Erica J Myers

ENG 379 – Travel Writing: Module 6

Mediterranean Healing

As an impulsive person, if I want to do or say something, the words drip like water held in my hands. Adolescent years were filled with daydreams, scribblings, and discipline. There was no medication. As an adult the anxiety thrives on procrastination. The mind is like a web browser with a thousand tabs opened. Losing the place in a thought when talking was easy, because so many thoughts are simultaneously attempting a prison break.  Everything is done in a rush. I have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

In 2016, Brian and I were trying to figure out where we were taking our vacation, two weeks prior to our vacation time. A beach in Thailand for me. Brian wanted an African safari without the huge cost of a safari, nor the extended time in a plane. Mental darts were thrown at the world map on our wall. Greece became the target, since there was a beach involved.

There are times when sensory overload happens. It is rare but can strike while on vacation. It resembles a panic attack, almost shutting down the body’s motion. Blinking occurs as the mind is rewiring to get moving. Traveling teaches me to manage it. Focusing on my expectations can help control reactions. Yet, in a grocery store, in the middle of Nea Smyrni, I froze. Never having therapy for this condition, it can be struggling to get back to your version of normal. A stranger in a new place, with an unfamiliar language, is having an anxiety incident.

“Let it go,” said a voice. She had a Middle Eastern accent that carved extra syllables in each word. She was standing off to the side.  Somehow, she knew what was happening and did not try to overwhelm me. “Accept your surroundings.”

Her questions were like Episcopalian chants. She would recite. I would respond.

“What are five things you can see right now?”

The aisle in front of me came into view. My voice quivered, “Mangoes. Limes. Tomatoes. On sale sign. Five for one euro.”

It continued as a countdown of the senses. She smiled, “You are like my daughter. You have lots in your head. Have you seen Frozen?” Shaking my head seemed to invite her to sing from the chorus of the song “Let It Go”. Skin, toasted in tan, donned freckles coded in Morse on her aging wrists and cheeks. Seldom is an adult heard singing a Disney song to another adult in a grocery store. Her voice was terrible, but enough to collect a smile.

The woman started telling me about bringing her daughter to Greece. Her daughter had an attack while crossing the street. Some local tried to take her hand, but she resisted. He had done the same countdown process with the daughter. They secured the technique in their memory. The woman moved to Greece the year following the incident. “Greece is therapy,” she chuckled. Brushing strands of onyx locks from her face, she then recommended a sunset cruise because “a tourist simply cannot be in the Mediterranean and never witness one of its sunsets”.

The jaundiced yellow brochure was tucked amongst the vividly colored, live-action photos of the other excursions Greek tour guides had to offer. Brian and I never really do the “touristy things” on a trip, but he seemed a little eager for another sailing cruise after our initial one-day tour of some islands. The Lagoon 400 Sailing Catamaran bobbed up and down upon the water, swaying back and forth on the waves. It was brand new, sleek, sexy, and it danced in a snaky motion over the waves. It reminded me of a movie scene where a clubbing man dances “provocatively” to attract a woman.  My stomach knotted up a little.  I had forgotten to take my Dramamine for motion sickness.

“What are 5 things you can see right now,” her voice questioned in my mind.

The crewman held out his palm, spackled with callouses from pulling rope. The aqua tankini I wore competed with the turquoise of the Aegean Sea. The sea won. Taking my seat, we joined a group of eight others, starting mid-day from the Athens Olympic Sailing Center.  This was one of the few Olympic sites still in operation. As we motored out of the area, we passed the ghostly Olympic Pools for diving and swimming competitions.  The vines of ivy were their patrons now.  The paint peeled back like torn posters, exposing unceremonious grey concrete.  One the diving boards resembled an old moonshiner’s mouth, jagged tooth barely hanging on to its metal gums.  Other structures resembled some dystopian, post-Apocalyptic edifices, ejected out the terrain like a tribute to Thunderdome. My mind wanted to go there instead. Perhaps there is a fight club in that pit, punching teeth into the distance; and now you have witnessed my disorder.

I could not complain about the weather.  The sky was a gorgeous powder blue with cotton balls of clouds dabbed here and there. Our skins were beginning to roast slowly in the sun, baking in our moist sweat drooling down our necks and backs. My mind could not focus on the inchworm movement of the forty feet of boat. 

“What are four things you can touch,” my mind asked in her voice.

My hand held tight to the thick rope of the rails, deciding to take off my swimming slippers. We were no longer on the pliable, invasive sand. My big toe failed to dig into the textured fiberglass. The grit skidded my entire foot like a skipped stone on a lake. The motor picked up speed. My shoulder kissed against another passenger’s. Unoffended, her English accent cooed as she began spilling beans about why she was in Greece at this moment. Motion sickness should have kicked in by now. My other hand moved in braille over the stitching of the cushions, finding my husband’s knuckles balled in a fist at the end of her sentence. Brian uses his knuckles as traction. This is humorous. I should be the one seasick. She thinks I have heard her story and continued with more of her tale.

The weird thing about my ADHD is that I look like I am not paying attention, but I can recite everything a person has said to me if asked. I am just distracted by everything else. Everything else includes the gusts, created by the speed of the boat, smoothing my back, and lifting the skirt-like length of my tankini top. I brush my hands through my dreadlocs, herding them together like cats in a tornado. I was tired of them whipping the freckles off my face. The twisty band resisted in my spread hand. I flexed it over the locs and sealed them off into a ponytail.  The wind on my face felt amazingly better without a hundred wind-driven whips lashing on your forehead and nose.

“What are three things you can hear?” That accent pried in my skull.

Over the wind, the crew people talked about Athens and the coastline. They chattered like a stock ticker machine, churning out information in English, with a gooey Greek accent. The wind rustled in my ears, natural static for those not really paying attention. Except I heard, “my friend.”  The phrase “my friend” is pure love. For Greeks, my friend is everyone who has not made them angry. That is never the purpose of my travels. Yes, I am your friend.  In every nation I have visited, my persona is “my friend”. I started counting the instances of being friends with this crewman. A passing boat, which I deemed as my friend, too, rung their bell. It carried on the breeze like a bird whistling during a rock concert. Our Catamaran captain honked his horn, boasting a bold honk from the bow. The new friend sailed on with a churning of waters as it sliced towards home.

“What are two things you can smell,” queried the mind, losing the accent 

As we slowed for our first swimming stop, the air was rich with a perfumed saltiness. I had lived on the coast for most of my life. The air in my hometown is pungent, a filthy salty air baptized in the breezes of the local pulp mill and chemical plant. The marsh belched its farty breath into it on every downwind. Greece, however, blossomed in a crispy saline diced with fainted jasmine and hiccups of citrus. The reduction in speed unfortunately introduced my nostrils to the abundance of aftershave a male passenger wore on every square inch of his person. I was hoping he would go into the water first.  I was not getting out at this swim.

“What is one thing you can taste,” reverbed like concentric circles.

Those who chose to swim briefly climbed aboard. We chugged to our second swimming stop.  The crew had taken out foods to prepare while we swam at this stop.  It would be a longer break this time. This was my stop. I would be getting off here. Crew brought out snorkeling gear, flippers, and life saver rings. Brian had already gotten in and drifted away from the boat.  Carefully selecting the snorkeling gear, my silence prayed that no one left body fluids in any of these googles. Divers often used their own spittle to defog goggle lenses. A blue jelly pair was tugged over my head while I slipped my feet into the water before letting myself fall in.  Normally I would sink straight down, maybe touch a bottom.  My heavy body always went under a few feet before rising back like a fishing bobber.  My head barely made it under the aqua glass before I rose right back and started back floating.  This was a first. I licked my wet lips as I wiped at my nose.

The Aegean Sea is the second saltiest sea in the world. The taste induces a jerk-reaction, almost shocking the taste buds that are normally used for sweet. It then becomes slightly fishy. And if lucky not to get an entire mouthful of it unexpectedly, it develops a floral hint. An unanticipated mouthful is a disdaining acidic burn.

And with all of my senses cleared, I could continue to tell you about the savory grilled meal the crew fed us, the extra time swimming, or the setting of the sails as the sun decided it was too much for him and he had to go home. The warmth of the day switched to a chill to the drying, scantily clad bodies. A blanket gave refuge and we were glad to have brought it along. The sail flapped its Morse Code of the awesome day we had. My toes stroked the netting like guitar strings. The smoky aroma of the grill faded into a musky evening breeze, filled with briny jasmine and wine. My tongue bathed in the sensual swirl of red wine. My mind was coursing through the beauty of Greece. Greece is love note to life. Greece is a reminder to take time for yourself. Her voice reminded me again, “Greece is therapy.”

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.