Greece Stories
We’ve just returned from another fabulous trip to Greece and while I’m still not sure what day it is and where I am, I’m sifting through photos, memories, and thoughts. I didn’t journal like I typically do, as it was a short trip and I wanted to soak up every single moment. As I shift through the photos, I find stories to write. We had such an amazing trip, I want to share it all with you. Here’s the first of what I hope to be many posts about our adventures. Let’s head to the village.
Kallithea surprise
Our first stop was Kallithea, Ileias, where we stayed with my aunt. My father was not born here, but in the tiny adjacent village. This is my grandmother’s village. It’s also where my father’s eldest brother and his sister settled with their families, where I stay when I visit the area. This is my Greek home. I feel it down to my soul. So if you ask me where I’m from in Greece, I will tell you Kallithea. But that’s a story for another day.
Stray cats roam Greece. That’s nothing new. Each time I visit, there’s a new crew of cats at my aunt’s house. They have a symbiotic relationship. My aunt feeds them, and they take care of the mice and snakes. It’s a win-win. They aren’t pets per se; they never go in the house and she doesn’t pet them. They know where their meals come from. The cats eat, but they also pay in their own way.
The new cats
As we sat on her terrace, sipping an iced coffee and catching up with my aunt and two of my cousins, a striped, gray cat appeared. She lurked around, like she tried to go unnoticed. “New cat?” I asked? A broad smile flickered across my aunt’s face. “What’s her name?” She replied, “Psipsirina”. Cute. Unlike the last cat my aunt fostered, this one looked healthy and robust. The old one had a chunk of its ear missing due to a fight with other cats. Guess they wanted to take over his cushy gig. But I digress.
“She’s wondering when her food will be out,” my aunt said, straightening her apron. Usually, leftovers and scraps from their meals end up in a bowl that resides on a different side of the terrace, out of sight. A little private dining, if you will. The cats never complain. They’ll take whatever they can get—and wherever they can get it.
“Meow!” I called. Or rather, “Niaow!” That’s what Greek cats say. I niaowed and the cat niaowed back. That’s my cat-ese for letting her know I knew this was her turf. She acknowledged. We’re good.
The one with no name
Later, another cat, the color of dingy white clothes and with a gray face appeared. “Who is this one?” I asked. “We haven’t baptized him yet,” my aunt said, smoothing her hair, still short but now grayer than the last time I saw her, though her natural chestnut color peeks out. No one laughed. In Greek tradition, children don’t “officially” receive their names until baptism. “Can I be his godmother?” I asked. “He’s all yours,” my aunt said, deadpan. “You decide the name. Let me know.”
I asked my daughters about an appropriate name for the cat. They looked up from their phones for a moment, shooting me a “you’re crazy” look. OK, it was a quarter of a moment. They were too glued to their phones to realize this was a joke. We all laughed. The new cat, a boy, retreated around the corner to see if dinner had been served. Not yet. He bolted around, under our chairs, then rubbed against my foot. This was a sign. He wanted a name—and an American godmother. I’m not sure how old he is, but this poor kitty had wandered around long enough without a name.
As the evening went on, I tried out different names, but none of them worked. He’d appear and I’d say a name. He’d cock this head to the side, as if in disgust, then scamper away. Giggles ensued. This went on for a few days. Mind you, I’m not a cat person. But since we’ve had a dog, I appreciate all animals more. And, this is his house, where he lives and works. It feels like home to me, but I’m there only for a short time. I’m not going to infringe on his space.
The baptism
The morning we prepared to leave, another name came to me. “Auntie!” I yelled. “I have a name!” She toddled out to the terrace, where the cat and I had, not a stare down, but a moment opposite each other, like each waited for something to happen. “His name is Toli. Short for Apostolis.” The car niaowed, tipped his head down—the Greek yes—then ran across my foot. He seemed to like his name. Deep, gut-busting laughter erupted.
He returned Iater to say goodbye. As we loaded the suitcases into the car, I could see him peek out between the spindles of the terrace railing. “Niaow, niaow!”
Back at you, my dear.
And that’s how I got a new godson. Or should I say, godcat?
Hopefully he’ll still be there when I return.
Be well, Toli! Nona will be back soon.
