My Aunt answers on the second ring. “Yes?”

I had practiced my Greek for days. I knew just what to say. "Hello Aunt Maria. I am Nikos Kachulis, Angelo’s son from America.” I used his Greek name. “We are in Sparta; we would like to visit you in the village tomorrow. I'm with my wife and my two children. We have a car.”

"Un huh. ……Who are you?”

"Nikos Kachulis, Angelo’s son from America.”

"Uh huh.”

I had heard that although no one spoke English in the village, we would be welcome with open arms as soon as they heard the family name. This was not going as planned. I added a little about our trip around Greece.

"We are staying on the main avenue in Sparta. We are really excited about coming to the village.”

"Uh huh”…. "Who is your grandfather?”

"Demetri.  Demetri Kachulis. My father is Angelo.” I was getting more desperate with every question….and running out of Greek. "You know my family.”

The kids looked nervous. They knew enough Greek to understand what was happening. Martha had no idea but sensed something was wrong. I smiled and waited. 

"Uh huh…. Uh huh…..Who is your mother?”

My mother? I thought. "Marina…… Thea, we would like to come and visit. Is tomorrow, okay?.... We have a car.”

"Uh huh.”

I babbled on in broken Greek, stumbling through half sentences and disconnected thoughts- the weather, my parents, my children, not feeling at all like the returning hero or a grandson of the village, back from the New World. We were no closer to where I’d thought we’d be after the second telephone ring. In fact further away.
I started again, at the beginning of my script. "We'll come after lunch just for a few hours, so we can see the village and say hello. I’m Nikos Kachulis, Angelo’s son. My grandfather is Demetri.”

"Yes. Uh huh….. And who is your grandmother?”

My grandmother? This, I did not expect. "Marika. Marika Kachulis.”

"Ohhhh Niko!” Thea Maria exclaimed in one long gasp. I could see her startled eyes, even over the phone. "It's you! Now I know, when I hear your grandmother's name. Niko is not a common name in the family. I thought you were related to some other Kachulis’ in the village.” It all came spilling out in a great rushing tide. "How is your mother?  And your father? You'll come tomorrow and stay over. I'll make lamb. Demetraki! she called her husband and rattled off something in rapid fire Greek I had trouble understanding.

“Ohee Thea, no, Aunt. We don't want to put you out. Don’t make a fuss. We only want to stop by for a few hours.” A foolish thing to say to any Greek.

"No Niko, you’ll come, and you'll stay over, and we’ll have lamb….Oh Niko!”
Here was the rush of love and affection I’d expected, that warmth that connected me to all the Greeks of my childhood. I relaxed and smile. My wife and kids relaxed with me.Thea and I got down to business. 

"Thea, which is the road from Sparta to the village?” Long before the days of map apps and talking phones, I have a pencil and a detailed Michelin map sprawled across the bed. There are hundreds of villages in the Peloponnesian Mountains, and I scan the map and puzzle out the Greek names. "I see Daphni, Thea.” I circle it.

"But be careful Niko, not Daph´ni, but Daph ni´ and not Daphnee.

What?

There are three Daphnis near Sparta, all with different spellings and accents, and that doesn’t count the famous Daphni, near Athens. No wonder my mother’s family called my father’s people the Daffies. I mark them all, spell out each one, and choose the one I think is right.

"Yes Niko, that’s it.” I trace the road from Sparta and read off the route number. 
"Yes, that is the one.”

"How far Thea?”

"It is not far, Niko.”

Famous Greek words. In Greece this could mean anything. We have gotten lost for hours, looking for somewhere that was “not far,” often given a landmark we couldn’t find, and the assurance that "from there it is too easy.”

"We will come tomorrow after breakfast.” 

"Yes Niko, come, and we'll have dinner, and you’ll stay over… Tomorrow then.”

I hang up the phone, buzzing with excitement. The kids piece it all together and explain it to Martha. My Greek guest mentality kicks in. "We have to have something to bring.”

We hustle across the main avenue in Spartan, dodging a few errant Greek drivers, and buy flowers and sweets in the local market. The next day after breakfast, we're off.
                                                           ***
Early Sunday morning, the silvery light on the olive groves gives the world a peaceful, shimmering glow, broken and interrupted only by the purring of our little black car and the laughing chatter of our children in the back seat. The village is only 10 kilometers- about 6 miles - and soon we pass a road sign and turn onto the main street. The kids read off the village name in Greek, sounding it out “Entering Daph….ni.

We stop at the first person we see - a woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of the gate of a school. I drop my window. “Good morning.”

"Good morning” she nods pleasantly, and returns to her task, the insistent scraping of the broom breaking the air over the still sleepy village.

I step out of the car and approach her. "Can you help me?”

She stops and smiles, resting on her broom. "Yes, yes. What do you want?”

"Where is the house of Demetraki and Maria Kachulis?”

She tells me three times, each time more insistently and then, exasperated I still don't understand, leans her broom against the schoolyard fence, closes the black gate, and with a half-smile, motions me to follow.

I hop back in the car and drive as slow as the car can go, as she walks and leads us through the narrow twists and turns of the village streets. 

Finally, she stops and points. “The house of Demetri and Maria Kachulis.”

I thank her several times and she flashes me a half-smile, nods quietly and breaks into a grin. I step on the gated porch and knock on the door.

The door swings open and Thea Maria embraces me like she has known me her whole life. Her husband, Uncle Demetri, comes to the door and begins to cry.

Demetraki -Little Demetri - is a short, middle-aged, round bellied man, who hobbles with difficulty. He has a special affection for my departed grandparents, who sheltered him and gave him a job, when he was a young, illegal immigrant, sneaking across the border from Canada. He lived with them above their luncheonette in Brooklyn, until someone turned him in to Immigration Services and he was deported back to Greece.

Thea and Demetraki embrace us again and again as we step through the doorway, and they welcome us into their home. 

Although after three weeks in Greece, the kids have grown used to the welcoming gestures of strangers and physical affection from people they have just met, at nine and twelve, everything is still a wonder. But stepping into the Kachulis house, in their great grandfather’s village, in the mountains of Sparta, is like entering another world.

We sit in the living room with a small refreshment, the first of many, and Demetraki talks of his days in New York. "Your grandfather was very kind to me. He took me in and gave me a job. I lived with your grandparents when I was a young man.” He drifts off, giving way to some inner memories, reminiscing; the elevated train outside the 2nd floor apartment in Brooklyn, taking the B 53 bus to Queens, to visit my parents.  "I remember their house.” He smiles. “How are they?”

I am struggling to keep up but catch most of what he says. I answer, “kala – good…… They say hi.”

We phone New York, but there is no answer and no place to leave a message. I tell him about my parents - retired, loving grandchildren, taking college courses for fun - fitting together Greek words and phrases as best I can. I’m not sure he catches it all, but his smile is beyond words. We struggle for more to say. 

Thea Maria takes an immediate liking to Martha; all the Greeks do. Although it is obvious she is not Greek, they sense some kindred spirit in her. She is sitting on the couch and stands when Thea comes into the living room. “No,” Thea Maria motions, Martha must keep her seat. She will sit on the floor. She pulls out some photo albums- of her wedding, and a recent trip to a Greek island.

My cousin Heracles and his wife Panayiota come downstairs and join us; she, small boned, wiry and friendly, works in an office in Sparta. He, a part time farmer on the family farm looks every inch a European soccer star, long black hair, dark eyes, strong quick body, an energetic persona. Soccer is his love. Farming, merely his work.

Their two-year-old daughter Maria races in behind them and leaps on Demetraki’s lap, giggling, squirming and laughing. Her grandparents watch her every day, while the parents work, Panayiota explains in her elementary school English. 
Demetraki asks me about my job and I explain in broken Greek - playing and teaching piano, writing music for TV and videos, doing school programs for kids.

Panayiota acts as a simple translator. "Do you understand?” she asks Demetraki.
"Yes, he works in a “magazine” – a store of some sort.”

Panayiota catches my eye and smiles. “You tried,” her look implies. She talks to him in Greek, and he nods.
En dax ee. "Is it okay?” she smiles at me again.

"Yes,” I return her smile. …,” “It’s okay.”

Our eyes touch and we understand. We will act as the bridge over the Greek – English divide for the day.

Thea Maria hoists herself from the floor, kisses little Maria on the top of her head, and excuses herself to the kitchen. The downstairs is an open floor plan except for a bedroom off to the side and Thea Maria keeps up a lively conversation as she works, calling out to her family. Each one of them answers in turn, and grins in our direction.

Martha steps around the couch into the kitchen to help, and Thea beams and shoos her away. She tries again and is swiftly dismissed a second time, with a bigger smile and even more good-natured affection. Thea strokes her bare arm.
She nods at me and smiles as if she approves, as she rifles through pots and pans and cabinets and platters in preparations for the meal. Her hands move quickly, effortlessly, their motions rapid fire, as she carries on a running conversation with Demetraki, sitting in his living room chair, looking a little spent, his cane leaning against the arm rest. In the background, little Maria runs back and forth between her parents and her grandfather, in noisy, childlike chatter. Thea gestures and nods again, rolling her eyes and smiling, clicking her tongue, grinning back at us. Her hands, moving in double time, never stop.

Uncle Demetri shimmies to the edge of his chair, hoists himself up, leaning on his cane, and gestures for us to follow. He leads us to the backyard, opens a shed and points to two barrels. "One is for this year, one for next.” He taps this year’s barrel, opens the handle and hands us a glass of homemade brew – rich red wine, sparking in the homemade cup and smelling of the earth. The kids look on in wonder, like they are in a storybook. After the first sip, Demetraki grins. "Time to eat,” he says. “Come.”

Thea Maria has laid out Sunday dinner; lamb, chicken, cheese, tomatoes, potatoes, bread and wine ; everything grown on the property. Even the herbs that season the meat and mix in the dipping bowls of olive oil, Heracles has bargained for in the village, trading some farm vegetables with a neighbor. The food is wonderful - a down home, Greek style, village feast.

The kids puzzle at a chicken leg on their plates and Thea notices. She doesn’t miss much around the table. Me ta heria, pedia she says, "with the hands, children.”
We had coached the boys for a year about proper guest etiquette in Greece.

 

“When we go to Greece, there is no refrigerator to go to and find something else if you don’t like the food. You can’t be too fussy. If we order something in a taverna and you don’t like it, it’s the only food we have that night. And if we are lucky enough to get invited to someone’s house, you can’t refuse what’s served. It’s hard to explain, but it would be like a personal insult to the host. They would think you didn’t like them, if you refused their food. At least take a little and try it. Then everyone will be satisfied.”

Thea watches as the platters circulate, making sure everyone’s plate is full. A serving plate of spiced eggplant comes around. She asks my youngest son in Greek “Would you like some meletsani, Demetri?”

There is a family back story. Nine-year-old son Demetri hates eggplant. It’s been a running theme of his childhood. This afternoon - meletsani-salada – a traditional eggplant dip with lemon, garlic, olive oil, onions and parsley - is one of the features of the menu.

Demetri looks up at Thea through his horn-rimmed Harry Potter glasses and answers politely in his best Greek. “Yes, please.”

Thea serves him a healthy dollop which he dutifully finishes first – cultural crisis averted. Then he digs into the feast in front of him, hands, knife and fork all together.

Halfway through, Thea, making the rounds again, sees Demetri’s plate has no eggplant. Hovering with a ready spoon, she asks, "want more eggplant, Demetri?” and without waiting, shovels a fresh serving on his plate. 

Demetri stares at his plate, bewildered, then to Thea and then to me.

I gently cut in."It’s okay Thea," I smile. "Melitsani is not one of his favorites. But I would love some more” I add, scraping his helping onto my plate. “Everything is wonderful!” 

She looks bemused, puzzled for a moment, then smiles. "Demetri!" she ruffles his hair.

There is so much good food going around, the table is surprisingly quiet, hard to do with a room full of Greeks –- but only for a moment.

"Heracles has a soccer game today.” Thea looks over at her son. “If you want, the boys can go with him.”

"They can come and sit on the bench,” he chimes in, grinning at them.

"Where is it?” I ask.

"Not far.” The age-old Greek response.

"Can we walk to it.”

"No, you must take a car, about an hour away.”

I quickly calculate. It will take the afternoon, we are only here for the day, and I am a little terrified at a car full of thirty-year-old Greek soccer players, speeding over the mountains with my precious sons rattling around the back seat. "Thank you, but no, Heracles. I want them to see the village today. See where their great grandfather was born.”

He leaps up with a bolt of energy, excuses himself and declares, “I will be back for dinner ….with octopus !,” eliciting peals of laughter from the kids.

Thea clears the table in a blur of motion, and we are swept into the backyard for left over bits of lamb, grapes and Greek coffee. While Martha and the boys play with little Maria, Demetraki motions to me and points to a nearby hilltop. "There is your grandmother’s village. I remember her from Brooklyn.”

 

There is no family left in her village, but now I am sorry we don’t have time to go. I take a moment and remember her. He senses my mood. "Next time,” he smiles, "when you come again.”

Thea ducks into the house and comes back with an oversized Coke bottle, dumps out the boy’s water glasses and fills them with soda and ice. The kids are wide-eyed and look back at us hopefully.

Soda is on the do not drink list in our house, but we smile, and they eagerly guzzle their drinks, the ice cubes clattering in their glasses. Thea gives them a refill. We all know something bigger happening, that transcends family rules, health guidelines and wild little boy, sugar highs.

Uncle Demetri watches the boys play with little Maria. "They don’t seem like American children. Except for the language, they seem Greek.”

"Do they want to watch TV?” Thea askes.

"No, they are okay,” I smile.

"Are you sure?”

"Yes, they are good with us.” I look around past their modest back yard. “ It’s so beautiful here.”

Propped in his chair and  leaning on his cane, Demetraki gazes off, closes his eyes, and falls into a gentle sleep. He snores lightly.

"He drives the tractor every day,” Thea says. "He is very tired now. Come, we’ll let him sleep. I’ll show you the village and the church.”

Panayiota joins us and tells us a little about my cousin Heracles. "He was the best soccer player in the region of Laconia, all around Sparta. At fourteen, big soccer clubs from Athens offered to train him to join their team, but he would have to move to the city. His parents said no. How can a fourteen-year-old boy live away from his family?  It is too young. He still plays in a local league, but now he is thirty-five. He doesn’t like being a farmer much.”

We walk to a small chapel, built with money sent from America by my grandfather. The placard over the doorway reads, “From the Family of Demetrius Kachulis.”

 

Thea cannot find the key; it is not above the door mantel in the usual place. "Someone must have not returned it” she shrugs.

She leads us to a grave in the cemetery adjacent to the chapel. It’s her recently departed sister-in-law. Resting on the head stone are objects of remembrance: a stuffed animal, some trinkets, an empty coke can, like offerings accompanying a soul into the afterlife. Thea says a short prayer and blesses herself over the grave, as the sky begins to darken. 

We walk on the cobblestone street to her brother’s convenience store – a drop-down wooden window to a single room with some odds and ends, haphazardly stacked on the shelves.

"He lost his wife only a few months ago,” Thea says. “I come and see him every day. He doesn’t usually work Sundays, but he doesn’t have much else right now. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

They chat briefly as he closes up shop. In front of the drop-down window, we are introduced. He smiles, sad, bewildered, and lonely. We shake hands, but I know it is not enough. I want to reach out, embrace him, offer some comfort, but the moment passes, and we walk on.

At the end of the lane, we turn down another cobblestone street, this one rough, broken and uneven, and come to a one room stone hut, about thirty feet long and a dozen feet across. The roof, fluted ceramic tiles, is mostly cracked, broken or missing. An open doorway and a few small window slits are cut into the front of the house. It looks and feels centuries old, from the days of the Spartan warriors, or the abduction of Helen that set off the Trojan War. We step inside.

The room is divided in half by an open doorway in its center. "Your grandfather was born in this house,” Thea says. "Mother, father, six children on one side” she points, “farm animals on the other. Demetraki was born here too. The family lived here until 1950.” It still has no electricity, no plumbing or refrigeration,  no running water. A few shelves are carved into the walls. There is a cut away in the corner where a wood stove might have stood.

“We use it as a farmhouse now.” Thea snatches a few eggs from one of the stone shelves and places them in her dress pocket. "For breakfast tomorrow,” she smiles.

I pause, overcome, picturing my grandfather as a boy, imagining his life here in this stone hut, walking down the narrow lane we just came up, working on the family farm, leaving the village at seventeen to make his way to America. We are silent, even Thea and Panayiota, like we can feel the ancestors present in the house. I make my children touch the walls. "Whatever else happens, remember, this is where you come from.” I hope it sticks.

As we leave the old stone house, an elderly woman comes hobbling down her driveway next door. We stop and she and Thea chat in rapid fire Greek. She smiles, glances at the children, and suddenly swings open the gate, embracing me and taking my hand, leading us up the driveway. The woman motions us to sit at the outdoor table, ducks into the house and returns with a tray of drinks and sweets.

"She says she has a son in America somewhere, Vermont?” my aunt explains. "Maybe you know him. He is a farmer."

"I live not too far from Vermont," I offer, between bites of baklava and sips of lemonade, "but I’m sorry, I don't know your son.” 

She smiles and strokes my arm. En daksee -"it’s okay,” she says softly. "En daksee, endaksee.”

The three women start again in rapid Greek, I only catch a few words. When we're finish and the plates are cleared, the woman walks us down the driveway, her plump little hand warm in mine, almost hot, like a fleshy piece of fruit that has sat for long afternoons, baking in the sun. At the gate she lingers, still holding my hand, hugs me again and kisses me goodbye. The kids and Martha step back. It is just me and the old woman; me, a stand in for her distant son, she, for my long ago ancestors. We both feel the loss.

"Thea, who was that?  I ask as we walk back on the cobblestones.

My aunt shrugs. "Cousins.”

“How are we related?”

”We don’t know. This whole area,” she points, “ Kachulis row.”

When we’re back at the house, Panayiota hops on her bike and heads off to a meeting of the village council, where she is a member. I am left to communicate in Greek as best I can.

I sit on the porch with Demetraki in the early evening as the sun reappears. While little Maria plays at our feet, we talk in simple sentences as a parade of tractors rolls by, coming in from the farms. Every driver waves and calls out a greeting. One man parks his tractor and come to the gate. 

"He remembers your grandfather,” Demetraki says. “The first American to send money back to the village. People were starving after the war. They used it to buy guns for hunting. And the Civil War was going on” …. His voice trails off. “It was a terrible time. Everyone remembers your grandfather for that.” The man shakes my hand, full of warmth and vigor and friendship. 

Couples and families are out for an evening stroll, intermingled with the tractors, and most everyone stops and chats, curious about who I am. Another farmer parks his tractor in the middle of the road, comes to the gate to say hello, and dangles worry beards in front of little Maria. She laughs, delighted at the game.

“It is like this every day,” my uncle says.  Farmers coming home from the fields at sunset, or part timers going to their farms at the end of a workday in Sparta. Demetraki rides his tractor mornings. He and Heracles work the farm together, when Heracles is not off playing soccer. He looks back to me as the foot traffic thins. He is impressed with how much Greek my son Chris is speaking.

"Demetri is not speaking, but you can tell he is listening and understands. If they came for three months in the summer, they would be fluent. They should come with their grandfather, maybe next summer.”

The screen door swings open and Thea, Martha, and the boys, join us from the house. After Thea and Demetraki talk, he waves, smiles, and struggling with his cane to stand, heads inside. 

"Come Niko. We’ll walk," Thea takes my arm. "He’ll rest. It is difficult for him to go too far.” We lock arms and  stroll in quiet, while Panayiota talks broken English with Martha. Soon, we are at the village square; mostly men around outdoor tables, talking, smoking, and drinking coffee. Everyone is instantly aware of us. They all have a familiar look, like they are relatives, and eye us with intense but friendly curiosity.

Thea approaches a table with a few words and suddenly four men are up, their brilliant white smiles flashing, their shining black eyes glowing like smoldering coals, shaking my hand, embracing me, bowing respectfully to Martha and smiling and patting the boys. The tables around us relax and slip back into animated conversation.

I introduce us in Greek. I would give a lot to sit with the old men of the village, but I know my pigeon Greek will only carry me so far. After a long day, my language skills are starting to give out.

Having no Greek, on a visit to the country is like walking by a great restaurant with the door closed; at least you can peer in and see some of what goes on. Knowing a little, is like catching a the aroma of the food; you might get lucky; the door swings open, the music comes bursting out and you are drawn in. The Mediterranean flavors fill your senses, just enough to make your mouth water and long for more.
I can at least step into the restaurant. Ask for a table, taste a sample of the menu  and tap my foot to the music. But to sit down at the feast and dance through the night, to celebrate like a Greek, is heartbreakingly beyond me. My lack of facility with the language, is one of the few regrets of my life.

 

We stroll in the darkness back at the house. Herakles is still not home. His parents exchange anxious looks. We hear the strain in their voices as they talk in Greek. She looks at the clock on the wall -ten o’clock.

My cousin shows up an hour later. Like all mothers everywhere, his mother has been fretting, preoccupied, wondering aloud “where are they?” “what is keeping them?” and listening to the silence outside for the sound of a car door slamming. When he arrives, the interaction needs no translation. She is annoyed and questioning, but also relieved and happy to see him. His father keeps a low profile and lets the mother son dynamic unfold.

To deflect the situation, Heracles reaches into a paper bag and announces “octopothi,” as if fresh octopus will forgive him his five hour delay. My children’s wild laughter breaks the tension of the room. Then it’s time for sleeping arrangements. "For you, Chris,” my cousin manages in English, pointing to the crib brought down from upstairs, provoking another outburst of laughter. Two-year-old Maria will sleep with her grandparents tonight.

Heracles takes us upstairs to his apartment. We sit on the couch in front of a home entertainment center: CD and  record player, good European speakers and a decent sized TV blaring a Greek soccer game. He is only one generation removed from being born in a stone hut, like his father.

"Heracles’ parents watch the baby, while we work during the day,” Panayiota tells us. "And now tonight, since you are here, she will stay with them. We have lived above them since we got married, it is very helpful. We hear in America, when the children are a certain age, the parents throw them out. Is that true Niko?”

"Yes, in a way, sometimes. What about here?”

"In Greece your parents help you, in your 20s, your 30s, your whole life. Maria and Demetraki put this addition on the house for us to live here. For a short time, people a little older than us, Heracles’ sister, were moving to Athens. Now they find out, it is not such a great life. Many are coming back to the village.”

Heracles steps into the other room and Panayiota lowers her voice, confiding in us. "I am glad he still plays soccer. He was the best in the region.”

"Yes,” I say. "When we asked at the hotel in Sparta if they knew the name, they said ‘you mean the kindergarten teacher or the soccer player'?”

She laughs. "That’s him. Not the kindergarten teacher. Come” she reaches for his hand as he rejoins us in the room and sits with us on the couch. 

"Do the boys play sports?” she asks. "I want Maria to play basketball when she is older.”

“No!” Heracles raises his pointed finger in the air. “She must play soccer! Niko, I hear in America, all the girls play soccer. When Maria is old enough, I would like her to go to America and play.” He glances at the game on TV and surfs around the channels, as Panayiota excuses herself. Heracles clicks off the game and motions me to follow him. He guides us to the bathroom. When we are through, he leads us to their bedroom. "No.” I step back and point to the couch. “We will sleep here.”
There is a bit of friendly back and forth, until he raises his Greek finger again, and proclaims “Niko, forget it.” He and his wife will sleep end to end on the couch, we will have their bed, and the boys will sleep with blankets on the floor. It is all arranged. There is no debate.

We woke at dawn the next morning to roosters crowing and the sound farm animals emanating from the earth. A humming tractor cut the air in the distance. We lay listening, not wanting to break the spell, knowing that soon we would be leaving this peaceful picture of village life and our connection to the ancestors. Who knows when we’ll return. It felt like we had lived in Daphni for a year. Although it had only been a day, we were already a part of things.

Thea made a simple breakfast - bread and butter, eggs from the old farmhouse, some cheese from the goats on the property. We ate slowly, quietly, and thanked her. We hugged them all a hundred times and took pictures. It was impossible to leave -we felt it on both sides.

As we climbed in our car through the Peloponnesian Mountains, speeding by roadside fruit stands, looking off at mountain villages hanging from rock side cliffs and gazing down long, lonely valleys from the precipitous heights of stunning mountain scenery, we were excited to make Olympia by nightfall. 

But our hearts and minds drifted back to the village. We would never see Daphni again. But we never forgot the day of our return. It became another place to call home.