38 - Our Family Friends: A Day Trip to Sithonia

Yes, Nikos had his moments. Moments of irritation and agitation, of outbursts of anger, one could say uncharacteristic of a future politician, as I found out first-hand that afternoon in his village when he lashed out to Billy for interrupting his siesta. Moments, in short, when he was out of humour and beside himself.

On an early summer Sunday, he organized a trip to the Sithonia peninsula by the beach. It was one amongst the many recreational group gatherings and trips that he enjoyed planning and executing for the enjoyment more of his family and friends than himself: Nikos derived much of his joy from the contentment of other. On this occasion, he prepared and ushered a large group of people of his circle to the slopes of Mount Dragoundeli, which descends under the canopy of forest of tall, ancient pine trees to the resplendent beaches of Sithonia – somewhere by the coast between the town of Marmaras and the vineyards and resort of Porto Carras. Nikos distinguished himself for his ability and zeal in planning and organizing these sorts of events, a passion founded on an innate sociability and conviviality, that contrasts with Father. On this occasion, he invited his guests, from his wide pool of friends and friends of friends, without expecting help with the preparations or to chip in the budget for food and drinks or to share means transportation, but only a reciprocal show of good will and joviality. Always with a restless and generous spirit, he dominated the lively conversations with friends that concluded hearty lunches in taverns; he always insisted on footing the bill, whilst he drew a great deal satisfaction from his company’s joy and laughter and appreciation. One or two compliments or some well-intentioned banter at the end, perhaps a warm handshake of gratitude and a mere ‘thank you’ that as a generous host he covertly sought, were for Nikos a bonus that would reward for the heart and soul he put into those social events.

I remember the enjoyable time we had during that Sunday in Sithonia. With the other children of the large group and Billy, as usually, in the lead and, we explored the pine forest that hung on from the steep slopes of the mountain bending its trees towards the sea below, as if these craved the blue sea below. We descended to the pebble beach below and swam playfully in its crystal-clear waters. Hungry and thirsty at noon, we gathered around tablecloths and picnic blankets that had been laid out under the shade of the trees and tasted the delicacies people brought along in lunch-boxes: casseroles: meatballs, pies, salads, cakes, all sorts of treats! There were drinks for everyone, too, in the cooler boxes to quench the thirst: water, juices of all sorts, beers, white wine, retsina, even ouzo for the few ouzo drinkers. The grown-ups, divided into three or four groups, laid on the picnic blankets and kilim rugs; the men enjoyed their wine and beers, smoked their cigarettes, discussed politics and current affairs and their businesses; the women small chat, general gossip, but also about trends in literature and, inevitably, Angelos Sikelianos, the favourite poet of philologist Kiki, who was at the centre of any discourse with some intellectual tinge, as much as Nikos was at the centre of lively conversation of political nature. We children were naturally tired of the adult conversations about lyric and symbolic poetry, politics and work. We hardly understood the political jokes or many of the sophistries and the supposedly witty remarks of Nikos, of Father, and others, that spread laughter amongst the assembly.

Nikos, as he used to do in such parties, with one or two bottles of wine or retsina in his hand, went back and forth from group to group filling glasses, often with a crafty smile under the moustache and a twinkle in the eyes: talking, sometimes plainly, sometimes teasingly, mostly jokingly, with the furrows in his rounded cheeks and broad Pontian brow  deepening, smiling and even laughing loud when someone complemented his joke or matched his banter. A political leader was being formed and materialised through those parties.

Everyone looked and sounded merry under the Epicurean bliss of the drinks and the treats and the philosophical-cum-political chat. It calmed down after the luncheon reached its climax. The buzz of the bees and the incessant whines of the cicadas could still be heard, in an intensity amplified with the rising of the early afternoon temperature. It lingered along with some whispers, barely audible through that of waves and the rustle of leaves – the only sounds that troubled the stillness of the peaceful settings. A woman offered to roast coffee in her gas stove. Many loosened up in the shades and laid there half-asleep musing, a few opted for a proper snooze. Father, very much in character, took his afternoon siesta on a blanket under a tree over a thick layer of pine needles -with his arms folded over his chest, snoring soundly. Us children descended again to the beach adhering to the instructions not to ‘dip into the sea with our stomachs still full’. We were naturally disinterested in a nap, being carefree and our ideas of having a good time being simple and straightforward: the forest and the beach offered endless opportunities. 

In a corner on the margins of the gathering, amongst the guests of Nikos, unheeded by the gang of children, a middle-aged couple was sitting, not much spoken to, generally disengaged, looking bored, almost miserable and rather dissatisfied by the company and the surroundings. In fact, they were not paid much attention or talked by most. Indifference might have been the cause for their downtrodden faces, and a resentment either implicit, betrayed by their mood or explicitly discussed with their host at some, would become the obvious reason for what followed. (A rule of thumb in every trip or journey involving a group of Greeks is that there exists amongst them one or more individuals that are out of place, ‘crooked’ and miserable, or in the psychologists’ lingo displaying a passive-aggressive nature. These are the ones incapable to enjoy themselves with anything that a social setting offers; those who, if they do not remain silent, will find something to ‘grumble’ about, often with sarcastic remarks and impudence, fault finding in everything around them: the place they were brought into, the food and the drinks they were offered, the people in the company of whom they shared a few hours. In the case of our trip, which was organized with drive and effort by Nikos, two long-faces implied ingratitude; it was personal insult, an anathema.

Towards the end of the long afternoon, with the sun setting behind the mountains of Kassandra, Father, freshened up from his nap, offered to drive back a couple of mutual friends in our sad little FIAT, while I, Kiki, Billy and his sister, we got into Nikos’ spacious Renault on the way home, via a rough dirt lane that meandered along the steep slopes of the mountain through a maze of sharp bends and clouds of dust, before merging to the asphalted road along the west coast of Sithonia towards. It was admittedly an arduous return after a long day. A few seconds into the drive back, after a brief exchange of words with Kiki, a thunder erupted, that shook our tired minds and bodies in the back seat. Nikos sweaty face reddened and began to shout: "Ungrateful scoundrels, scumbags, bastards... I’ll whack them!  I'll kill them!" -that whilst slamming with both hands the steering wheel, frantically shifting gears, and accelerating close to the maximum of Renault's potential on the narrow lane, with little inclination to slow down in bends. Kiki next to him was terrified and her reassuring efforts in a trembling voice were drowned in the engine roars and Nikos’ thundery and raging voice. She pleaded: ‘Think of the children in the back seat Nikos. Calm down! We don't deserve to be killed for such a thing… At least, stop the car so that we can get out and then do as you see fit!’, and so on. Billy leaned his head into the gap between the two front seats also pleading with his dad to calm down, even trying comically to hold on to the steering wheel, every time Nikos, with wildly animated gestures of anger and indignation, relinquished control. I remained silent, recoiled in the back seat, terrified by the speed the car around sharp bends, the clouds of dust raised by the car in front, which was Nikos apparently pursuing with intent, the sheer drops beyond the edge of the narrow road with some bushes as the only protective barrier from the void.

Thankfully, his outburst faded with time. As soon as we reached the safety of the highway, his wrath began to subside and rational thinking somehow prevailed, as it usually happens with extreme displays of anger from generally kind and well-intentioned persons. On the highway, the miserable couple he tried to chase with the intention of teaching them a kind of lesson and avenge for their impertinences and ingratitude disappeared from his sight. It was clear that they had placed themselves outside the broader Akrivides’ circle without chances of a pardon and they we never to be seen again in any of his social gatherings.