Cyprus Part Tesera or Growing Up
Cypriot hospitality is something I will never forget. Mitros and Ursula had been so kind over the last three days, feeding me excellent food and not letting me pay for anything (except for a haircut, which I insisted must come out of my pocket). They are people I have missed terribly and am glad to have seen again. As I headed to my service taxi to Pafos, a coastal town close to the airport from which I would be departing, there was a lump in my throat. I hope my next visit to their house will not be seven years away.
My destination in (or, more accurately, 16km outside of) Pafos was Vasilias Nikoklis Inn, known to my family as Mr. Tassos's Inn. The place, between the foothills of the Troodos Montains, is a traditional inn, preserved and beautifully decorated, and was my family's favorite destination on the Island. Tassos knew my family well at the time, introducing my sister to rose water (a disgusting liquid frequently mixed into milk and granting me one of my Cypriot names: Ephistos, Iron Man. I assumed he would have no memory of my family, but I still wanted to go back, stay at his inn and enjoy his fantastic cooking.
After two shared cabs and a CYP17 taxi trip into the village, I arrived at the inn. Tassos clearly had no idea who I was, but, very kindly, pretended to remember my family. He showed me to my room, number 4 (the only room at his inn I had not occupied) and reminded me to come down for dinner. I wouldn't miss it forever.
Just like the foothills, Mr. Tassos's Inn hasn't changed a bit. Sure, there are some new knick-knacks on the wall and they redid the counter, but everything else is the same. The grapes still hang over the dinner area (and Tassos goes after every evening to supply dessert), the cats still prowl the cobblestones, hoping you will drop a bit of your kleftiko. Even the showers, with their pathetic hand-held hoses, still have terrible leakage and horrendous water pressure. But the place is still full of memories, and I'm glad to have made it back.
That night at dinner, Tassos asked me what I was planning to do the next day. Scared off from cabbies by that exceptionally high fare, I told him I planned to hike up the foothills and check out the nearby Nikoklia village. This, it seemed, wasn't good enough for Tassos. "I take you to Koklia village tomorrow," he said excitedly. "We have sarcophogus [pronounces SAR-ca-FA-goose], very nice museum." Koklia is a mere 2km away, but Tassos was insistent. "I drive you," he shouted, banging the table. "You walk back. Endaksi?" I nodded, knowing this "OK" was not actually a question.
The next morning at 10am, Tassos drove me to Koklia, pointing out landmarks on the way to make sure I didn't get lost. I smiled and nodded and, when we got to Koklia, thanked him with an efharisto and headed up to check out the museum, where I was reminded how incredible Cypriot history is. You stare at jars, still perfectly functional, that are over 3000 years old, and realize that, in the scheme of Cyprus history, that's relatively recent. The sarcophagus was indeed cool and telling of an Egyptian influence on Cyprus. Nearby, the Shrine of Aphrodite provided some lovely Cyprus mosaic art and cool old ruins. I really am a sucker for Cypriot history.
Yet, perhaps the most meaningful part of this excursion was the walk back to the inn. As I looked out at the foothills of the Troodos, realizing that I was the only person on this road and, in two directions, for at least 10 miles, I suddenly felt very alone. I remembered going on hikes by myself in the early mornings when my family would come visiting, and would feel that same sense of aloneness. Then, aloneness came with power; this time, mine was mixed with fear. Call it growing up, but I realized, as I have a few times on this trip, that I am headed out into a grand sense of "aloneness" very soon: the profoundly changed and uncertain life of a professional, one no longer bound and protected school and academia. As I hiked down the country roads, I realized that, like it or not, I'm growing up and, like it or not, I'm facing more and more of these "alone" times and that, as I have for the last 7 weeks, I can manage them, sometimes even with grace. I turned into Nikoklia village and realized that I was crying. Perhaps tears of fear, perhaps tears of joy. I detoured back into the valley and sat myself down under a Cypress tree. My own personal "Tree of Idleness." I sat for a few hours, content to work out my thoughts.
That evening, as I ate Tassos's exceptional sheftalia, I noticed the moon rising over the foothills. The Cyprus moon and I have always had a special relationship. When we first arrived on the Island and were driving towards Nicosia, I looked out the window at the moon and, missing my Minnesota friends terribly, reminded myself that this was the same moon they were looking at. This time, I realized that the moon hadn't, and wouldn't, change. A constant, unchanging force in the heavens, a universal that doesn't go away. Call it drunken poetics (I was enjoying Cypriot village red wine), but I held up my glass to the moon and gave a silent steenay yah sas. Cheers and thanks.
Cyprus was always been a place where I said I really grew up. It still seems to have that effect on me.
My destination in (or, more accurately, 16km outside of) Pafos was Vasilias Nikoklis Inn, known to my family as Mr. Tassos's Inn. The place, between the foothills of the Troodos Montains, is a traditional inn, preserved and beautifully decorated, and was my family's favorite destination on the Island. Tassos knew my family well at the time, introducing my sister to rose water (a disgusting liquid frequently mixed into milk and granting me one of my Cypriot names: Ephistos, Iron Man. I assumed he would have no memory of my family, but I still wanted to go back, stay at his inn and enjoy his fantastic cooking.
After two shared cabs and a CYP17 taxi trip into the village, I arrived at the inn. Tassos clearly had no idea who I was, but, very kindly, pretended to remember my family. He showed me to my room, number 4 (the only room at his inn I had not occupied) and reminded me to come down for dinner. I wouldn't miss it forever.
Just like the foothills, Mr. Tassos's Inn hasn't changed a bit. Sure, there are some new knick-knacks on the wall and they redid the counter, but everything else is the same. The grapes still hang over the dinner area (and Tassos goes after every evening to supply dessert), the cats still prowl the cobblestones, hoping you will drop a bit of your kleftiko. Even the showers, with their pathetic hand-held hoses, still have terrible leakage and horrendous water pressure. But the place is still full of memories, and I'm glad to have made it back.
That night at dinner, Tassos asked me what I was planning to do the next day. Scared off from cabbies by that exceptionally high fare, I told him I planned to hike up the foothills and check out the nearby Nikoklia village. This, it seemed, wasn't good enough for Tassos. "I take you to Koklia village tomorrow," he said excitedly. "We have sarcophogus [pronounces SAR-ca-FA-goose], very nice museum." Koklia is a mere 2km away, but Tassos was insistent. "I drive you," he shouted, banging the table. "You walk back. Endaksi?" I nodded, knowing this "OK" was not actually a question.
The next morning at 10am, Tassos drove me to Koklia, pointing out landmarks on the way to make sure I didn't get lost. I smiled and nodded and, when we got to Koklia, thanked him with an efharisto and headed up to check out the museum, where I was reminded how incredible Cypriot history is. You stare at jars, still perfectly functional, that are over 3000 years old, and realize that, in the scheme of Cyprus history, that's relatively recent. The sarcophagus was indeed cool and telling of an Egyptian influence on Cyprus. Nearby, the Shrine of Aphrodite provided some lovely Cyprus mosaic art and cool old ruins. I really am a sucker for Cypriot history.
Yet, perhaps the most meaningful part of this excursion was the walk back to the inn. As I looked out at the foothills of the Troodos, realizing that I was the only person on this road and, in two directions, for at least 10 miles, I suddenly felt very alone. I remembered going on hikes by myself in the early mornings when my family would come visiting, and would feel that same sense of aloneness. Then, aloneness came with power; this time, mine was mixed with fear. Call it growing up, but I realized, as I have a few times on this trip, that I am headed out into a grand sense of "aloneness" very soon: the profoundly changed and uncertain life of a professional, one no longer bound and protected school and academia. As I hiked down the country roads, I realized that, like it or not, I'm growing up and, like it or not, I'm facing more and more of these "alone" times and that, as I have for the last 7 weeks, I can manage them, sometimes even with grace. I turned into Nikoklia village and realized that I was crying. Perhaps tears of fear, perhaps tears of joy. I detoured back into the valley and sat myself down under a Cypress tree. My own personal "Tree of Idleness." I sat for a few hours, content to work out my thoughts.
That evening, as I ate Tassos's exceptional sheftalia, I noticed the moon rising over the foothills. The Cyprus moon and I have always had a special relationship. When we first arrived on the Island and were driving towards Nicosia, I looked out the window at the moon and, missing my Minnesota friends terribly, reminded myself that this was the same moon they were looking at. This time, I realized that the moon hadn't, and wouldn't, change. A constant, unchanging force in the heavens, a universal that doesn't go away. Call it drunken poetics (I was enjoying Cypriot village red wine), but I held up my glass to the moon and gave a silent steenay yah sas. Cheers and thanks.
Cyprus was always been a place where I said I really grew up. It still seems to have that effect on me.
posted by Ethan at 9:01 AM
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