Gentle Greece 

Frankfurt to Denver, Seat 44H:

From this vantage point on my Lufthansa flight, I become aware that across the aisle in 44G and 44F an older couple have their hands clasped together lovingly.  Then my peripheral vision picks up the woman’s unusually firm grip around the right arm of her seat.   The pilot announces what our flight pattern will be after lift-off including the direction he will bank the plane.   My window seat companion is offered a logo item as a thank you gift for his willingness to change his seat from Business Class to Economy.  His 

knees are a tight fit against the seat back in front of him.  For nine and a half hours he doesn't move from his seat.

I relax into my aisle seat, thankful that my lot did not fall in the middle of the set of three this time.  For the nine plus hours ahead it is slightly less comfortable in the center position.    You’re neither in, nor out.  You don’t really “own” the window view, and you always are stuck asking to be excused if you want in or out.  Breathing a little sigh of thankfulness that the heavy bag just placed in the overhead compartment did not land on my head in the process of being awkwardly shoved into its temporary home by the slight woman assigned to 44I, I wonder what to do with the pillow and blanket and earphones that were conveniently plopped in her seat.  I hastily grab them and try to fit everything in my space as she squeezes by me.  Next time she wants out, I get up.  Much better.  Shy about speaking English, she utters almost no words during the entire flight.  I have no idea what language she speaks, but it makes little difference to me, since it isn’t English.    

I have been listening to the cadence of the Greek language for a couple of weeks now, but there is very little of it that I have yet to make useful. I was placed on notice by my daughter that I should be using my numbers. When hesitant about gender possibilities I asked for three bus tickets in English and got a lesson from Lisa later.  What if they were to assume I knew more words?  I recognize and use Kalimera for good morning as well as two or three other greetings, but suspect I fool no one. I listen for numbers to get used to hearing them.  Ena, pende, ikosi, endeka, trianda, efta'.  It seems that just listening isn't enough;  words have to be used to make progress.   Conversely, the word for spinach pie pops into my head.  Spanakopita. Accent on the o. Interesting how the brain works.  

Now, however, the stewardess moves easily between German and English, and since this flight originated in Frankfurt, there is a good chance my neighbors speak German, of which  I don’t know a word, except to ask if you speak German, (and German for no) unfortunately.   I glance across the aisle at the sound of sobbing.  Sure enough, tears are streaming from the blue eyes of the small blond lady to my left.   She is clinging to the hand of her husband with her left hand, grasping the arm of her seat with her right, clearly her only hope of life, while looking out the window to my right.  The plane hurtles noisily down the runway and lifts itself laboriously into the air.  Not knowing if she understands a word, I touch her arm gently and assure her that she will be okay.  This seems to have surprised her into becoming less frightened, because her sobs cease - or perhaps it is just that the plane is now airborne.  Either way, it seems the crisis has passed, and during the rest of the flight she is content and happy.  It happens each time she flies, she tells me later. She looks around to see if others share her fear, she says.  I wonder if she will eventually get over her fear, as I did, especially if she flies more often.   Her eyes light up in wonder and hope at the thought.

The stewardess produces a crib that attaches to the wall in front of the row ahead of the fearful flyer.  The proud father of an adorable small child begins to soothe the olive-skinned cherub to sleep.  That was the intent, anyway.  Soft, round brown eyes, curly dark hair and a dimple when she smiles – all eyes are on this duo.  She is busy exploring her new realm.  Not entirely convinced she wants to remain inside the crib, she instead plays peekaboo and generally charms her fellow passengers.  I wonder what self-deception her daddy has been subscribing to in order to convince himself that she is about to fall asleep.

He indicates his wishes that she lie down by taking her head in his hands and tilting it toward the pillow, as if hoping to somehow insert the top of her head under the attached hood despite being attached to her unyielding body.   After plenty of toothy grins, she buries her face in the pillow.  I suspect a plot.  Her daddy pats her, and fastens the soft fabric belt over her, and sure enough, she pops up again and again, defying each attempt to reconfigure her soft polka-dot blanket around her. When she lies down with her feet under the hood, he clips the handy soft gray hood to the other end of the crib, tucks in her flailing foot , replaces the pillow, all the while patting, patting.   She flirts with the Harley-Davidson aficionados seated in front of me and they are doubtless delighted with this interaction.  Before long she has the stewardess wrapped around her little finger, as well.   Her daddy, still convinced that she will obey his wish, pushes gently on her head, again in the direction of the pillow.  I can’t help but shake with laughter because his efforts have had all the effect of winding up a jack-in-the-box.  Still, her eyes have been getting droopy and after a long and persistent struggle, the father seems to have won the battle for the moment. Does everyone hold their breath like I do to see if his latest effort will be a success?  I, for one, am in doubt of his victory.  When she pops up again, his predictable reaction is to drop his head against the side of the crib, acknowledging defeat.

One by one, the rest of the family appears.  First the mother, covered in long black robes, with a rather sour look on her face, cradles her wriggling baby daughter in her arms.  I suspect that her husband was unused to his task of soothing the child and they both knew it.  I look up after a while and watch her cover the children’s now sleeping father, head still resting on the side of the crib, with not one, but two blankets.   Big sister, another curly headed charmer, gets brave enough to look around.  She is probably about 8 or 9 years old.  There are four seats in the center section of the 747 and I don’t have to wait long to see the other occupant is a son, about age 7, a little more slender but with the same cheeky grin, dark eyes, and once more, curly dark hair, but with curls now neatly trimmed.  After a few hours, the stewardesses go through the process of serving drinks, warm wash clothes, a meal, and I notice the bassinet holds the soft shape of a blanket-covered sleeping child. The mother, standing and attending her other children, smiles gently, having regained her rightful place in control of the situation. 

  

Bus Stop at Yankos on our way to Pollonia

New friend, old friend, their 20th Anniversary trip

Summer is a great time to visit art museums, which offer the refreshing rinse of swimming pools - only instead of cool water, you immerse yourself in art. (*and air conditioning! -*me)

Jerry Saltz

Paleochori Beach, Milos Island, Greece

Gyropita 

At the Acropolis

There are only three things women need in life: food, water, and compliments.   

           

Chris Rock

Bus Stop, Athens