspired by these thoughts we go to Vassili's everything store to buy locks and a chain to close up the house so no children will fall in and get hurt.

Vassili is by far the strangest man in the village. His shop is in the basement of his big house and contains boxes of all different sizes, most of them older then me. He knows where everything is though sometimes he has to scratch his head and think about it for awhile. He is meticulous beyond belief and as Andrea put it "If you're not in the mood he can drive you crazy." Everything is wrapped and tied and must be dusted off before he puts it on the counter, which also must be dusted off before and after each item is placed upon it.

When we ask for the chain he isn't sure exactly what it is we want, but once he figures it out he goes straight to the far corner of the store and comes back with a rusty old dog chain. He places it on the old-fashioned scale he uses and fiddles with the weights until he gets it exactly right.

"A hundred and twenty drachma" he tells us.

Andrea asks how much rusty old dog chain costs by the gram and he doesn't know. I guess he just likes to weigh things before they leave the store for the last time. Maybe he has a ledger of the entire weight of all the contents of the store, down to the last gram and one of his joys is to keep it up to date. With the sale of the 325-gram rusty dog chain the store now weighs a total of......Nothing about Vassili would surprise me. Andrea doesn't like him because she thinks he's a rip-off because his postcards are 160 drachma instead of the sixty they cost in the most expensive tourist shops in Athens.

"He's got a monopoly here and he takes advantage". Maybe so but we just paid about fifty cents for a piece of chain that could be the first step in getting the house, or getting disowned by my father. A bargain.

Unfortunately the only locks he has are industrial size and we tell him we aren't interested. I hate to disappoint him by not buying something he shows me. He goes through so much trouble to find it, unwrap it, clean it, weigh it and figure out how much it costs, that I feel bad saying no. Then I have to watch him clean it, wrap it, tie it and put it back again. Then the process is repeated . You can really only buy one thing at a time when you shop there, unless you want to spend the day with Vassili.

We walk across the street to Yannis Zaferis store and find the locks right away. When we pay his wife she doen't know how much they cost. Yannis was right outside but she says he doesn't know either, even though it is his store. Nobody knows what anything cost except Yorgo who is not around. She tells us we can pay later.

So we lock up the house once again. Everytime I do anything with the house my father hears about it in New Mexico. I'll probably get a nasty letter when I return to the states telling me that the village wants to have me arrested for putting locks on the door. One time he heard that I had taken a broom and a wheelbarrow and cleaned up much of the debris that had fallen from the roof into the house. He told me that the village police had orders to arrest me if I set foot into the house again. This seemed odd since the only police in the village was Niko the cop, who had been a constant drinking and eating companion that summer. It seems he would have mentioned it if he had orders to arrest me. It's just my father's way. "They all hate you in Kalotrelochoro." he told me one year. "Don't fool yourself."

Actually they seem to have opened up this year. Many of them have just realized they have been seeing me around for years and have finally asked the question, "Who are you anyway?" I overheard Christos Rovatsos, the informal patriarch of the village trying to figure out my relation to the Colombotos family. They all ask me if I'm the son of Yannis, the teacher from New York. No I'm the son of Niko and the grandson of Vasiliki and they all say "Yes, of course." Like now it all makes sense. And now they all say Hi to me on the street and they want to talk about the house and come by for coffee. And they love Amarandi. She's the Great-granddaughter of Vassiliki Colombotos who left Kalotrelochoro in 1915 when her family drowned when the kaiki bringing cows from Spetsi sank in a storm. My grndmother had been sent to live with a family in Alexandria, Egypt, and then immigrated to the United States where she married my grandfather, Yorgos Economopoulos. And Amarandi acts like it's a homecoming. She has never been ha ppier , at least not this summer. She could care less about the water. She seems to fear it in some way, but she loves the boats, the fish and she especially loves playing at Katina's with her distant cousin Panayotis.

We have an early dinner. Elaine orders brizolas which she believes is filet minion but Andrea enlightens her and informs her they are porkchops. We have chicken and rice while Amarandi sleeps through it all. Halfway through the meal I hear my name being called from the street. To my surprise it's my young cousin Yannis Colombotos, my rival for Maria's affections from the night before, with his wife and child. So my jumping to conclusions had turned into a missed opportunity for sexual promiscuity. What a shame because Maria has left for parts unknown, perhaps Mykonos, Ios and Santorini like most girls her age.

Our wine and beer is paid for by Niko the contractor from Egalion and when the girls leave right after dinner as they always do, I am invited to join them for beer and octopus. Most of the talk focuses on the Greek-Canadians who race back and forth between the bar and Trocedero Pizza on their motorbikes. Niko's irritation is growing as he refilled his beer glass and mine again and again. The octopus is grilled perfectly and tastes like the filet mignion Elaine thought she was getting.

Just then two of the offending Canadians make an abrupt U-turn and disappear down the alley between Monemo's cheese shop and my Grandmother's house. Right behind them comes the Peleponesian Police Patrol jeep on it's evening cruise through the mountain villages. Niko sends a girl after the police so he can complain about the motorcycles and the disco that plays loud music til six every morning.

"Even though it's two miles away you can hear it like it's next door," he claims. The girl comes back without the cops and by this time there is what seems to be an argument between the patrons but what is actually people trying to see who can agree the loudest. The police vehicle does make a return trip but nobody makes a move to flag it down and they drive off towards Metropolis, probably to have a drink or two at the disco.

So I stumble home about two after finding nobody to talk to at the bar. The night is clear and cool and I climb into bed with Andrea. Her body language says to me "get the hell out" and that is seconded when Amarandi wakes and wants to sleep next to her mommy, which leaves no room for me. I crawl over to my bed taking the forty dollar underwater flashlight with me and read a few more chapters of If You Really Loved Me, the true story of a guy who convinces his daughter to murder his wife. I dream of catching kefalo, skaros and a mistress for thirty years.

July 10th

Another lovely cloud-filled day. Nothing but the sound of cicadas, the cackle of hens and the occasional war-plane flying over the village. I look at the mountains and I think that it would be really cool to be a pilot. I suppose after awhile it's just like playing a really good video game except there is nobody to shoot down. For some people they are either at war or practicing for war for most of their life. I wonder how they behave at home? Why do jerks like Oliver North and Gordon Liddy have beautiful wives and lots of girlfriends? Are women attracted to macho guys like that? Do they beat their wives and train them to look good and smile for the cameras? Is war a release for their hostilities that enables them to be perfect loving husbands and fathers? What about we senestive peace-loving guys? Why is it do hard for us to score? Could it be we are not agressive enough? Do we all need a war of some kind, enemies to grapple with, to defend our families from? If we cannot find or create these enemies do we t urn our hostilities towards the people we supposedly care about, or ourselves?

It seems that way. Especially with my mother-in-law. Sometimes I feel hostile towards her and I ally myself with Andrea. Sometimes it's the other way around when I think that Andrea is being the antagonizer. Sometimes I wonder how I could be stuck with two women who remind me so much of my Jewish grandmother that it seems like I am paying off some tremendous karmic debt. One thing is for sure. I can be as ill-behaved as either of them so I guess that answers all my questions, except one. Why am I thinking about this stuff so early in the morning?

Time flies when you're doing nothing. I walk to my grandmother's house and look at the garden and what cleaning it up would entail. It's overgrown by an old grapevine and a fig tree that has sent out shoots, cloning itself all over the yard. There's lots of weeds and debris that can be tossed into the basement of the ruined house through the window. It's a beautiful area with a cistern and lots of space to sit and enjoy one's privacy if it were to be cleared out. The house itself could be one of the nicest old houses in the village. Judging by its location in the center of town it has to be one of the oldest. It makes me sad to look at it. it reminds me of unfinished business. I think of all the plans I have made that were never completed due to lack of motivation. I realize that fixing this house will not make me happy, as nothing material can really make one happy, except for a moment or two. But it's a project. It's a journey. It's a problem to be solved but I am denied the right to try to solve it and I a m the only one who wants to solve it. This house will continue to fall and in the end it will be paved over and Katina's customers will be able to park their cars a few meters closer to her store.

The dolphin arrives and the sea is so rough that people have difficulty getting off. A wave comes and the wing-like platform that they disembark from rises six feet off the dock before falling. A couple of times the metal supports hit concrete as the boat comes crashing down. But nobody I know gets off, nor is likely to for awhile. Still I have nothing better to do at 12:30 every day.