My memories, my experiences... My Corfu
"The First Time I Met Takis"
It was 10:30 in the evening, and it was stifling. I felt exhausted and uncertain as I stood with two hundred other people in the sweltering hold of the Espresso Venicia, as the ferry's air-conditioned upper decks were closed off now, and all the passengers bound for Corfu had been sent by the Greek Immigration Officers into this iron Purgatory.
In anticipation of the docking, the porters started car engines, and the noxious exhaust commingled with the all-too-pungent aroma of two thousand live chickens in wooden crates. Given a choice, I might have succumbed to the almost delirious temptation to faint, but my body was pressed so tightly against the bodies of others that there was literally no place to fall.
When the boat finally docked, the mega-ton ramp lowered, and unable to resist the human momentum, I tumbled off the ship and onto the wharf. I gulped the sweet air in desperation and relief. This was Corfu, Greece.
At first glance, nothing seemed obvious. My eyes searched the lighted signs across the road but found nothing that seemed useful. Then I heard a voice. I tried to search out the source of the message but could see only a gray silhouette behind an iron bar fence. What was he saying to me?
"I am a good man, come to my village."
Curiosity was certainly my mission in coming here, but caution was my cultural bias. Nevertheless, I approached the stranger.
Though it was dark outside, I could see his face in the glow of a streetlamp. It was a smooth face, without worry lines. His eyes were playful yet sincere. He was well groomed and neatly dressed. "I come from Kontokali Village," he explained. "Seven kilometers from the port. Everything you need is there--a beautiful beach, a market, everything! I have a private apartment for you. Very nice! You will see for yourself..."
"The ship arrived late due to rough sea," I told him. "I have no Greek money."
"No problem! No problem!" He now spoke with urgency and emphasis. "You need money, I give you money. No problem, my friend!"
What an offer, I thought to myself! So, in a split second, I was obliged to determine if this was indeed a gratis opportunity or a trap. My mother had always warned me as a child not to go with strangers, but of course my mother had never come to Greece. Perhaps the point was moot from the start: it was late and I had no other offers; I was obliged to trust the moment.
Seconds later, we were speeding out of Corfu Town in Takis' beat-up Suzuki. Stray dogs ran in packs across the road in front of the car; motorbikes were as thick as locusts in August. Once away from the port and the superfluity of the city, the night air was balmy and sentient. My eager host spoke in a flurry of imperatives. And even though everything in my midst seemed remarkably strange, I knew that my instinct to come to Greece had not been wrong. I had no idea what might happen next, yet I somehow knew I was in just the right place at the right time.
On our way to Kontokali Village we passed several open-air restaurants. With music playing, and the catch of the day cooking on glowing coals, it appeared at first glance that the Greeks were inexorably motivated after dark into social interaction. Nobody, it seemed, stayed locked up behind closed doors.
"Maybe you are hungry?" my host asked.
As a matter of fact, I was quite hungry. But of course I still had no money. I nodded to confirm his suspicion.
"Okay," he said. "We will stop at a market and I will buy bread for you. And cheese and wine! You like bread, eh?"
"That's very considerate," I said, "but you don't have to--"
"It's okay," he dismissed.
A moment later he veered off the main road onto a dusty driveway in front of a ramshackle building. Instructing me to wait inside the car, he jumped out and ran inside. Amazed by this stranger's energy, and by his benevolence, there seemed little for me to do but surrender myself to his good will.
A moment later he poked his head out of the shop's doorway. Waving a thick loaf of bread over his head, he enquired, "Okay?" I nodded my acceptance, and he went inside again. A moment later, he emerged carrying not one, but two loaves, a one-and-a-half liter water bottle filled with loose wine, a big block of feta, a tin of olive oil, fresh garlic and basil, half a kilo of figs, and ten eggs that he assured me were laid just that morning. "Enough for tonight," he said as he started the engine. I was astonished into silence.
After a short ride, we arrived at Kontokali. Takis' simple apartment proved a welcome reward for my trust. As I waited in the garden, Takis darted about like a nervous mouse, making certain that my quarters were spotlessly clean. By the time he'd finished sweeping entryways and fluffing pillows the hour was approaching midnight, but my host's supply of energy seemed boundless. Apparently it was his practice to smooth over rough edges that did not yet exist.
And it seemed as if he were treating me more like a long-lost cousin than a new tenant. With one arm he lifted both my rucksack and the groceries and led me to my rooms.
Sparing every luxury, the flat consisted of a bedroom, a rudimentary kitchen, and a bathroom. "Okay?" he asked.
Who was I to be choosey at midnight in a strange country? "Okay," I said.
"You are my guest," said Takis. "Anything you need, just tell me. You can stay one night, or you can stay forever. It's up to you!"
"I don't even know how much the room costs," I said a little nervously.
Takis laughed. "Tonight, you make the price," he said.
"I make the price?"
Shrugging, he said, "We will discuss it later. Kali-nixta!"
So, that was the first time I met Takis. It was in 1992. Kontokali was much different then than it is today--much more lively with tourists. Takis proved true to his first words to me, which of course were: "I am a good man..." In fact, I still know Takis today. I not only came to Corfu many times as a tourist, each time seeking out the friend I made that night I arrived by ferry with no Greek money, but when I decided to move to Corfu, Takis was there to offer his help. He not only rented me my first house on Corfu, but he also helped me solve many of the problems encountered by a foreigner coming to live on Corfu. Besides being my landlord, he was my friend. Together we grew a vast vegetable garden my first winter here, and during summer we went to various beaches on Sunday afternoons. My first two Christmas dinners here on Corfu were taken at Takis' apartment. Takis introduced me to Corfu from a native's point of view, and we remain friends to this day.
Thank you, Takis. You are my Zorba!
In anticipation of the docking, the porters started car engines, and the noxious exhaust commingled with the all-too-pungent aroma of two thousand live chickens in wooden crates. Given a choice, I might have succumbed to the almost delirious temptation to faint, but my body was pressed so tightly against the bodies of others that there was literally no place to fall.
When the boat finally docked, the mega-ton ramp lowered, and unable to resist the human momentum, I tumbled off the ship and onto the wharf. I gulped the sweet air in desperation and relief. This was Corfu, Greece.
At first glance, nothing seemed obvious. My eyes searched the lighted signs across the road but found nothing that seemed useful. Then I heard a voice. I tried to search out the source of the message but could see only a gray silhouette behind an iron bar fence. What was he saying to me?
"I am a good man, come to my village."
Curiosity was certainly my mission in coming here, but caution was my cultural bias. Nevertheless, I approached the stranger.
Though it was dark outside, I could see his face in the glow of a streetlamp. It was a smooth face, without worry lines. His eyes were playful yet sincere. He was well groomed and neatly dressed. "I come from Kontokali Village," he explained. "Seven kilometers from the port. Everything you need is there--a beautiful beach, a market, everything! I have a private apartment for you. Very nice! You will see for yourself..."
"The ship arrived late due to rough sea," I told him. "I have no Greek money."
"No problem! No problem!" He now spoke with urgency and emphasis. "You need money, I give you money. No problem, my friend!"
What an offer, I thought to myself! So, in a split second, I was obliged to determine if this was indeed a gratis opportunity or a trap. My mother had always warned me as a child not to go with strangers, but of course my mother had never come to Greece. Perhaps the point was moot from the start: it was late and I had no other offers; I was obliged to trust the moment.
Seconds later, we were speeding out of Corfu Town in Takis' beat-up Suzuki. Stray dogs ran in packs across the road in front of the car; motorbikes were as thick as locusts in August. Once away from the port and the superfluity of the city, the night air was balmy and sentient. My eager host spoke in a flurry of imperatives. And even though everything in my midst seemed remarkably strange, I knew that my instinct to come to Greece had not been wrong. I had no idea what might happen next, yet I somehow knew I was in just the right place at the right time.
On our way to Kontokali Village we passed several open-air restaurants. With music playing, and the catch of the day cooking on glowing coals, it appeared at first glance that the Greeks were inexorably motivated after dark into social interaction. Nobody, it seemed, stayed locked up behind closed doors.
"Maybe you are hungry?" my host asked.
As a matter of fact, I was quite hungry. But of course I still had no money. I nodded to confirm his suspicion.
"Okay," he said. "We will stop at a market and I will buy bread for you. And cheese and wine! You like bread, eh?"
"That's very considerate," I said, "but you don't have to--"
"It's okay," he dismissed.
A moment later he veered off the main road onto a dusty driveway in front of a ramshackle building. Instructing me to wait inside the car, he jumped out and ran inside. Amazed by this stranger's energy, and by his benevolence, there seemed little for me to do but surrender myself to his good will.
A moment later he poked his head out of the shop's doorway. Waving a thick loaf of bread over his head, he enquired, "Okay?" I nodded my acceptance, and he went inside again. A moment later, he emerged carrying not one, but two loaves, a one-and-a-half liter water bottle filled with loose wine, a big block of feta, a tin of olive oil, fresh garlic and basil, half a kilo of figs, and ten eggs that he assured me were laid just that morning. "Enough for tonight," he said as he started the engine. I was astonished into silence.
After a short ride, we arrived at Kontokali. Takis' simple apartment proved a welcome reward for my trust. As I waited in the garden, Takis darted about like a nervous mouse, making certain that my quarters were spotlessly clean. By the time he'd finished sweeping entryways and fluffing pillows the hour was approaching midnight, but my host's supply of energy seemed boundless. Apparently it was his practice to smooth over rough edges that did not yet exist.
And it seemed as if he were treating me more like a long-lost cousin than a new tenant. With one arm he lifted both my rucksack and the groceries and led me to my rooms.
Sparing every luxury, the flat consisted of a bedroom, a rudimentary kitchen, and a bathroom. "Okay?" he asked.
Who was I to be choosey at midnight in a strange country? "Okay," I said.
"You are my guest," said Takis. "Anything you need, just tell me. You can stay one night, or you can stay forever. It's up to you!"
"I don't even know how much the room costs," I said a little nervously.
Takis laughed. "Tonight, you make the price," he said.
"I make the price?"
Shrugging, he said, "We will discuss it later. Kali-nixta!"
So, that was the first time I met Takis. It was in 1992. Kontokali was much different then than it is today--much more lively with tourists. Takis proved true to his first words to me, which of course were: "I am a good man..." In fact, I still know Takis today. I not only came to Corfu many times as a tourist, each time seeking out the friend I made that night I arrived by ferry with no Greek money, but when I decided to move to Corfu, Takis was there to offer his help. He not only rented me my first house on Corfu, but he also helped me solve many of the problems encountered by a foreigner coming to live on Corfu. Besides being my landlord, he was my friend. Together we grew a vast vegetable garden my first winter here, and during summer we went to various beaches on Sunday afternoons. My first two Christmas dinners here on Corfu were taken at Takis' apartment. Takis introduced me to Corfu from a native's point of view, and we remain friends to this day.
Thank you, Takis. You are my Zorba!
Add a Comment
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Comment by Sailor2 on February 16, 2008 at 4:07pm - Every time i come corfu, i take a taxi to takis, ask nina for a room, drop my bags, enjoy great music, nice people and good food for 2 weeks, and the last day i ask nina... how much for the room??, i pay, smile, and say:i'll be back....soon
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