agiou pnevmatos

Yesterday being a holiday in Greece (the day of the Holy Ghost!), I paid a visit to the village. It was drizzling here when I left, and drizzling there when I arrived. It was cloudy then sunny, cool then hot, a good day for big, fat flies. My main food provider fed me like a queen, and told me to lie down like one afterwards. She showed me the sac voyage of baby things she’s been buying and collecting for the buka. All of it was pink. There was one especially offensive outfit, a footed pink playsuit. It said Cow Girl across the front.

Went for a walk on the promenade. Saw lots of skinny cats begging food from the few German tourists drinking beer. Nobody was on the beach. On the way back, I was greeted by an old woman, whose face was a wreck, chin bruised black, mouth misaligned, the result of a nasty fall. She said I get prettier every time I come.

There are family conflicts, which, since it’s not my family, I’ve more or less been able to avoid. Now the buka puts me in the middle, because I want the family, for her sake. I want the money too, since a house right now would be nice, but I never expected any material rewards. I stand on principle with the one who got me into it, doing exactly the thing that drives him crazy: sweeping all the conflict under the rug, pretending nothing is happening, for the sake of peace in the family. He’d rather go to war than settle for a peace that compromises his principles.

The irony, one irony, is that we can spend whole days, weekends, not speaking a word. Four hours in the car, and hardly a word. Our de facto definition of a happy relationship is peace and quiet at home. “That’s not a [happy relationship],” Maria once said, with all the startled outrage I should be the one to feel, “it’s a grave.” Maria shoots from the hip.

So the better things are for him, on the domestic front at least, the worse they are for me. Staying calm and keeping quiet are his ways of showing love, and all I feel is isolation.

Took the scenic route on the way back. Went up and over the mountains, so as not to get caught up in all the cars returning to the city on the main coastal highway. The mountain roads are narrow, twisty, unfamiliar. I don’t like not knowing where I am.