Of course, I enjoyed the extra love and attention, but I don’t feel old. I remember my mother saying that before she got out of bed in the morning, she felt like she was 16. She was in her 90’s at the time. Age is just a matter of how you feel about it.

As far as I am concerned, growing older is a gift.

For the first time in my life, I am the person I always wanted to be. Oh, not in the way I look. Sometimes, just for a second, when I glance in a mirror I see my mother. But, I don’t worry about it for long. I would never trade my family, my friends, or my life for a flatter belly or less cellulite on my thighs. As I have gotten older, I am less critical of myself and have become my own best friend. If I want to stay up until 3 a.m. and finish a book and then sleep late the next morning, or if I want to sit out on my patio and smell the flowers instead of washing the dishes , whose business is it? I have seen too many friends leave this world without the knowledge of the great freedom that comes with aging.

Oh yes, I have my aches and pains, but I will wear my jeans and t-shirt to the mall and walk to keep myself healthy. I will go down to the pool wearing my old fashioned swim suit over an imperfect body and ignore the pitying glances from the bikini set. They, too, will get old. (If they are lucky).

I will listen to the radio to the wonderful songs of the 40’s and 50’s and sing and dance by myself. Who needs a partner? I can look back at my teen years and remember the fun I used to have. And if I remember some of the heartbreaks? Well, that’s okay, too.

Yes, I am sometimes forgetful, but some things in life are better forgotten, anyway. Remembering names is the hardest, but I’m not embarrassed to ask the person’s name. And, I eventually remember the important things. Recently, I forgot a hair appointment, but another was made a few days later. Thank heaven, the doctor’s office calls the day before with a reminder.

Of course, my heart has been broken over the years. How can that not happen when you lose a loved one, when a child suffers, or even when a pet is hit by a car. But, broken hearts make us stronger. A heart never broken is lacking in understanding and compassion.

As I age, experiences in life have made me more positive. I have learned that things are going to happen, some good, some bad, and my fretting about it is a waste of time. I care less about what other people think and I don’t question myself as much anymore. If I buy a pair of red high heels that kill my feet, so what? They look nice in my closet. I think I have earned the right to be wrong.

I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been or worrying about what will be. I will continue to enjoy my family and my friends and count my blessings. I will help others whenever I can and try to be a model for those who come after me.

I like the person I have become. Growing older has made me free.

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Growing older is more fun when friends grow older with you. Here is a picture of my girlfriends. I met them when we moved to Greenville, SC when I was nine years old. I thank God they have been a part of my life all these years. From L to R; Irene Tzouvelekas, Irene Drakos, Mary Johnson, and me. Missing in the picture is Kula Alfieris, the sixth member of our group. Unfortunately, she is in a nursing home in Charleston.

Such excitement!  I called my friend, William, and asked if he would like to go with me. He had never experienced a storytelling festival and I thought he would like it.  I was right.  He did, especially the liar’s competition.

The festival was well planned and executed by the members of Beaufort’s ARTworks Community Art Center, Theater and Gallery. Festival dates were March 8-11, but we only attended the last two days, Friday and Saturday. The activities were held in two places, a tent set up on the lawn of Beaufort’s Town Center and at the ARTworks Gallery, which is a short walk from the Town Center.

Featured was John McCutcheon, known around the word as folksinger, songwriter, and storyteller. He has appeared repeatedly at the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough and has headlined several other festivals. He has performed at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival and given symphony pops concerts across America.  Unfortunately, we weren’t able to stay Saturday night for his 8:00pm performance.

Also featured was storyteller Dolores Hydock, originally from Pennsylvania, now a resident of Alabama. Dolores, who tells stories about family and amusing everyday happenings with great energy and  appealing smile, has also appeared at Jonesborough. Her first venture in storytelling at the age of five won her a blue ribbon. In addition to solo presentations, Dolores conducted a workshop, together with Hawk Hurst, on the relationship between storytelling and music.

Hawk Hurst, Native American-style flute maker, performer and educator lives in Charleston, SC. He performs stories and songs that teach lessons about the world and our place in it. He uses stories to teach responsibility and tolerance for cultural differences.  We heard some of his unusual instruments at the workshop shared with Hydock.  I mentioned I had a rain stick my son brought back from Costa Rica but didn’t have a story to go with it.  Hurts offered to send me a cassette containing a story he wrote about the first rain stick.

Natalie Daise told stories that reflected her Gullah background. She is an actor, singer, storyteller and visual artist.  Her performances with husband, Ron, have been awarded South Carolina’s Palmetto & Folk Heritage Awards. She has a lovely singing voice and excellent stage presence. Her considerable acting ability is evident in her storytelling as she becomes the character she is telling about.

Storytelling festivals don’t always include a band, but Ronstadt Generations from Arizona was a welcome addition.  The group comprised of Michael J. Ronstadt ( brother of Linda Ronstadt) and his two sons, Michael G. and Petie.  The elder Michael has an appealing singing voice and plays the guitar.  The younger Michael also plays a guitar and Petie plays the cello.  Both boys joined in with dad on some of the songs.  They presented a concert of folk music on Friday evening and a storytelling performance/cooking exhibition of family recipes on Saturday.

The organizers may have been disappointed in the size of the audiences, but it was their first year.  More will attend when they hear about the quality of the storytelling and the pleasant surroundings of the festival. I’m certainly doing my best to promote a larger audience for next year.

If I had to say anything negative about the festival, it would be about the stories and the presentation in the Liar’s Competition.  Some of the contestants didn’t understand that it had to be a full story, a tall tale, not just a stretched out joke.   But, it was fun anyway.

Congrats, Beaufort storytellers.  You done good!

Too bad we don’t have a storytelling group here in Savannah.  If interested, call Janice Shelton at (912) 224-2904.

Dear readers,  Happy March 2012,

A few years ago, I wrote RENT A MAN for the Coastal Senior.  I received several comments about it.  I ran across it the other day and wondered how a man would view the idea of  renting a woman as a business proposition and wrote RENT A WOMAN.   Since I  don’t understand the peculiar workings of the male brain, I asked help from my friend, William.  If you guys don’t think he’s got it right, you can blame him.

Of course, to understand  both sides, you have to read RENT A  MAN first.  Hope you  will get a chuckle from both points of view.

RENT A MAN

One of these days, a clever entrepreneur will start a business called ‘Rent a Man’. I think they will make a killing.

There are times when a man is really necessary. For instance, I had a pulled muscle in my back and wanted to rub some muscle relaxer on it. Of course, I couldn’t reach just the right spot. A man would have come in handy then.

Now that my fingers are stiff with arthritis, it is difficult to fasten necklaces around my neck. Those darn catches are too small. A man could do that for me. Sometimes, I drop the little backs of my earrings. He could help me find them.

Then, there are times when the toilet runs over. Men seem to know what to do about that; they have some kind of inbred techno-knowledge. A man with a low-slung tool belt on his hip can be very sexy.

Cooking out is messy and annoying, but men love to cook on a grill and wear those funny hats and aprons that say, “Kiss the Cook.” I would rent a man to grill me a good steak.

Then there is yard work. It makes men feel macho to ride around in a motorized lawn mower. All those power tools turn them on, gets the testosterone going.

Dancing is something you can’t without a partner. Besides being fun, it’s a therapeutic exercise that helps with balance. I would hire a man to take me dancing every once in a while.

I like having the bed all to myself. I can stretch out and don’t have to share the space or listen to snoring. However, sometimes on cold nights, it would be nice to have a man to snuggle up to. Males retain body warmth better than women. And if it leads to something more, hey, I may be old but I am not dead.

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think about is coffee. A man to fix the coffee and bring me a cup to bed would be heaven.

I don’t want a man around all the time. I have no complaints; I had one for 35 years. He was a good one, nice looking, handy around the house, a good father, and had a great sense of humor. But, to train another one at this stage of my life would be too difficult.

Someone should start a Rent a Man business. I would be their first customer.

RENT A WOMAN

It’s nice to be a bachelor. You don’t have to pick up your clothes off the floor or wipe down the shower stall after you bathe. You can leave dishes in the sink and there’s no nagging when the grass is too high on the lawn. Then, the biggest boon of all is the variety of female companionship that is available.

However, there are certain things that a woman is particular adept in doing and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to rent one for a short time. A good, professional rental service is a good idea.

For instance, a guy can only eat out at restaurants just so much. A nice home cooked meal like meatloaf and mashed potatoes or homemade biscuits would be a treat. I would rent a woman for that, especially if she wore a short skirt and a lacy apron.

Then, there is the laundry. Women have an innate understanding how to separate articles of clothing before putting them in the washer. I found that putting dark socks in with white shirts doesn’t work. Even though most things are permanent press, there are certain articles that need to be pressed. A woman ironing shirts is a sexy sight, something about her hips swaying as she slides the iron back and forth. Umm! I would hire a woman to take care of my laundry.

There’s a lot of stress in my work so I play golf to relax. Sometimes, my back and shoulders are tight and I need a massage. Yes, I could go to a professional masseur, but it would be more comfortable to have someone at home to do this. I would hire a woman to give me a massage and bring me a beer afterwards.

It’s good to have a nice looking woman on your arm when you go out with friends or business colleagues. When you’re alone, they think you can’t get a woman. The girls at work who won’t give you a second look will think, look at that nice girl he brought to the party. Maybe there’s more to him than I thought? Yes, I’d hire a woman to take out. I wouldn’t have to see her again or listen to her, blah, blah blah ,unless she’s good looking, and then, well, why not?

I could hire her again to take her home for the holidays. Then my mother wouldn’t carry on about my not having a steady girl and when was she going to provide her with a grandchild. My siblings who are all married and have children, wouldn’t give me pitying glances that say, poor thing, he can’t get a woman. After the visit, I don’t have to see her again, unless of course she’s good looking and then, what’s the harm?

Yes, a Rent A Woman business is a good idea. The only thing is, I’m afraid I’ll get too used to having a woman around and want her all the time. This would lead to losing her job at the rental agency and giving me a lot of headaches. But, it would make my mother happy.

“Well, I’m a storyteller,” I replied, “My name is Bess Chappas.”

`”Yes, you’re the one I am looking for.  I read an article about you in the newspaper.  I’m interested  in the storytellers group.”

“Unfortunately, there hasn’t been a storytelling group in Savannah for several years now.”

“ I can’t believe, that in Savannah, where there are so many stories and so much history there isn’t a storytelling group,” said Janice Shelton.  I couldn’t believe she said that because that is exactly
 what I have been saying ever since our group dissolved.

Right away, this enterprising lady,  got a  group of others  together who are interested in storytelling, and tentative plans are to hold a storytelling workshop Thursday, February 16, 10am to 12noon..  If you are interested, call her at 912-224-2904  If you don’t make this workshop, chances are there will be another. My contribution will be to help organize and lead the workshop.

Here’s the history of” The Savannah Storytellers”.  Twenty or so years ago, my friend Virginia Huber and I joined a group of storytellers  who met downtown at the Mullberry Inn. It was a small group of very different individuals who liked to tell stories.  Most were local. In addition, the
 management  of the Inn invited  guests  to come to our meeting to participate or just to listen. It was interesting because you never knew who would be there or what type of story would be presented.  After a while,  some tellers left  town, others lost interest, and it seemed the motel became  less 
accommodating and we sometimes had no place to meet.  At some meeting, no one came.

Virginia and I decided to take the idea to the south side of town.  We recruited others and met in several different places,  our homes, church meeting rooms, etc… The group expanded and we gave it a name, The Savannah Storytellers, and joined the Southern Order of Storytellers, based in Atlanta, and their parent group, The National Storytelling Association.  Being connected gave us information and ideas.  We began to have a annual program called Tellabration each November.

Tellabration started with an audience of 40-50 people of family and friends 
and grew to 100-200 for several years.  We even invited nationally  known  storytellers to be our featured tellers at our zenith.  Then for inexplicable reasons, members started dropping out.  Our audiences began to shrink and one day, I found myself the only one standing.  This was about five years ago.  I missed it, of course, but I was involved in writing children’s books and didn’t have time to grieve. But, what a shame in a city like Savannah where we have so many stories to tell and so many tourists to  tell them to, not to have an organization of real old-fashioned storytelling

We seem to be the only large city in the south east not to have a group or to have some sort of storytelling celebration.  There are so many festivals around us that we can visit.

SOUTHERN ORDER OF STORYTELLERS, the  group we once  belonged to, is having their festival this month, Feb, 17-18, in Decatur, Georgia.  Featured teller is Bill Harley. Website gives schedule of performances and workshops.
     There are  many others to attend:  You can look up the following and others under “Storytelling Festivals” on the Internet.

STORYTELLING FESTIVAL OF CAROLINA:   Laurinburg, NC, March 29- April 3, 2012.  Featured tellers: Donald Davis, Gene Tagbar, and Doug Elliott

STONE  SOUP STORYTELLING FESTIVAL: Woodruff, SC, April 20-21, 2012. (864) 476-8770

BACKPORCH  STORYTELLERS  in Charleston, SC, a non-profit organization to support groups of adult storytellers, 782 Piccadily Driv  843-795-3061.

CLEMSON AREA STORYTELLERS, Clemson, SC.  Celebration March 6, 2012. 864-653-4932 www.Storyartscenter.org.

ALABAMA TALE-TELLING FESTIVAL:  Held in Selma, ALA in October (No date given)

OCALA STORYTELLING FESTIVAL: Held in Florida in October (no date given) at Center Pt. Church
THE

NATIONAL STORYTELLING FESTIVAL:  The biggest and claims to be the original festival.
 Sponsored by  The International  Storytelling  Center. Held in Jonesboro ,TN October 5-7 2012.  This is the 40th year.  Featured tellers are Donald Davis, Carmen Deedy, and Rex Ellis.

Maybe you don’t like to perform, but you like to listen to stories.  Well, that’s okay.  We need listeners, too. You can support storytelling in many other ways in the organization.  If you want to help us get a Savannah  storytelling  group going, call Janice.  Again her number is 912-224-2904.

The pictures are of Jonesboro, TN at one of the national festivals several years ago. If you go, you will never forget it.

I hope your holidays were absolutely fabulous. Mine were low-key, but good.  My wish, for all of us, is a HAPPY and HEALTHY 2012…and that the jokers up in Washington, DC will stop squabbling and do what they were sent there to do, instead of only looking out for themselves.  Let’s vote them all out, I say!

My faithful readers will remember that my son lives in the Orlando area and I go to visit him once a year.  The last couple of years, I have run afoul of the Florida law.  One time, I was lost (what else is new?) and in my hurry to ask for directions, I rear-ended the car of a Florida State Trooper. After that story came out in Coastal Senior, someone ( a man, I think) wrote to say “she shouldn’t be allowed on the road”.  I loved it.  The next year, there was a disagreement with a security guard on Disney property about where I could park.  So, thinking that they may have my picture posted on store windows, I decided to take the train.

It was a great experience.  I left Savannah at 6:50am on the Silver Meteor.  The trip took approximately five and one-half hours, less time that it takes me to drive there because I like to stop at least once.  The coach chairs were comfortable with lots of leg room and the personnel couldn’t have been more helpful with the luggage. I had breakfast in the dining car on the way down, surprised that the price was so reasonable. The train was on time both ways and I arrived fresh and rested. I enjoyed it so much, I vowed I would never drive to Orlando again.

On the return trip, my friend, Pete, came to pick me up at the railway station.  I was already in his truck with my luggage stowed in the back, when I realized I didn’t have my cell phone. I jumped out of the truck and ran back to the train where passengers were still boarding. I told the conductor who was taking tickets that I was going back in to find my phone.  He nodded.  At first, I couldn’t find the phone.  Several women sitting close to my vacated seat tried to help me, when one suggested that she call my number.  At that point, a different conductor came down the aisle to see what was going on.  After explaining the situation to her, she reached between the seats and handed me the phone. This must have happened before.

Suddenly, she stared at me.”   Didn’t you get off  in Savannah?  The train is already moving.”

“I told the other conductor I was coming in,” I blurted out.  In my haste to find the phone, I had not felt the train begin to move. They must have stopped the train and hustled me out, because the next thing I knew, I was on the platform and the train behind me was picking up speed on its way north.

Pete had left his truck and was standing on the platform several feet away, his eyes as big as saucers.  When I ran up to him waving my phone, he said, “I was wondering if I was going to have to drive to Charleston to pick you up.”

Maybe the conductors won’t recognize me when I take the train again next year.

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How do you feel about people holding seats at shows or sport events?

A while back, my friend, Lois, and I went to see a production of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ at Savannah Arts Academy.  We went early, thinking there would be a lot of people there.  Evidently, we weren’t early enough because by the time we got into the auditorium, it was difficult to find two good seats together.  Everywhere we searched, people were holding seats, even entire rows.

The seats we found were behind a whole row of empty seats held by one woman.  I watched to see how long before the others in her party would come. They came just a few minutes before the show started. I’m sure we weren’t the only ones who would have liked to have one or more of the better seats, but no one said anything.

This bothered me.  I can see holding one, or maybe even two seats, but an entire row? Was this fair to the ones who came early?

I’d love to hear what you, my readers, think. Please click on the ‘comment link’ at the end of this article for an unofficial survey.

June 27, 2011, My cousins, Takie, Noni, and Della ( Della came to join us from Long Island during my second week there), and I drove from Athens to Kalamata, the city where both Taki and I were born.  The trip took only four hours on a modern four lane highway.  I couldn’t help but remember the miserable ride on a local bus back in 1973 that took nine hours on a narrow road, around and around the mountains.

Kalamata is the second largest city of the Peloponnese in southern Greece and located at the head of the Messenian Gulf.  It is known for the succulent dark olives, honey figs, and the honey-covered sesame sweet called pasteli.  It is also known for its many beaches on the Mediterranean Sea and its beautiful dark-eyed women.  It is a busy city of more than 85,000 people living and working there.

We are staying at the Elite Hotel which is across the street from the beach.  It has all the necessary amenities, including a restaurant downstairs that serves coffee very early in the morning, thank heaven.  The breakfast buffet is incredible: fruit, eggs, ham, bacon, lukoumathes, muffins, and sweet rolls, pancakes, and the most fantastic yogurt I have ever eaten.  Behind the hotel is a grove of olive trees.

From the window of the room I share with Della, we can see the beach on the right and the mountains of Mani on the left.  To reach the beach, there is a tunnel under the street.  A waiter can take a drink or food order and run under the tunnel to the restaurant and bring back the order.  We sit under umbrellas on the pebbly beach and watched the clear blue water of the Mediterranean sea while drinking wine.  What a life!

On the beach side of the road is a boardwalk that curves around the bay for what seems like miles, with hotels, stores, and tavernas.  In the evening,  people are out, walking  and eating in the tavernas.  No one stays inside and watches TV.

We go into the city to visit a famous old church, Ypapandi.  The corner stone was laid in 1860 but the church was greatly damaged in the earthquake of 1963. The historic church has recently been  restored.  Behind the church is a small nunnery where 20 nuns live.  The nuns weave scarves and other small items to sell. They have an incredible rose garden in the courtyard, but I notice the gardener is a man. Hmm?

We also go by the property that once was my grandparent’s  house.  I remember playing outside on the dirt street in front of the house when I was very young.  Now the dirt street is a double lane boulevard with imposing stores and apartment houses built on each side.  One of those apartments, built on the site of the old house, belongs to my cousins.

We drive up the mountains to Mani, the area where my husband’s people are from.  The ride up, going around and around the mountain, is beautiful. The area is covered with green foliage and  tall trees , unlike the dry rocky terrain of Athens and Kalamata.  Unfortunately, I am too car sick to enjoy it.  I know I am susceptible to motion sickness but, carelessly, I leave my medicine back at the hotel.  I feel okay as soon as I get out of the moving vehicle.  We have gone up there to visit the Vlychada Cave in Diros, Mani.   It is an interesting cave  with brilliant white stalactites and stalagmites that were formed thousands of years ago.  The cave was first discovered in 1900, explored in 1949, but has yet to be completly  charted.  I’ve been in the cave on a previous trip, and since going through necessitates riding in a small boat, I opt not to go inside.  Cousin Taki stays to keep me company.

After Noni and Della exit the cave, we look for a taverna  in a nearby village.  My system is still a bit rocky and I am looking for soup, but the only soup they have is fish soup.

Suprisingly, the fish soup is not only delicious but it settles my stomach.  The Maniati are known for their pottery so we visit some of the shops and purchase a few pieces to bring back home.

Back in Kalamata, we enjoy our last day on the beach and shopping for souvenirs before starting back north to my cousins’ condo in Saronida, near Athens.  Now, it’s time to think of packing and going home to Savannah.

With regret, I say goodbye to the land of my birth and my dear cousins, Noni and Taki.  There are no words to describe what they have given to me these two weeks.  They have given me a place to stay,  taken me to places I want to see,  fed me continuously, but most of all they have give me so much love. I feel I can never repay them.  But, I will try.

Luckily, the airplane ride home is uneventful.  Fantastic as the vacation was, it’s good to be home.

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Best Wishes for a Blessed Christmas and a Happy and Healthy New Year.

June 20, 2011 – Saronida, Greece

We get an early start this morning to board a ferry for the island of Paros.  We are the last to board and have trouble finding seats.  The good part is that our vehicle is the last in and the first out when we arrive four hours later. We have reservations at a hotel, the Archipelagos, but our GPS has no signal so we ask directions.

I must tell you that asking directions in Greece is a chancy thing.  A Greek will never admit that he doesn’t know the way, so many times, a traveler is sent on a wild goose chase.  A policeman at the quaint little port gives us directions but we do not trust him, so we call the hotel and get directions from the desk clerk.  Thirty minutes later, we find ourselves back at the port.  This time, we try the policeman’s directions and find the hotel.

The hotel is inland and sits on a little hill, a one story white building, shinning in the strong Greek sun. It has all the modern amenities, modern bathroom, telephone, mini fridge, WIFI, air conditioning, large pool, and a rear balcony to enjoy the amazing sunsets each evening. We find out later, that we could only get Internet at the coffee shop, not in our rooms.

The only other negative is that the coffee shop does not open until 8:30 in the morning.  My cousin, Takie, and I are early risers, and having to wait for coffee does not make us happy. The coffee shop personnel isn’t Greek.  They are imported young people from other countries and do not speak Greek.  They stand around with their arms folded and refuse to serve us coffee even though we know it is ready because we can smell it. No one has taught them Greek hospitality. Noni is not bothered much because she does not get up early.         

We tour the island the next couple of days and discover villages of snow white houses trimmed in Mediterranean blue, built close together as if they were anxious for company.  Flowers spill out of large pots and window boxes at every house, bouganvillia, geranium, poppy, iris, daisy, lavender,citrus, and many others I can’t identify.  A small church stands sentinel at the edge of every village.  We find a small beach to swim where the water is clear and surprisingly buoyant. It’s impossible not to float.  Close by, we find a place to eat (a taverna).  Food is served family style. When we find a taverna we especially like, we go back again.

The last day in Paros, I open my door to the balcony and breathe in the cool fresh air.  The view outside is spectacular, cerulean blue water and sparkling sun reflecting on the white buildings across the inlet.  A perfect picture wherever one looks.  I feel good, except for some swelling in my ankles, something that has never happened before.  I attribute this to the large amount of fried food I am consuming.

I usually hide from the sun, but now my skin has turned a darker shade under the strong island sun.  It isn’t a pretty smooth brown but speckled. For the first time in my life, I have freckles.  My skin has become as dry as the Greek countryside.

June 22:  We take the ferry back to the port of Pereas and Saronida, tired but happy.
The story continues next month with the visit to Kalamata, the city of my birth.

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A  reminder  about  the  Greek  Festival:  Come one and all to enjoy fabulous Greek Food, watch the Greek Dancers and enjoy the music. There will be pastries for sale to take home, the Bakaliko, that sells Greek grocery items, the Gift Shop, jewelry, and many other features.

I will be there most of time. Look for me so I can say “Yassou” to you.  I will be autographing my children books, “Kiki and the Red Shoes” and “Kiki and the Statue of Liberty”. If you haven’t purchased them already, this is a good time with Christmas just around the corner.  They are the perfect gift for any child in your life.  Also for sale at the gift shop,  will be my CD, “Ghosts and Other Stories”.  Hope to see ‘ya there.

For more information on the festival, please visit www.savannahgreekfest.com

A couple of the passengers ask me, “Are you going to Greece on business or pleasure?”  I reply that it’s mostly pleasure but I do have a mission, to locate the house in Athens that I lived in when I was a child, the one that is mentioned in my book, “Kiki and the Red Shoes”.  I meet my seat mate, a retired doctor from Texas.  He is going Greece to meet his wife, who is already there visiting relatives.  We discover that we both like to write. This leads to lively conversation all the way to Athens, with the exception of the time he sleeps.

We are hardly in the air when the service begins.  We are given a blanket and a pillow.  Not, the little dinky pillow given in economy, but a regular size pillow and a full size blanket. The attendant wants to know what I want to drink and offers champagne. I have the bubbly and get crab dip and crackers with it. One glass is all I can handle because I suffer from motion sickness on any moving vehicle.  This was followed by a salmon dinner. It was good, but not exceptional.

7:45 p.m.  Everyone is settling down with their pillows and blankets.  After help from my seatmate, I extend my seat to almost flat position. Passengers are turning off their lights and snuggling down for sleep.  Oh my god! What will I do?  I never sleep this early.  I’m too excited to even close my eyes. I get up and go looking for my cousin, Noni, in the other cabin, and talk with her for a while.  Back in my chair bed, I try to read but it’s difficult to adjust the light on my book.  I try my mini-computer but that doesn’t interest me either.  I shut my eyes tight and count sheep.  That doesn’t work so I toss and turn for hours.    At least, I can stretch out and won’t get leg cramps or irritate my back. Fortunately, the night is short when crossing the Atlantic and the International Date Line, and soon it was time for breakfast. I have a headache but feel better after a couple of cups of coffee.

3:30 p.m (Athens time). June 16:  Going through customs is quick and painless, especially since I have Noni to help me.  My maternal first cousin, Taki Karabinis, meets us: we pick up our suitcases and step out into a beautiful sunshiny day.  The ride to their condo in Saronida, a small town outside of Athens, is short. Dragging suitcases, we climb two sets of stairs to their lovely summer home.  I have my own little room with a personal balcony that looks out into their neighborhood.  Trees and flowers are like picture frames around the houses nestled in the hills across from their condo. The sky is cerulean blue.  Taki promises me barbounia (fish) and ouzo for dinner but that doesn’t happen because I am so tired, I go to sleep early. 

June 17: The next morning, my cousins and I try to find my childhood home.  We use maps, the Internet, the GPS, and we ride around and talk to folks who have been around a long time. No luck.  Either my information is wrong (which is possible) or the whole area has been leveled by WW2, or by progress and has disappeared. We don’t go down town Athens to the court house, because there are riots there and Taki does not think it safe.  That evening, I get my barbouni dinner.   The fish, a kind of mullet, is red and is served with the tail and head.  It is cooked crisp on the outside and yummy on the inside.    Along with the fish, we have greens (fleeta) and sautéed vegetables, and an accompaniment of fresh baked bread and butter.  Desert or fruit after dinner is usually complimentary.

June 18: Slept late today.   We drive to Sounion, the temple dedicated to Poseidon, the god of the sea.   The ruins are of Doric design and stand on the cliff at the tip of the Attica Peninsula. It’s a great place to take photos. According to legend,  mythical King Aegean threw himself off  the cliff at Cape Sounion because he mistakenly believed that his son, Theseus, had been killed by the Minotaur.

That evening, we are invited to have dinners with cousins from the Chappas side of the family. We meet them at a large restaurant and enjoy roast lamb and seasonal vegetables. Not having seen them in 13 years, there is much to catch up on.  This side of the family originally comes from Mani, a part of the Peloponnesus which is near Kalamata, the city where both my cousin, Taki, and I were born.

June 19: Today, we hang around Saronida, rest up, and get ready for our ferry ride tomorrow  to the island of Paros.  Read about the rest of the trip next month, right here on my website.

PS.  It’s very sad that Savannah Morning News has discontinued printing the monthly magazine, Coastal Senior. It will be greatly missed by seniors. I will miss writing for CS, as I have been connected with it since the middle 1990’s.  Any comments on this?

Dear Readers, I recently returned from two a week vacation in Greece, and I promise you will hear all about it, including pictures.  However, my time clock is still confused and I am sleeping all day and staying up all night.  Since, I can’t do justice to a piece about ‘the food of the gods of Olympus’ right now, I offer the following, which I found in a folder labeled ‘ideas’. I’m not sure where I got it, but because it was in my handwriting,  it didn’t come over the Internet. Maybe I read something similar and wrote my own version. I probably saved it because it’s about walking as exercise and I have been a walker for more years than I care to remember.

I began walking in my neighborhood, graduated to Lake Mayer, and ended up at Oglethorpe Mall with its year round climate control. I think the following is funny, and maybe we all need a good laugh or two right now, especially in the middle of this long, hot summer of 2011.

THE FUN OF WALKING

1. Walking 20 minutes each can add to your life. This will enable you, at the age of 85, to spend an additional five months in a nursing home.

2. My grandpa started walking five miles a day when he was 60yrs. old. Now, he is 97 and we have no idea where he is.

3. I like long walks, especially when they are taken by people who I don’t like.

4. The only reason I would take up walking is so I could hear heavy breathing again.

5. I have to walk early in the morning before my brain figures out what I am doing.

6. I joined a health club last year to lose weight but haven’t lost a pound. Apparently, you have to actually go there.

7. Every time I hear the dirty word ‘exercise’, I wash my mouth out with chocolate.

8. I do have flabby thighs but fortunately my stomach covers them.

9. The advantage of exercising every day is so when you die, they’ll say “Well, he looks good doesn’t he?”

10. If you are going to try cross country skiing to lose weight, I suggest you start with a small country.

11. There is a good reason I haven’t exercised very much lately. Getting “over the hill” was exercise enough.

12.Everytime I start thinking too much about how I look, I have some wine.  After a couple of glasses, I look just fine.

13. It’s only natural that we get heavier as we get older because there is a lot more information in our skulls.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

14. Laughter is the best exercise.

Stay cool!

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE

Manhattan was the last leg of the trip I took back in April.  My brother accompanied me on the train from New Jersey.  He didn’t think I could make it on my own, with two suitcases to carry and having a history of getting lost wherever I go.  Cousin Della had instructed us to come up from the train to the 36th Street and Broadway exit. Since finding a parking space in that area of Manhattan is a fantasy, she would drive around the block, and we were to stand on the corner until she could stop and pick us up. Miraculously, she was parked right across the street.

After visiting for a little while, Brother, Pete, went back underground and took the train to his lovely quiet and shady street in New Jersey.  He hates the city as much as I love it. Working there for thirty years can do that.

Della and I drove to Cousin Vivian’s studio apartment on 70th and Broadway where we stayed for a couple of days.  Again, my very resourceful cousin managed to find a parking place close to our building. We had to feed the meter, but it was less expensive than a garage.

The studio apartment was on the fifth floor, one large room with a bath and a small kitchen. A picture window looked out to taller, more impressive buildings, some with balconies. As I gazed out of the window, I wondered who lived there and what kind of lives they led.  This is where I wanted to live when I was young and ambitious, with dreams of writing for a paper or a magazine.

The next two days were magical. We walked around the neighborhood, and found we were three blocks from Lincoln Center and within walking distance to Central Park. We discovered two great restaurants, the Italian, “Pomodoro Sosso”  and the French,”Cassis” and took advantage of both.  Mmm!

The first evening, Friday, we went to see a new musical,” Wonderland” playing at the Marquise Theater. We found the play delightful and were especially charmed by the little girl in the play.  I thought she had the best voice in the entire cast. I was also impressed with the very inventive costumes. Unfortunately, the critics didn’t agree, because a few weeks after coming back to Savannah, I read that the show closed.
The next day, we took a cab to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where we were fortunate to see two special exhibits.  One was an exhibit of paintings by French Impressionist, Cezanne, his “Card Player” series. The other exhibit was called “Rooms with a View”, a collection of paintings featuring an open window. The paintings were by nineteen century artists from Germany, France, Russia, and Denmark.

The weather turned ugly Saturday evening.  For that terrible stormy night, we had purchased the last two tickets available for another new play, “War Horse”.  It was raining so hard and the wind was so fierce that we tried to get a cab to Lincoln Center. That being impossible, we walked in the deluge and arrived at the theater soaking wet. Everyone there was in the same condition, so we forgot about being wet and joined in the excitement of the evening.

This was an entirely different type of production. It was a sad story about horses that were used during the Great War.  The horses on stage were huge, built of some kind of mesh that took three men to operate.  The horses moved so realistically that after a few minutes you forgot that they were not real. (Think “Lion King”) The acting was superb but the story was so intense I left the theater feeling sad and unsettled.  The critics were generous in their praise for “War Horse” and this play has received several Tony Award nominations.  I can brag I was there for the opening of a play that will be talked about for a long time, but personally, I’ll take a musical anytime. As Leonard Bernstein so aptly put it – and in music – “New York, New York, It’s a Wonderful Town”.

This article can also be found at Coastal Senior HERE