Our Large, Portly Athenian Nuptials
Just doesn't have the same catchy zing as the title of that famous-movie-whose-name-I-will-refrain-from-mentioning-here, does it? I really cannot tell you how many times since I booked my ticket to Greece until now that folks find it hilariously, gut-bustingly funny to bring up that damn movie. Yes, the event was big. Yes, my uncle is kinda fat. Yes, it was Greek. And yes, yes, it was a wedding. But enough already, it is really obnoxious. So I was most surprised that the Greeks themselves actually like that film because of its accuracy. Sans Windex. Originally I refused to believe it, reserving judgment until after I saw with my own eyes just how crazy these people could get at a wedding. The verdict? You win this round, Nia Vardalos, well played. (To view the most culturally-accurate piece of Greek cinema ever, piece by slowly-buffered piece, thank YouTube for parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11.)
Gorgeous Piraeus (That's our hotel on the right)On the morning of the big day, our foreign trio walked around the bays and bends of Piraeus in search of some breakfast. The day was gorgeous, thank the gods, with a shockingly blue sky, bright white sun and comfortable average of 25 degrees Celsius. It was a perfect day for a wedding. My dad wanted baklava, something so simple you'd think it was sold on every corner. All we found was toast at a cafe called Porta Leone (Lion Port, wink wink). Between this confectionery disappointment and my refusal to whisk him to Olympus, the poor guy couldn't cut a break.
Cool New Seaside ApartmentsBack at love central, we donned our fanciest luggage-wrinkled duds. I felt pure GQ up in that mofo, but probably looked more Miami Vice in my purple shirt, blue tie, light khakis and brown shoes. My dad and Jose opted for more conventional blue suits, which turned out to be a wiser choice, as I would soon discover that I was the only person -- man or woman -- at the wedding in light colored pants. Accidental Greek faux pas? I'll never know. I should have worn all black like everyone else. It looked like a goddamned funeral at the church.
GQ's upcoming Father/Son SpreadAs tradition dictates, the bride and groom are to be separated on the big day. Thus, we joined Uncle Stratos at the Soubassakis homestead in the narrow backstreets of old Piraeus for a grand pre-wedding feast of home cooking that was mostly lost in translation. There was also a bit of body shaving. I'll get to that later, you naughty devils.
Stratos had warned us that the area was very poor, but to me, it just looked lived in and aged. Just like Lowell. I actually found it to be quite charming, beneath all the graffiti. His modesty was very Chinese, one of many similarities and parallels that I noticed during my stay.
Off the top of my head, here are a few:
-both Greece and China are home to the oldest cultures in the world, including the earliest examples of written language (Linear B and oracle bones, respectively)
-both countries are home to some of the trickiest taxi drivers on the planet, who are no doubt aided by the language barriers that enable them to swindle tourists with a shoulder shrug and surly expression
-both cultures love gambling, as evidenced by the billboards all over Athens advertising the convenience of online gambling (why take the time to actually go to the casino when you can lose your family's savings from the comfort of your home?)
-both experienced brutal civil wars in the 40s/50s
-both cultures are home to women that love gaudy dresses and horrific hairstyles
-both lands are no stranger to Marco Polo; China had (?) the Italian, while Greece has a town called Markopoulo.
As I would learn later, these similarities are in no way coincidental, but part of a sinister government cover-up... I shit you not, just please keep reading.
Pulling up to Stratos' home, we were greeted by friends on the street and family shouting down from the balcony on the top floor. My father and I had no clue what the hell these people were screaming, but it didn't matter. Intuition told me that all the smiling meant that we were safe and welcomed. This was my first real taste of Greek hospitality.
Me and the Lucky ManThe last time I saw Stratos' parents, it was in the early '90s. They were on a trip to the US to visit their son and ended up spending quite a bit of time with the Yeungs. They also brought along Stratos' mother's goddaughter, Maria, who was a couple years older than me. The only memory I have of that trip is a snapshot of us getting out of our car at Mt. Washington. Nothing more, nothing less. And so when I saw his parents, I was shocked that they looked exactly the same, albeit with a couple additional wrinkles. No longer a 10 year old runt, they now had to reach up to pinch my cheeks and warm laughter filled the room as they recounted funny tales of my strange eating habits as a child (apparently the Greeks find peanut butter on celery super weird). As we tried to catch up in broken English and Greek (who am I kidding?!), I was pulled aside to say hi to the rest of the family. "Neil, you remember Maria?"
I stood there with mouth agape for a second. A second too long, as I looked completely retarded, like any cringe-worthy scene from a bad teen movie where the dopey nerd is hypnotized by the gorgeous popular girl who asks to borrow a pencil in Chem class. In the roughly twenty years since we last saw each other, she had morphed into some kind of Greek goddess: roughly a foot shorter than me, with an exuberant shock of curly dirty blonde hair, wide walnut eyes and, despite a waist so slim that I wondered where she was hiding all of her organs, the most stupendous set of curves this side of Aphrodite. She was indeed a sight.
The crowd standing around us noticed my awkward pause and they started to shout "It's Maria, remember? You met her before!" as if this were simply a rude lapse in memory and not utter twitterpation. Duh. I quickly rattled my head around to shake myself out of the trance and shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with her. Then, like any teenaged chump, I quickly shuffled away, lest I make a bigger fool of myself in front of that glorious specimen of femininity. As if my impeccable outfit could impress something so pretty.
The rest of the afternoon consisted of gorging. The Romans might have been on to something with their standardized vomit purges during feasting, though I'm not sure if the Greeks knew about it. I have never seen my father eat so much. For someone so thin, it was almost nauseating how much food he can fit into that slim frame. Thank Christos for those genes!
Old BuddiesSitting outside on the terrace before a long table covered with homemade Greek comfort food, my father, Jose and I were put at the head while the rest of the family sat at the opposite end, smiling awkwardly and politely. With no common language to communicate, we resorted to the most common link of all: wine and grub.
Beside plates covered in heaping piles of feta cheese, deep casserole dishes held a wealth of hearty classics such as gemista (stuffed tomato, pepper, and zucchini), pastitsio (baked macaroni with cheese and béchamel sauce), stewed lamb, fresh tomatoes and cucumber, and mountains of crusty bread. Plate refills were interspersed with buckets of Cretan red wine dumped into our cups out of makeshift Coke bottle carafes. The buttons on my tailored shirt were beginning to bulge. I was turning Greek with each passing second.
YUM
Teacher and PupilWhile chatting with the best man and maid of honor, who, praise Poseidon, spoke English, an announcement was made. It was time to shave the groom. Huh?
Maid of Honor is not looking forward to shaving Stratos...After picking my fork off the floor and wiping off the chunks of lamb that I accidentally spit onto my dad, I just had to ask for someone to repeat that to me. Shaving the groom? Are you kidding me? I didn't remember this part in the movie...
Upstairs on the second level of the family manse, a crowd was gathered around my unfortunate uncle at the back of the lavishly decorated living room. Stripped to the waist, he sat in a chair with a group of crazed Greek men hovering around him with shaving cream and a razor. I wondered for a moment if I had been transported to a frat hazing, what with all the wide smiles and wild psycho eyes. You'll remember that fraternities are, of course, Greek in origin, so why am I even surprised? Praying there would be no elephant walk, I watched on in horror.
How To Shave A Greek Man:
1. Don't Miss Any Spots
2. Make sure the Mr. Bean lookalike approves
3. Kiss For Luck
4. Be Gentle
5. Humiliate the Defeated Man
6. No Goatees Allowed
Holy Shit!It was all fun and games with the Bic safety razor. Ha, ha, let us humiliate our good friend and shave his already follicle-starved head in front of a video camera! Ho, ho, it would be quite a gas to shave his chest hair too! But the sight of that huge gleaming blade just made me nervous. One ouzo-inspired slip of the wrist and things would have quickly become a blood-soaked nightmare. Not the other guys though, who continued to hoot and holler and laugh as scary bald man began to shave my uncle's tender neck with a piece of steel that could gut a sacrificial bull. All that Greekness I built up during lunch flew out the window as my testes curled up in fear. I ran to find safety in my father's arms.
After accidentally killing him, they had to pay me off to keep quiet.Totally worth it.
When the groom was fully shorn, it was time to begin our exodus to the church (Lesson #2342: the word "exodus" comes from the Greek "exodos", which means "exit"). As Zeus would bless me, we were riding with Maria and her friend. I happily hopped into the car, palms sweaty and pulse quickened. I felt like a boy with a schoolyard crush.
As we sat in the car waiting for the Groom-mobile to lead the way, we chatted a bit. She had flown in for the day, just to attend the wedding, for the man who was as close to her as blood. Living on the island of Crete -- the homeland of Stratos and Zeus -- as a hematologist (swoon) working with leukemia patients (swoon!), she was also busy studying for her doctorate (double swoon!). At one point she spun around to look at me in the backseat.
With narrowed eyes, she asked, "Are you single?"
I nodded.
"Good, because I'm going to get you married by the end of the night." Then she spun back around, issue settled.
Just as I was about to faint from the hot-chick-who-cures-cancer-actually-talking-to-me overload, the procession began. We had barely a half hour to drive across the city to the church in Helioupolis and were cutting it closer than that butcher knife against my uncle's neck.
Through the Piraeus back alleys, we drove straight, took a left, drove further, took a left, down a familiar hill, and took another left. Things all looked the same in this part of town. Hey, did that family steal Stratos' car?
You will notice that we just made a loop and are back home. Up ahead, Stratos leapt from the wedding mobile with a smile, running back toward the front door, arms waving in the air to heckle us all. My father and I were cracking up in the backseat, but everyone else just sighed and rolled their eyes. It was so typically Stratos to risk being late for his own wedding because he forgot something.
When he finally found what he was searching for, we tried again. The row of cars that had accumulated behind our impromptu road block had long since reversed and gone in other ways, honking and cursing us with shaking fists and colorful Greek expletives (Lesson #5989: "malaka" means jerk-off, wanker). I'm happy to report that Stratos made it to the church on time. We, on the other hand, did not.
Athens is famous for many things, traffic among them. Today was no different. It was a Sunday, praise Jesus, and everyone in town wanted to spend the evening along the coast. We hit the highway at the same moment as the rest of Athens.
"Don't worry, as long as we follow the cars in front, we'll be fine... We just need to... wait, where'd they go?"
We were left for dead on a packed highway without a clue.
Eventually, we wove our way back to the caravan that now consisted of us and a single car in front of us. Everyone else had gone ahead. And so, along the highway, by the coast, up the hills, down the alleys and into the heart of Helioupolis. We stopped to ask for directions at least 15 times, to which we can add another item to the Greek-Chinese Happy Family list.
Hapless drivers: "Excuse us, do you know how to get to the Church of the Assumption?"
Pedestrian, pointing into the distance: "Sure, it's that way!"
These people could have been blind and it wouldn't have made a difference. A pair of old hunchbacked hags might have actually been partially blind, we'll never know. With a floppy arm jutting into some random direction, we had no choice but to accept our trajectory. How long, how far, whatever, there was no time for details. Luckily, as we got closer, the finger pointing became more precise, until we drove by a gigantic crowd at the steps of a grand church. This had to be it.
Just In TimeWe made it just as Stratos and his soon-to-be-bride, Marianna, were walking up the steps and into the church. Inside, it sounded more like the lobby of a racetrack than a church. Befuddled, I asked Maria why people were talking while the priest was chanting. She assured me it was ok to be festive. I continued to ignore all the people talking around me and squeezed my way to the front of the packed church.
Full HouseThe presiding priest was a bishop, cousin of Stratos' mother, stationed in Egypt. Heliopolis, as it were. He flew in for the wedding, which was huge news.
Bishop from EgyptAs he bellowed on in ancient Greek, I took a look around. It was my first time in a Greek Orthodox church, and the decorative detail was stunning. Every ornate surface was covered with a colorful painting, gold leaf shimmered in the light of giant chandeliers, and the warm glow of candles put all the loose fabric at extreme risk. The air was thick and suffocating from all the humanity packed into the walls, the gravity of the event and adherence to tradition that demanded they follow the customs precisely.
Ceiling DetailI lost track of time and tried my hand at deciphering the Greek letters embedded in the mosaics. Suddenly, the volume in the room rose a few levels and a woman with a crazed grin on her face shoved a fistful of rice into my hands. How did she know I was hungry?! Before I could munch on the uncooked grains, Maria popped up. "Now you throw the rice." In a church?!
And so, making my high school gym teacher proud, I hurled that handful of rice toward the front of the church with my girly arm, implanting into each little grain all the pure intent of nailing Stratos on the head. Old yia-yias, little kids, laughing aunties, frighteningly enthusiastic uncles and the rest, all chucking handfuls of rice at the bride and groom, who were walking in a circle around the altar. It was fun to witness such mayhem within a church. Now I know why bishops wear those oversized funny hats: to collect rice for starving villagers. Surely, he would be taking a hat full of rice back to Africa the next day.
Rice MassacreThe two-headed eagle, the symbol of the Byzantine church, represents the two sides of the church.
One looks east to the emperor and Constantinople.
One looks west to the pope and Rome.
When everything was finished, that place cleared out like someone pulled the fire alarm, revelers eager to greet the new bride and groom, but even more interested in the gift bottle of imported Cretan raki waiting for them at the end of the line. Rather than shuffle an inch per minute in the long line, my dad and I hung back and sat on the steps of the church, soaking up the fresh night air. I hadn't seen so many stars in the sky in a long time.
Ran out for raki
Time to party!
Stratos and his parents
Marianna and her parentsA guy approached us, dragging along two silent children. With a boisterous hello, he greeted my dad with open arms. "It's so nice to see you, professor! Do you remember me?" My dad quickly replied, "Sure, how are you!" and conversation ensued. He was a student of my father's in the '70s, having since repatriated to Athens to raise a family. "Great to see you, we can talk more at dinner!" he yelled as he walked away. My dad turned to me, "I don't know who that was..."
Over the course of the evening, we'd bump into a few more people, some recognized, others not, but many who knew of my father ahead of time. His reputation preceded him, and it was nice to see him receive a little attention for encouraging such an able mind as that of Stratos.
The Dance That Never Ends
The tavern was packed by the time we arrived. It was not the bright blue and white nightmare that I had imagined. Rather, it was a warm restaurant packed with hard wood and stone, very rustic and inviting. My father and I found our table, precariously near the dance floor. My heart skipped a beat. I had no idea how I was going to pull off any Greek two-steps that evening.
We were seated with a charming mother and daughter duo and a dapper man with perfect English who I suspect was in the middle of a midlife crisis, talking to me about Facebook and Linkin Park, as if he needed my youthful validation. At the head of the table, a familiar bearded face sat quietly. It was the bishop from Africa. Was our table that important? I flicked my suitcoat lapels and grinned at the room. Nobody noticed.
When Stratos and Marianna arrived, grains of stowaway rice stuck in their hair and clothes creases, there were loud cheers and plenty of glass clinking. Is it just me, or is that the most annoying thing about weddings? As if they've never kissed each other before, now you want them to do it on cue every 5 minutes for your voyeuristic pleasure? Perverts, all of you. I did not join in the clinking; Marianna looked like she needed a Chapstick.
Congratulations!As the meal began, some folks at the main table finally figured out that it might be in good form to invite the bishop to sit beside the bride and groom. This freed our table from any unnecessary awkwardness. Or so I thought. With the departure of the bishop, the once somber fellow sitting beside him was now a free man. Chugging wine like a dehydrated explorer who just emerged from the Egyptian desert, he would prove to be the "life" of our table. Turns out, he was the bishop's lackey. The deacon.
The procession of dishes was daunting. I shouldn't have expected any less in Greece. Starting with heaping plates of fried mystery bits (boureki and tiganita), baskets of bread, bricks of cheese, and mounds of tzatziki and taramosalata, a pink creamy salad made of salted roe and starch. Plates of diples, thin rings of dough covered in honey and walnuts, tempted my sweet tooth. I thought this was all we were getting, as I was absolutely bursting after just half a plate. Oh ho ho, I was so wrong.
After the carb assault, we got a plate of protein. A huge homemade sausage (opa!), stewed lamb hunks, chunks of grilled beef, the driest pork chop I've ever had the misfortune of breaking my molars on, and a load of other stuff that I didn't even have a chance to take a crack at. Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes, the most filling ground veg on the planet. Why would you even bother with this extraneous tuber? I was feeling faint. It was most definitely not because of the bottles of table wine and Cretan raki that we were quaffing by the mug-full. This was the Atkins nightmare.
Fortunately, I was smart enough to save just a wee bit of tummy room for the star of the show: the kotopoulo pilafi. This kinda-risotto dish is a Cretan specialty. At weddings, they serve gamopilafo ("wedding pilaf"), which involves such a complicated creation process that I just had to taste it.
Sorry about the shaky shot; I was enjoying myself too intentlyDays before, Stratos already began explaining it to me. On the way to the wedding, Maria chimed in with her take on it. This rice was legendary by the time we arrived at the banquet. Taking a year-old kid (a baby goat, people) and boiling that sucker in his own juices for hours and hours, creating the heartiest and most savory broth imaginable, sacks of rice are poured into this glorious soup and left to boil for another absurd amount of time. As Maria warned, you are NOT to stir the rice at any point of the boiling process. If you do, then you have to keep stirring every so often for however many hours the rice cooks. Thought bubble: The goddess also cooks. Noted. Lemon and local herbs are also added for flavor. The result could make a grown man cry.
When the plate arrived at our table, covered with a healthy dose of olive oil, I tossed manners out the window and scooped a spoonful. That first hit was orgasmic. As if they sucked the very essence from that poor little farm creature and concentrated it into every single grain of rice, the flavor was so dense I thought I was nursing from the teat of a mother goat. A group of Greeks sitting to my left stared on as this weird American started squirming in his seat with pleasure. They were all too happy to see me enjoying this little piece of Greece. The entire meal was worth it for these few bites of heaven.
Fully satiated, I once again turned my attention to the dance floor, which had been packed with dancing Greeks since the new couple had arrived. After a few popular hits (strangely all Spanish: Shakira, Alejandro Sanz, Juanes) and the couple's first dance (a misguided selection of "Nothing Compares 2 U", luckily nobody understood what Sinead was actually singing), the Greek jams started pumping. And what ditties they were. Each song sounded the same to me, peppy and traditional folk songs that recalled village folk dancing around fires because TV hadn't been invented yet. Though it was a little jerky, the melodies were so upbeat and celebratory. Midlife crisis guy totally killed my buzz, as he wouldn't stop complaining to me. "God, this music is like torture for me. Give me some Snow Patrol or Linkin Park!" As if I shared his sentiment. I continued to enjoy the traditional tunes and tried to block out his inane comments, which became more vitriolic when the band arrived.
Nothing ComparesAs the rembetika trio strummed away on their guitars and mandolin, the dance floor began filling up to the edges. Hands joined in the air, right-right-right-left, stepping, kicking, laughing and shouting, if you are Greek, you know how to dance. Stratos' nephews, students of traditional Greek dancing, absolutely lit up the floor with quick steps and snap kicks, executing complicated routines that made the crowd cheer. As the men in the room ogled a certain cancer-curing bombshell, it was certain that my fate was sealed. I was going to dance before the night was over. I just hoped we'd all be drunk enough to forget it ever happened.
Hurricane DancingMy father and Jose clearly had the same fearful sentiment. At one point, when it was obvious that this dancing would go on into eternity, we tried to skip out early. Stratos almost started crying (then he almost tried to kill us), so we decided to stay. We did fly across the world for this. And I am so glad that we did.
Our tables were cleared and the wine continued to flow. As the less important attendees filtered out of the hall (#1 excuse: "We've got school/work tomorrow!"), the amount of people shielding us from the crazy dancers grew thinner. Our wall of defense had been compromised. The dancers finally had us in their sights.
"Come, you dance now!" cried Stratos' sister-in-law. She had a bandanna wrapped around her gray Anne Lennox crew cut and exuded that indescribable Cool Mom energy. After some pleading and cowardly begging, I succumbed to her charms and was dragged onto the dance floor. The family cheered. They had finally bagged one of the foreigners.
Now, my dancing skills are, at best, laughable. This is why I prefer house-techno-electronic spazzing and simple hip-hop crotch grabbing. Ballroom dancing, tried it, failed. I just cannot wrap my head around the steps. I get lost in the count, stumbling over myself and proving that old chestnut that white people can't dance. Hence the freedom that comes with jumping around in a dark room to the pounding beats of a DJ, getting lost in the music without worrying about whether to land your left or right foot on count 2 or 3. Thus, even though the most basic Greek steps are fairly rudimentary, I prepared to be mortified.
And I was. Something so simple as right foot forward, left foot behind, right foot forward, left foot behind, right-left forward, left-right behind was lost on me. I tried, I really did. From the bandanna'ed auntie to the dancing Wonder Twins, everyone tried to teach me the moves, as we whirled around in circles to these songs that lasted 10 to 15 minutes EACH. Some haggard old bag of bones learned the meaning of regret that night, taking my hand to dance only to have me stumble into her countless times. It's embarrassing enough to make a fool of yourself to a hot young lady, but when someone who needs to be in a wheelchair looks at you like you are the handicapped one, you have clearly lost the battle.
As I pleadingly glanced in my father's direction for a little help, a new hand joined mine. I looked down and saw the Monopoly Man. This little guy, with a shiny bald head, round glasses and shocks of thick white hair over his ears, pulled my hands into the air with his surprisingly strong meat hooks and stared into my eyes. "OPA!"
Finally! My first "Opa"! I had no clue what I was supposed to do, so I just threw my hands in the air with him, yelling along. He kept screaming "OPA!" into my face, so I thought I was doing something wrong. Each time, I tried something new in an attempt to get it right. Back snap kick, jumping, arm waving. And he just continued to yell and smile maniacally at me. Oh well, I kept dancing as he found another person to "OPA!" Turns out he was Marianna's dad, the father of the bride. I was honored.
Eventually, I escaped the circle of death and retreated to my seat. My father was talking to the Wonder Twins and Maria's brother, while Jose was trapped in a conversation with the deacon. His name was something famous like Euclid or Euripides, I forget. What I remember most clearly was that I should not have joined that conversation. My dad was clearly the smartest of us all.
The deacon locked in on me. Jose's eyes begged me to flee while I still had life within me.
"You know that Greeks invented Chinese?"
Say what?
"Greeks invent everything! But government doesn't want you to know! Thiiiiink about it!" he demanded as he tapped furiously at his forehead.
"You know Yunnan? Alexander, he go there! They invent Chinese! You see the clothes, you see the dancing? Greek! Stories and even writing... Greek!" Tap, tap, tap.
I was too drunk to argue with someone so unstable (and holy), so I just nodded. Jose gave me the "what-the-fuck-did-we-get-ourselves-into?!?!?!" face, a mixture of worry, fear and outright disbelief. The deacon went on, Greek this, Greek that, it's all a conspiracy, Agent Mulder. Tap, tap, tap. My eyes were already rolling from the raki. My only choice was to get back on the dance floor.
Back in the circular ho-down, I was whipped around by people triple my age in a relentless whirlwind that threatened to whisk off my loafers. I stopped thinking and just went with the flow. Why fight it? During one revolution, I spied Maria sitting at a table, available and bored. I creased my brow and gave her the "lil' help?" look. She smiled slyly. On the next revolution, I turned on the charm with the puppy eyes. To my extreme delight, she hopped up and joined the circle. Though my hands were sweaty and I was still embarrassingly inept with my steps, I was in heaven for approximately ten minutes holding her tiny little hand. She laughed along and told me I was doing great. My heart soared. And it wasn't the raki.
My dad, the third wheelAt a certain point in the evening, bandanna auntie achieved the most stunning victory since the Greeks whupped the Persians at Salamis. She got my dad to dance.
Hell Freezes Over
Wurk It, Gurl!
Round and round we go...Exhausted, we finally retired our Greek dancing shoes for the night. Stratos and his family were overjoyed that we participated, and they continued to tear up the floor into the early morning. We, on the other hand, were beyond jet-lagged and about to lapse into coma. It was time to return to the love shack.
On the way out, the deacon crushed my hand in his gigantic bear claw. He said he loved talking to me and hoped I would enjoy his wonderful homeland of Greece. I assured him that I would. As we parted ways, he stared at me from across the room and tapped his forehead. I didn't know whether to take it as a reminder or as a threat.
Congratulations, my crazy friend
