Filoxenia is Real on Tilos

            Seva passes me a tiny receipt jammed with figures over a counter buried under packages of figs and pistachios and bars of Toblerone chocolate. I hand her the bills and coins I have ready.  As she turns to find me a bag for the groceries splayed on the remaining piece of counter, her daughter, Eleftheria, sneaks a few more kiwi onto the waiting pile, and whispers stin ugeia (to your health).

            I hoist the bags bulging with produce and fresh feta over my shoulders, and reach to pick up a large six-pack case of bottled water.  Seva rushes over and seizes the case’s handle from my hand.

            “You can’t carry this,” she declares in Greek.  “They are much too heavy.”

            As I protest and try to convince her I am strong and capable of carrying everything the short distance home, she calls to her husband.

           “Sotiris, you need to help Joanna with her groceries, and give her a ride home. Now. “ Seva’s ability to get things done is legendary.

            Sotiris, who has been sitting just outside the mini-market’s door, talking with a friend. leaps into action, and falls into step behind Seva as she marshalls us all to the road where Sotiris’s vehicle, a scooter, is parked. The papaki may have been blue at one time in its life, now the colour, worn bare to a silver sheen, and seat cover, a loose semblance of vinyl, reveal its long and much loved life. Sotiris proudly hops aboard, and gestures that I give him the case of water bottles. Once he has them balanced at his feet, he urges me to climb on board behind him. Seva holds my bags while I arrange myself on the pieces of seat that remain.

            “Where do you live?” Sotiris shouts as he throttles the engine.

            “Close to the Trata Restaurant,” I roar back, hoping my rudimentary Greek makes some sense amidst the noise and juggling of bags, Seva’s directions, the bystander’s chatter, and the pick-ups loaded with cement mixers and lengths of wood rattling by us down to the village square. Cats peer warily at us from the side of the road.

            With flapping tentacles of bags and bottles and my attempt to keep my hat on, and body astride, we are soaring down the hill to the sea.  The moment of flight lifts and exhilarates, every thought hushed by the streaming wind.  I am laughing, and Sotiris grins back in delight.