Erica J Myers

ENG 379 — Travel Writing: Writing Prompt 1

Those Tourists

My husband and I had lived in Northern Virginia for approximately six years when we went to Greece. Brian and I had become quite familiar with the, let us just say, “attitude” of Northern Virginians. The pleasantry and courtesy varied in the myriad of neighborhoods. The closer you were to DC, the more attitude you experienced. We had chosen the last town on the outskirts of Fairfax County, Herndon. It was as close as we could get to Dulles Airport without pitching a tent on the runway.

Brian and I traveled every Labor Day weekend, taking off two weeks to explore another city. This year, both us had been so busy, we never noticed Labor Day weekend creeping up on us. After a short quarrel, I wanted a beach, we decided on Greece.

We had adopted a Greek vineyard owner and his family here in Northern Virginia. But Greece was not going to be like our excursions to the vineyard with our Greek family, or like going to Canada and France. Brian was able to use me as his personal Rosetta Stone, since I took French in college. Neither of us knew the Greek language or Greek culture. But we knew we did not want to be around other tourists. We had learned that lesson.

Brian had chosen a hotel in the Athens residential suburb of Nea Smyrni. We decided after London, to stay in non-touristy areas. Some tourists have the opinion that everyone owes them something because they dished out some money to be there. They can ruin it for other tourists. We did not want to be those tourists or even near them.

Our first two hours in Nea Smyrni started with lunch as a celebration, having had the owner of the café Τα Φιλαράκια (To Friends/Pals) yell at us to come and dine with him in an extravaganza of meeting two Americans in his neighborhood. However, dinner was a different event, subtle and relaxing. At the end of the block, almost built right into the hotel, was a little mom and pop restaurant titled Ταβέρνα Το Φαγοπότι (Tavern To Eating and Drinking). The elderly owners resembled the retired seniors that I had escaped to be here in Greece. The wife greeted us in Greek. I asked if she spoke English. She replied, “a little.”

She seated us on the sidewalk, next to a huge jasmine bush under a newly fruiting olive tree and handed us menus. I only knew the names of a few dishes. I pointed at the picture and asked, “How do you say this?” She carefully pronounced the word and I responded back, attempting to follow her pronunciation. I murdered it. She laughed and said that I did well. Brian slaughtered his selection’s name as well. She clapped her hands and in a delightful twirl, set off to prepare our food.

We were the only couple there, having started dinner early. She kept our water glasses full. We constantly complimented her on the food. She whisked away the plates. When we thought she was bringing us the check, she came out holding a tray of two parfait glasses with a dessert she had whipped up from yogurt, quince paste and graham crackers. We had not wanted dessert, but we knew not to decline such a delicious offering. She brought the check. We told her there was a mistake because she had not charged us for the desserts. She shook her head and said, “gift.” The tip we gave her in euros covered those desserts. We did not want to be those tourists.

The next night, after an adventurous day, finding the tram to Kalamaki Beach, at the suggestion of our “Pals” owner, we went back to the little restaurant on the corner. The Nea Smyrni streets smelled of fresh citrus blossoms and salted seas, with a whiff of jasmine on every passing gust. We curled our walk around the playground, as the sun said its goodbyes, and the children started coming out as the evening cooled the area. Every evening was a peaceful as this.

There was already a couple there ahead of us, being seated as we waited. She sat us at a table behind the new couple, a mousy brown-haired man and his partner, a dark-haired man. They smirked as they looked around. She placed water glasses on their table. “This isn’t that fabulous. I expected more,” said the mousy man, whom I’ll call Todd. Kevin replied that it was only the first place they had visited, to give it a chance. Todd chimed in, “Well,” taking a puff of his vape pen, “my nanny said that this area was the best area to visit. I don’t see it. It’s just buildings and some cafes.” Todd turned in his seat to watch the older lady pour wine into glasses for us.

She approached their table to take their order. Brian and I were not talking much. We took in the sounds of the children playing across the street in the center park. Automobiles would pass occasionally, but less than the foot traffic to the nearby park. You could hear faded conversations with bursts of laughter from the larger café across the street. Someone from above on one the balconies of the residences were playing violin. A block down you could hear a saxophone. The wind brushed the jasmine against the table. The olive tree would shimmy. The wine would tickle my nose hairs as I drank and stared at Brian. And there was a puff of vape smoke that would nosy over Brian’s shoulder and bless our table before leaving on the waft it traveled.

“It’s pronounced [insert Greek word],” snarked Todd. The Greek woman corrected him about the name of the dish. I held Brian’s hand and softly whispered that I never wanted to go back to Virginia. Greece was it.

“Well,” vaped Todd, “My mother hired a Greek nanny and she taught me Greek. You’re not pronouncing it right.” The elderly woman nodded her head. Todd continued to be curt at the woman. I did not notice that I started squeezing Brian’s hand. He pulled away and got out his cellphone. Brian knows that I have no indoor voice. Texting was our way of talking behind your back. Our conversation on the phone were highly critical of those tourists.

She came to our table and we ordered. The jasmine cleared a space for my wine glass as the wind played with the branch. The children yelled in play across the street at the park. Conversations died down and laughter became louder at the café across the way. She came out with two plates. Her husband followed with two more plates.

Her husband had already placed our plates and went back to the kitchen. We took our obligatory pictures of our meals for social media and started eating. Our forks clinked against our plates. The wind picked up, sending the jasmine into a fury of sweeping. The olive tree started shaking nervously. She came back out with a water pitcher to their table.

“You two must have traveled far. Where did you come from?” asked the owner to Todd and Kevin. The wind stopped. The jasmine stilled. The olive tree halted.

“Actually, because you probably won’t go there,” started off Todd, “we’re from just outside DC.” Brian had just placed a bite into his mouth. Todd suckled again on the vape pen. “We’re from Falls Church, Virginia.” Brian started coughing.

We do not know when the earth stopped spinning. The jasmine was quiet. The olive tree was quiet. The children were quiet. Everything in this neighborhood was quiet for just that moment. Here we were on the other side of the world, Brian choking and me spitting out my last sip of wine onto my fish to check on Brian. The owner, closer to Brian, patted his back. Todd’s vape smoke hovered over our table, almost overseeing with the same disdain he had for whatever was not Falls Church.

Thing settled down quickly and we went back to eating, with more texting in between bites. That night, we ordered dessert. She brought them over, placing them gently, while her husband refilled our wine. “I didn’t get to ask yesterday. Where are you two from?” asked the owner politely.

In unison, like conjoined twins avoiding a trap, we replied quickly, “Georgia.” We pulled up a chair for her and her husband and invited to share the wine with them. We sat around and talked about the world and enjoyed our wine and new friends.

Around midnight, sitting on the balcony of our room, enjoying another bottle of wine, we started discussing Todd and Kevin. Todd had ruined any previous notions this woman had of Virginia. We were visitors to her home.  His snippy attitude and that damned vape pen pacifier destroyed the image of Virginia in that woman’s mind. We had the opportunity to change her mind about Virginia, our home. Brian and I in that instance had felt if we had said we, too, had been from Virginia, then her attitude towards us would have changed. We felt bad for lying to her. But for now, Georgia had a good place in that woman’s heart. Georgia had also been our home. If she ever decided to travel to our home, she would probably go to Georgia because two cordial tourists.