This vacation would see us take 8 flights. Mind you, I'm not the most calm flier the world has seen. But we bebopped from Edinburgh to London, London to Athens, and practically fell into the open arms of Alex's cousin, Maria. She is the only one in her family that speaks English, and she and Alex had mostly gotten to know each other via Facebook. Her father, Chris (Alex's uncle) was there, too, and when he hugged Alex tightly to him, there wasn't a dry eye in sight. It still makes me tear up to remember.
Understand, this was not an ordinary meeting. The last time the two had seen each other, Alex was a baby. Moreover, Alex's late father was Chris' older brother, the first of the four siblings to leave Greece forever to live in America. Aristides had been only eleven years old when he was adopted by a relative to alleviate some of the family's crippling poverty that was a result of the 1940 war between Greece and Turkey. The soldiers had decimated the family's livestock and only livelihood, and they simply couldn't recover. The children were just getting by, so a decision was made. While his three other brothers stayed behind, Aristides grew up in America, living a life very different from what he knew in the secluded mountain village of central Greece. Two brothers would follow later, but Chris always stayed in Greece - the last of the line to care for his parents and raise his own children. So when Alex landed in Athens, there was part of Chris that was hugging his lost brothers and healing his fractured family.
One car ride later, and we arrived at the family's Athens apartment for a quick shower and an enormous dinner with the whole family. This was uncle, aunt, two cousins, husband, three small children, and us. The table was absolutely filled with whole fish, meat, a mound of rice, fish sticks, spanikopita, cheese pastry, chocolate pie, and the largest baklava I had ever seen. I had to ask Maria the right approach to take to the fish staring at me from the plate in order to best maneuver the bones. Alex just tore right in. There was a flurry of excitement - everyone speaking Greek over top of one another, firing questions at us that we answered with a look to Maria for translation, the kids crawling over their beloved grandparents, and some kind of Greek soap opera in the background. We became stereotypical foreigners - contributing to the conversation with "Thank you very much," "Ok!" and thumbs up. Around 11, everyone scattered to their sleep.
Lithohori
The next morning, we found ourselves hustling out the door to meet Maria and her husband, Costas, at 6am for the start of our road trip to Aristides' childhood home in the mountains. Over the four hour car ride north, I watched the landscape change from city buildings to dry desert to increasing amounts of green until we were driving along sheer cliff roads on the pine-covered mountains. We made a few stops along the way to break up the drive, including one at a bridge with the most brilliant turquoise water running below.
We took the opportunity to stretch our legs and scramble around the rocks to enjoy the unique view.
As we got into the mountains, our stops became more remote and less, well, English. A few dogs lazed around in the heat, skittish of people. As we got closer to the remote Lithohori (always just behind the next mountain), strangers passing in cars beside us stopped to inquire who we were, how we were, and where we were going. This was just how it was done when moving through the villages. Lithohori itself consisted of three different parts, and they all had Katsiki cousins of varying ages and relations.
Everywhere along the way were churches - either those that could house worshipers, or those that were essentially a small shrine on stilts. One such church was built by Alex's grandfather at a picturesque mountain summit in Lithohori, with a view as far as the eye could see. This location was chosen so that his family, scattered across the world, would always be looked after. Maria told us he would often sit here to pray for his three sons who had left Greece.
The family home sits perched on its own peaceful side of the mountain with just one neighbor close enough to visit. And visit we did. We had drinks and desserts and tried to talk on the patio overlooking the valley. Champagne grapes shaded the Katsiki family patio, and succulents grew in the concrete. The inside was covered in Greek Orthodox icons and family pictures, including those of Alex. This truly was his home, too.
Next was a trip to the dizzying heights of the cemetery to visit the graves of the grandparents. Oil was poured, incense was lit, and we took a moment to consider their lives, the family, and the unexpected beauty of the view from this place.
We walked around Lithohori a bit, visiting the school and a local cafe, but we needed to get back on the road to make the longer, winding 6 hour trip back to Athens. We passed by natural spring water drinking fountains with faces, a gloriously rusty abandoned truck, and what else, I'm not sure. I fell asleep in the heat of the afternoon sun, unaccustomed to it after so many days of Scottish mist.
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