When you dine in Greece, you must watch your drink. Hands and words go flying, you use your whole arm to speak, reaching and shaking and pointing. You must have an opinion, especially on politics, and movies, and wine. The meal starts with raki, homemade Greek liquor. The table is spread with meat, bread, salad, goat cheese. People lean over you to snatch morsels of this dish and that. There are at least five conversations going on and they shout over each other to be heard. You can be very quiet or very loud. If you don’t take food some will appear on your plate. The talking continues, and laughter. Now coffee. Now dessert. Someone falls out of his chair because he is cackling and gesturing and drunk. More wine. Some people will leave – the baby is crying, and anyway, there is work tomorrow. Those who remain produce a guitar, a baglamas, drums. The music starts fast and then slow. This is the rhythm of my Greece. A song of the island, of a girl, of liberation. Ancient themes. They sing with eyes closed, swaying. A woman stands and begins to dance. Snap, snap, slow spin. And up. Down. Snap, snap. Eye contact across the table. Papou is crying. You don’t know the words, but you know the feelings. Clap. Sway. Listen.
Photo used under Creative Commons from wyntuition