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.

Cyprus Part Tria or North and South

So, I did it. I crossed over to the North. Yes, I understand that this was not a popular choice with those offering me housing in the South (I was made well aware of the wrongs of the Turkish government and the failings of both Turkey and the newly-emigrated Turkish settlers the morning before my departure at breakfast time), however the Northern part of Cyprus was an important part of my year in Cyprus and I had no intention of neglecting it on this memory tour. Mitros offered to give me a ride to the Ledra Palace checkpoint but, sensing the frustrations with the current political situation, I declined. I headed down to the UN Buffer Zone (the Green Line) and crossed over.

Things in the Buffer Zone have changed. On the Greek side, there used to be old widows dressed in black, holding photographs of their missing husbands and spitting at anybody who tried to cross the line. None of that exists today, perhaps because of the new freedom of movement (you must still show your passport in either direction). Those of us headed over to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (the TRNC, as the North has called themselves since 1983) were also confronted by grizzly pictures of atrocities committed by Turks on the Greek Cypriot population of the North. These still greet anybody headed northwards, but the images are severely weathered and cracked, barely visible to anybody who hadn't seen them before. A good thing, I imagined as I strolled past the checkpoint, and a step in the right direction.

Entering the TRNC, I showed my passport and received a paper visa. "Keep this," the somewhat scruffy police officer told me. I nodded and, thinking it was very nice, but a little strange, that they didn't stamp my passport, continued to head to Old Nicosia, the Turkish-controlled side of my favorite city on the Island.

North and South Nicosia couldn't be more different. My first thought when entering the North portion was that I was now in an Arab city. The streets are lined with little, independent shops. No chains anywhere to be found. I remembered having this perception from years ago, that the North had maintained a very Middle Eastern sense. I stopped for a Turkish Coffee (the same thing as a Cyprus Coffee in the South) and watched a game of backgammon. As I had been seven years ago, I was reminded of how culturally similar the two sides really are. My backgammon-playing friends looked identical to the cabbies I had watched a day or two earlier in the South, wearing the same light clothing, drinking the same coffee and chatting about, presumably, the same things. I strolled the winding streets, camera in hand, documenting all that hadn't really changed. The buildings, maybe, are in somewhat better shape (thanks to EU grants, from what I could make out), but not much else is different.

As I headed back to the South (packed in my bag a box of the world's best, and cheapest, Turkish delights from the old Turkish Cypriot market), I passed a little boy playing hop scotch. He looked up at me and stopped. I realized he was afraid of me and decided to make friends. I tossed a stone and down the path. He followed suit. I started mirroring him. He laughed and tried more complicated movements.

"He's playing with you," a voice said from above.

I looked up and saw an older gentleman, white hair and a thin white mustache leaning off the railing of his balcony. I stopped and looked up. He asked me where I was from, sizing me up a little. I explained my history with Cyprus, hoping that we would be able to chat. He seized on my story, asking me where I lived in South Nicosia and what kind of work my parent's were doing when they were here. When I explained about their bicommunal peace-making efforts (the easiest two-second explanation I could come up with at the time), he laughed. "Do you really think they want peace?" he asked with a chuckle, pointing southwards. "When I was 14 years old, I was chased out of my village by the Greeks. They beat me, they lit my house on fire. Do you really expect me to live in peace with them?" I shrugged, unsure of how to continue. "They are afraid of the Turks," he continued. "We're safe here and things are never going to change, regardless of what they want or the British want or the Americans want!" "But don't you want to go back to your village," I pressed, "to show your children where you used to live?" "That's not my home anymore," he scoffed. "This is home and this is safe. The rest, pft, what good is it?"

We chatted a little while longer about much happier topics (I moved the subject to New York City, which he told me he loves) and then parted ways.

I made it back to South Nicosia at about 5pm and felt like I had walked onto another planet. Along Ledra Street, the main pedestrian thoroughfare, I found myself surrounded with the trappings of globalization: Starbucks cafe tables along the street next to a McDonalds. The small shops I remembered from my year on the Island had been replaced by the ultimate in cosmopolitan living. The main shopping mall on the Island, formerly owned by Woolworth, has now been taken over by a British chain (Debenhams). If North Nicosia is the Middle East, the South is Paris with a Greek flair.

"So, how was it?" asked Ursula when I returned home for another of her incredible home-cooked meals. I commented on the improved state of the buildings, hoping to put a positive spin on the day. It barely worked. Even the slightest mention of the North set off a tirade against Turkey and the Turkish Cypriot leadership. Mitros and Ursula railed against all that has gone wrong over the last 30+ years and all I could do was sit and agree. Besides, had somebody come and taken 30% of my home, regardless of the circumstances, I know I would be pissed. I don't begrudge them (or my Turkish Cypriot friend) their frustrations, I just don't fully share it.

The Cypriots have a saying about the ethnic Turks and the ethnic Greeks: "One face, one race." It's true, but it's going to take a lot of work before everyone can see this fully. I left Cyprus seven years ago convinced that a peace settlement was a long way off. (Despite my support of my parents work, I know this was not a task they could have completed). Today, after hearing both sides of the tale, I am still sure that a resolution to the "Cyprus Problem" is a long way off. Perhaps it will take a new generation of people who didn't live through the events of 1974, or perhaps it will take another full-out war. Who knows? What I do know is that the Cypriots are no closer to peace then when I left them last, and maybe a lot further away.

[For those who are feeling a little lost regarding the history of Cyprus, visit these two Wikipedia articles, this one on Cyprus and this one on the TRNC. They are probably some of the most objective sources I have found.]

Cyprus Part Theo or Hills and Valleys

Day Two in Cyprus began abruptly as Ursula called to my door, "Ethan, Good Morning." I had crashed during the night (remember, I didn't sleep at Gatwick and you could hardly call my nap on the Cyprus Airways plane sleep), but was certainly awake now. I remembered in the back of my mind having heard something about a trip up to Troodos, a mountain town in the range with the same name. I showered, shampooed, threw some toast down my throat and headed out the door. The Mountains! How long has it been since I even thought about them! Perhaps since I was 14, camping with the Boy Scouts.

As we ascended the mountain path, I remembered again how scary driving in Cyprus can be. To get up the Troodos, you must follow tiny, one-car-only dirt roads where you see to your right a terrifyingly huge drop. And then cars try to pass you! Clearly, my tolerance level has gone down for Cyprus driving. Mitros and Ursula, however, took no notice, filling me in on the failures of the Annan Plan to reunify the island, their son Karolos's recent engagement to a lovely woman named Athina, the war in Lebanon and, eventually, news from their personal lives. It was fascinating to hear world politics from a Cypriot viewpoint and to have detailed exactly how the Americans got it all wrong in our own media. For a country with no news about Cyprus, the US certainly manages to fill that which we do get with propaganda. Or, perhaps, Mitros and Ursula have radically different views of reality.

As we approached the village of Troodos, I inquired about crossing the Green Line. The subject had come up the night before -- Ursula asking if I intended to visit the Turkish side of the island, to which I honestly replied that I did -- and seemed like safe territory. It is now much easier for Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots to cross between the two halves, but that does not mean that frustrations have subsided. We turned a corner and Mitros pointed out the window to another car. "Look at that license plate," he said, pointing to a place with a red stripe around the perimeter. "That's a Turkish car. They come here all the time." "Isn't that a good thing?" I asked, hoping to put a positive spin on the conversation, just in case things turned ugly. "Yes," he shrugged, "but the Greeks who go over there spend all their money on gambling and women, over CYP135 million this last year. They should stop that!" I let the conversation slide.

At the top, we took in the fresh mountain air, enjoyed some Fanta, spotted a few more Turkish Cypriot cars and snapped a photo or two. I had forgotten how stunning the Cypriot mountains are. Dotted with trees which somehow manage to survive the brutal Mediterranean summers, they are glorious and terrifying things to behold. I stared down a huge cliff and remembered myself as a Boy Scout, watching a red sun rising over the Cypriot Mount Olympus.

On the way back down, we stopped for lunch at a souvla restaurant, fulfilling another gastronomic requirement. The tender lamb certainly hasn't changed.

After my siesta, I decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood, check out the American school and see what else had changed. Strangely enough, I was surprised to find that nearly everything had stayed the same. The map in my head served me well, guiding me directly to the American International School in Cyprus (AISC) with no problems. I stuck my camera through the newly-added high security fencing and snuck it past the ominous guard tower to get a photo of the otherwise-unchanged building. As I turned around, there stood perhaps the worst pizza stand in the world: Toronto Pizza; their goofy slogan ("Trying Hard to Stay The Best") was finally gone. To the left sat Palas Taxi Service, with its cabbies still smoking cigarettes and sipping Cypriot Coffee as the backgammon dice flew. While the exterior of my old school neighborhood hasn't really changed, I hope the education inside (and their tolerance towards anything that doesn't fit the mold of strict academia) has improved.

As I strolled back, I passed our grocery store Ionnedes (still the same), our favorite bakery (no change), the most expensive photo development kiosk in the world (with newly raised prices!) and eventually made my way back to what I hoped would yield the best memory and photo-op of the trip: To Ouzerie, known to my family as Jimmy's. Many an e-pistle reader from our days in Cyprus will remember that Jimmy's was my father's favorite hangout spot, sipping Carlsburg with the guys, and our family's favorite cheap meal out. Yet, as I turned the corner, all I saw was the wooden shell of the tavern. What had happened? I stuck my face against the window, peering in between the paper-covered windows. No bar, no tables, just a disintegrating bed and fallen paper notices in Greek. I snapped a photo, just to prove that things had changed, and slunk back to 11 Fillipou Street to ask the Lambertides what had happened. "It closed up a few years ago," Mitros told me. "They're in negotiations to build a big apartment building there. Such a shame."

Indeed.

Cyprus Part Ena or Welcome Back

My plane landed at Larnaca and I was ready to jump out of my seat and feel the warm Cyprus winds on my face. As soon as they opened the airplane door, I was outside, smelling the fresh sea air and reveling in the 80-degree dry heat. I raced through the unchanged customs area (where they stamped my passport with the brand-spankin'-new EU stamp), hung around while they sorted out the bags, answered some questions from a guy from the tourist office, and then made my way through the enormous crowd of faces looking for their loved ones. How would I find Mitros, my family's landlord from over seven years ago? Would he look the same? Would he recognize me? Suddenly, I see a hand shoot up through the sea of faces. It's Mitros! He's way out in the distance, but he's there! I threw my arms around him in the most un-Cypriot of greetings and greeted him in Greek, "Kali spera" -- good evening. "You look different," said Mitros, who hasn't changed a bit. "I was expecting you in glasses."

We rode from Larnaca to Lefkosia, the capital city and my "home" in Cyprus, in under 30 minutes. I was reminded why Cypriot drivers terrify me to no end. Mitros was eager to hear the family's news, but more interested in filling me in on the current politics of the island. Somehow, I don't remember the Lambertides to have been so politically vocal, but it appears things have changed. Mitros, in true Cypriot fashion, predicted a "boomerang" on Israel for their attacks on Lebanon and, also fulfilling his Cypriot duties, paralleled the current Middle East situation to the Cyprus Problem. We chatted, joked, laughed, listened to the evening's news (Mitros translated) and wound up at 11 Fillipou Street in no time. And nothing had changed.

Ursula, Mitros's wife, met us on the steps. She gave me the three-kiss greeting (I knew I was back) and then insisted that we head out for dinner. Mitros and Ursula wanted me to enjoy a traditional Cyprus meal again and that meant a meze, a dinner made up of many little "tastes" of traditional cuisine. I showered quickly, we hopped back in the car, and raced to a taverna in the Old City. Sitting on the Venecian walls, dating back to the 14th century, I enjoyed all my favorite foods: a village (Greek) salad, olives, tahini, bread, tzatziki, sheftalia, souvlakia and, of course, Cyprus's own KEO Beer. I was home. We ended the night with sweet karpouzi (watermelon) which, for those of you who have never tasted a Cyprus watermelon before, is nothing like our American variety. Filled with fantastic flavors and ready to start a week of excitement and memories, Mitros and Ursula took me back home and put me to bed (to the strains of EuroNews, my favorite European TV news magazine from seven years ago, in the background.)

I was home.