In the middle of
February, we’d been back on Tilos for over a week, enjoying warm sunshine, wildflowers
and mountain crags and ever-changing seas. We’d swum and walked and listened to
the waves and the birds, cut off from the world. By Saturday night, it felt like
a treat to put on glad rags, leave Lisa in charge of the house, and go down to
Livadia.
If the north of
the island had been balmy, Livadia seafront had borne the brunt of recent
weather. Paving stones and rocks had been hurled about and lay scattered with
seagrass and bamboo washed in by waves. Picking our way over the debris, we
made our way to a shuttered and closed Mikro Kafe. The paper sign nailed to the
door still announced it would be open from 6pm, but clearly not this weekend. We
made our way back to Kyriakos Grill, the only place open.
We were the only
customers, so we chose the one by the robust wood-burning stove, and ordered
food and drinks, laughing at our quiet Saturday night. But slowly, slowly, they
came: one table after another filled up. Familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen
for a while, strangers. We strained to hold a conversation over the hubbub.
People squeezed into every available seat. The souvlaki and chips tasted delicious.
Delos confirmed
the football would be on the following Thursday: Mark’s team Arsenal would be
playing Olympiakos. It happened to coincide with Tsiknopempti, the day
when Greeks eat lots of grilled meat before giving it up for Lent. Two years
before, I’d spent it in a taverna in Emborio, on Nisyros, which had been lively
and packed to the gills. Occasionally, Apokries or carnival festivities
happen in an impromptu way. We looked forward to it.
Thursday was the
first cloudy day so we skipped the swim that was almost becoming a daily event,
but ended up walking up a nearby hill to the remains of a farm, where I found
an intact old stone cistern, then down a lovely almost-dry riverbed, the rocks
worn smooth. I had bought fresh calamari and I cleaned and fried them
semi-successfully that afternoon. Mark had a tentative taste, but not being
keen on them at the best of times, preferred to save himself for the
grilled-meat extravaganza that we would linger over during the game.
Just after 9pm we left
Lisa contentedly curled on the couch, and drove across the island and down the
hill into Livadia. The square was completely dark and empty. We turned right
past the closed kafeneio, and it was hard to ignore that Kyriakos Grill looked
surprisingly dark too. Laughing nervously, I parked the car and we walked back
to find that although there were people inside, it showed no signs of being
open for business. Somewhat desperately, I said something about football to
Alexandra, who was still behind the counter, but it was in vain and we closed
the door behind us somewhat dejected and rejected. There were no other options
to celebrate Tsiknopempti in Livadia.
There would be
sustenance, at least, at Remezzo on the harbour. As we made our way there, I
spoke enthusiastically of the baguettes that Popi toasted, heaped with
ingredients. The harbour café, although not the cosiest of settings on a winter
night, was busy with army lads, all of whom had clearly just eaten and were
waiting for their ride back to the base. I stepped up to the sandwich counter,
where Popi was ready to take our order – only, she said, she’d just run out of
baguettes so only had tost, small and now somewhat forlorn-looking
squares of bread. We drank a beer, ate them, and headed to Petrino on the
square to watch football.
A group of people
I didn’t recognise had a table of empty beer cans, a packet of Papadopoulos
biscuits, and a cute black puppy that squealed in the terrifying way puppies
sometimes do. There was a young guy who works for the port police, too, and a
local who runs a minimarket. We ordered glasses of the same cheap wine we buy in
boxes for home and were grateful for a bowl of crisps. Mark even remarked on
the flavour.
The game began,
the two teams evenly matched, at least in the sense that both of them boasted
quite a lot of players from neither the English nor the Greek capital. Arsenal even
had a Greek player, whose name sounded like a whole sentence whenever he took
control of the ball, Papastathopoulos. As the game progressed, the puppy company
left and locals drifted in. The bartender half-filled tall glasses with ice and
rum or whisky, topping up with a little mixer. Someone came in holding a few betting
slips, and mentioned a large number. The word malaka was bandied about. The
port policeman did some double-checking on his phone, grew sulky and
disappeared. The game proceeded in a desultory fashion – even I could tell. Suddenly,
the mood changed for the better.
The port policeman had returned, carrying two Tupperware boxes. One was full of broccoli and potatoes, the other with horta, boiled spinach-like greens. The men gathered, squeezing fresh lemon over them and digging in with forks. The TV signal was lost for a moment, but nobody seemed to care very much, too busy gorging on fresh vegetables, dripping juice all over their mobile phones. The oldest guy shouted across to the port policeman, and finally a lively discussion ensued.
‘How much did you
pay for the broccoli?’
‘It’s two-fifty in
Megalo Horio.’
‘In Rhodes it’s
two…’
‘We pay three
here…’
‘How long is it
since you last boiled horta?’
‘Never – it’s my
first time!’
The pouring of rum
and whisky continued as the plastic boxes were emptied. There was talk of
fishing, of bets on different teams. Nikos turned and asked me what team I
supported in England.
‘Oh, I don’t
follow it,’ I said. ‘But,’ I added naively, ‘Mark supports Arsenal. And you?’
‘Olympiakos.’
Mark watched
Arsenal score a goal and suppressed his cheer. The food was finished, and
gradually things grew quiet again.
