I hadn't traveled with my mother since I was sixteen, and that was fourteen years ago. Desperate for a break from my crazed New York City life, I decided to go to Athens, visit some islands, see some old high school friends, and my mom. A week before my trip, my mother convinced me to go away with her on a little three-day side trip from Athens. She had a talent for making every vacation a catastrophe, always ending with her screaming at someone and me fleeing the scene. After each trip, we always needed some time apart. Feeling that we were now older and wiser, I speculated that old travel misfortunes would not be part of our itinerary. Three days…I can do three days.
I arrived at the airport and found it alive with Greeks passing customs, acquaintances greeting each other at the gates, tourists finding their luggage, and sundry travelers heading towards their island destinations.
“Yoo-hoo Peachy mou! Peechoulini!” I heard over the bustling airport crowd. I looked up to see my mother with her short, spiky blondish hair, slim body, stylish sunglasses, and ear-to-ear smile, waving and running toward me. “Wow, Peachy! I'm so happy to see you!” she exclaimed, simultaneously grabbing my bags and kissing me. “You look different. Did you gain weight? I thought you were working out? Who cut your hair? I'm sure, once it grows out a bit, it will look better.”
Fighting the urge to bite back, I gave her a hug and kiss, and followed her to the taxi stand. After we hailed a cab, we cruised along a brand-new multi-lane highway, as my mother noted, pointing out the recent developments since my last visit, two years prior. Her incessant chatter focused on everything from the weather to the latest family gossip.
“Where are we going?” I interrupted.
“Thessalonica!” she proudly announced.
Located in the coastal region of northern Greece, Thessalonica is my favorite city. Second only to Athens in size, it possesses its own distinctive flavor. It's filled with great shopping, restaurants, nightlife, a large student population, and a multicultural history. We would often travel there when I was a child to visit our friends, Kyriakos, Marina, and their daughters, Sophie and Vasso. I hadn't seen them in a decade, but fresh memories surfaced of Kyriakos teaching me how to play cards, and tagging along with the girls as their adopted little sister for the summer. “When is our flight?” I asked, our taxi careening onto my mother's street.
“Oh no, Peachy, I booked bus tickets instead. We leave in two days,” she answered, as she paid the taxi driver.
I stared at her with a you-must-be-joking expression of bemused disbelief. “No, seriously. When does our flight leave?”
Through pursed lips (in Greek, never a good sign) she replied, “I couldn't find any plane or train tickets for the days you wanted, so I figured we should just take the bus. I don't see what the problem is.”
As my right eye twitched at the thought of a seven-hour bus ride with my mother, I sifted through my bag for painkillers. Popping two and trying not to have my first argument with Mom, I begrudgingly accepted that the matter was out of my hands and hoped that, once we got to our destination, all would be well.
After two days of visiting old Athenian friends, it was time to embark for Thessalonica. With an 11 am departure and 6 pm arrival, I boarded the bus, hoping the driver's nickname was Leadfoot. Though I harbored anxiety and dread about our trip, my mother bounced with excitement. As the bus pulled out, I opened a book.
“You're going to read the whole way?” she inquired.
“No, I'm just going to read a couple of pages and try to sleep,” I replied.
“Why do you want to sleep, Peepeechou? I thought we’d talk,” she answered with a disappointed look.
The fact that she and I had been talking for the last two days had obviously escaped her. I gave in, closing my book and turning toward her for what was apparently going to be a grueling seven-hour chat. We talked about everything and nothing, as the bus trundled northward. Glancing out the window, I examined the landscape of knotted olive trees, grape vines pregnant with fruit, and tiny terracotta houses dotting the mountainside. The “highway” consisted of two narrow lanes going in opposite directions. The highlight of the drive was a herd of goats blocking traffic for half an hour. With the herder perched on his donkey, the bus inched past the bleating goats, our driver careful not to drive too close to the cliff side, thus sparing us from plummeting to our deaths. We heaved a collective sigh of relief once we'd passed the “traffic jam.” By the fifth hour, my mother and I had seen enough of the winding roads of continental Greece (and each other) and were ready for a much-deserved nap.
In Thessalonica, Kyriakos and Sophie met us at the depot. Through the dusty window, I saw Kyriakos looking the same as he had ten years earlier: neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, thin moustache, and the air of a good time still emanating from him. Next to him stood Sophie, my surrogate sister, now shorter than me, her big, round, brown eyes scouring the bus for us. I hurried to give them hugs, happy to see them and relieved at being freed from my seven-hour confinement.
“You haven't changed a bit!” exclaimed Kyriakos, as he fiddled with his worry beads.
“You’ve grown so much, Stessaki. You're not that little kid anymore,” remarked Sophie, as we both wiped our tears and embraced each other.
“I told you, Sophie, she's all grown up,” shouted my mother, grabbing our bags from the bus’s underbelly.
After a three-hour coffee break and a full rundown of my last decade in New York, it was time for dinner. Greeks love to eat, make, and talk about food. To more fully experience the city's cuisine, we went to one of its oldest restaurants, Zythos, a short walk from our friends' home. Along with an endless supply of Greek wine, we gorged on an assortment of traditional dishes: spedzofai (sausage with hot peppers and tomato), kolokithokeftedes (zucchini fritters), Cypriot seftalia (grilled meatballs), soutzoukakia (meatballs in tomato sauce), kebab, grilled octopus, and an array of salads with Greek and Turkish flavors.
“Peechoulini? Are you sure you want to eat more bread? I didn't know you liked to drink so much wine,” my mother whispered in my ear. “I don't eat like this all the time,” I answered, through my own pursed lips.
The second day, we visited the Archeological Museum. “Peachy, I think you're wrong, this isn't a wine holder, but an oil one,” Mom remarked while looking at a display. Then she smiled and mumbled, “Oh, sorry, you were right. It is a wine holder.” Feeling victorious just for that moment, I reveled in silent glee, letting my mother guide me through the museum. Our afternoon and evening abounded with artifacts, arguments about politics, family events and the occasional maternal inquiry, “Why are you giving me that look? What did I say, Peachy?”
On the third day, we drove to the outskirts of the city with Sophie. Even though the city is near the water, we found ourselves in the surrounding mountains. The area called Panorama was exactly that, providing a panoramic view of the entire city, all the way to its port. We sat at a local restaurant, discussing my plans for the rest of the trip. With a slight gleam in her eye, Sophie asked, “So when are you leaving?”
“Oh, we're taking the bus tomorrow at eleven,” my mother replied, before I could say anything.
“Yes, we're leaving tomorrow, but it's going to be the first flight to Athens,” I interjected, ignoring my mother's surprised expression. From the corner of my eye, I saw her mouth open in protest. I reached out and touched her hand. With a sigh, she acknowledged defeat. The following day, we said our happy goodbyes, took a taxi to the airport for our forty-five-minute flight to Athens, on which my mother allowed me to sleep.
Back in Athens, we discussed the rest of my trip. I was set on visiting a couple islands and relaxing. As I sensed the oncoming guilt of the dutiful daughter, I heard myself ask, “Do you want to come with me?”
“No thanks, Peachy mou,” my mother responded. “I think we need some time apart.”
Issue: March/April 2007