Lindsey the Greek

I learned a few years ago that I most likely have some Greek heritage. This came as no surprise to all my Greek friends; going for coffee for hours and loving feta cheese was the only evidence they needed to convince them that I’m Greek. In fact the lineage is so far back that it’s almost comical to mention. That being said, I feel more connected to my Greek roots that I do to my Swedish or Danish but that might have more to do with the fact that I haven’t visited the latter two places. I doubt it though.

My maternal grandmother’s maiden name was Rigos. My mother’s cousins of the same name traced the family back through my grandmother’s father who was a marble carver who immigrated to America by way of Austria but whose roots continued back to Greece, to a Cycladic island in the Aegean named Tinos.

Tinos is a very famous Greek island. You say the name to any Greek person and they immediately become nostalgic. It’s an important island in the Orthodox religion, the home of over 700 churches and monasteries and a famous icon of the Virgin Mary, known for its miraculous healing powers. Throngs of people make the pilgrimage to Tinos to crawl on their hands and knees to the Virgin to ask for miracles. What I’m saying is that I’m not from just ANY island.

As a result of my cousin’s research, I was put in contact with a Rigos in Athens who had traced the family lineage back to the 1700s. His name is Evangelis (Vagelis) Rigos and after many years of owning a shipping company in New York, he is now settled in his beach house a short drive from Athens. We exchanged emails and phone calls and he invited me to a large benefit dinner hosted by an international Hellenic association (AHEPA).

I got into a cab on the given night and attempted to give directions in Greek. The driver and I somehow understood each other and I was on my way to the Imperial Palace hotel. Halfway through the ride, the driver started speaking in nearly perfect English and we spent the rest of the ride trading stories while he chain-smoked. I had read in the English newspaper how the MPs of the country had proposed a smoking ban and the irony of the situation was that the parliament buildings would be the first to implement the ban. I broached the subject with the driver who responded that he would rather be put in prison than quit smoking. My personal opinion is that if Greek people aren’t lighting up cigarettes, they are going to find something else to light up, namely cars and buildings and police stations.

“The Captain” Vagelis Rigos was a little confused as to who I was and what I was doing in Greece, but in typical Greek fashion, was more than happy to include me. Originally he thought I was simply a friend of my mom’s cousin Jim, yet found this reason enough to invite me to a expensive charity dinner. To this day, I’m not sure he can really grasp that I am here playing basketball and someone actually pays me to do this. I completely understand this confusion; it throws me for a loop sometimes as well.

I met Vagelis as he was talking to a Greek foreign diplomat, a man who had clearly learned how to remain slightly neutral when discussing political issues with other Greeks. Greek people have a tendency to have an opinion on everything and can discuss any topic ad nauseam. A common term in Greek is “Let me tell you”, which can be followed by advice from anything from which socks you should wear to which café we should go to, to their opinion on foreign politics, generously offered to foreign diplomats who obviously need some instruction.

To make matters worse, the poor diplomat had the unfortunate distinction of having lived and worked in Ankara, Turkey which immediately opened up a can of worms best left undisturbed when Greeks are around. Having lived in Turkey myself, I know all too well how to best answer inquiries.

Greek people like to ask leading questions regarding Turkey. “Turkey is not good right?” “You know the Agia Sophia is Greek?” “You are aware that they are barbarians and that they stink right?” For all their hospitality, there is a reason xenophobia is a Greek word.

This inevitably places me in a conundrum. It’s like being stuck between two of your best friends that just so happen to hate each other. When you talk with one, they bitch about the other and expect you to agree. It’s a topic best avoided or skillfully dodged.

While I won’t say anything bad about Turkish people, I do agree that the Agia Sophia is a Greek Orthodox Church and that the large Arabic writing inside does look quite incongruous. This comment gets me huge bonus points with Greeks that pat me on the back and are once again assured that I am a good person. If asked however, I do tell them that Istanbul is an amazing city and that Turkish culture is very similar to Greek. This sometimes puts me back in the questionable moral character bracket but sometimes Greek people simply correct me, that Istanbul is in fact Constantinople, and they go back to their coffee.

The visceral reaction to Greeks does have a demographic variable. The older they are, the more likely the given Greek will devote excess amounts of time convincing me of the merits of Greek culture and the barbarianism of every single Turkish person on the planet. This is difficult to argue with especially when given some historical perspective; namely that among other things, Greece has faced Turkey in four wars in the last 110 years. I mean what can you say to that?

The irony of course is that Turkish people don’t waste half a breath discussing the Greeks. When I mentioned this to my coach he responded with the following: ‘It’s a lot easier to forget when you are the one doing the f-ing. It’s more difficult when you are the one that got f-ed. And if you weren’t even asked.” Sometimes there is pure genius in limited linguistic skills.

The nuances and subtleties of language are the last thing you learn. But occasionally this allows for much more truthful and accurate statements; such as the reason Turks don’t hate the Greeks as much as Greeks hate Turks. I’ve mentioned this in regards to weight and body type; they don’t say someone is heavy or thick or big boned but simply that they are fat. Period.

There’s very little grey area when talking to someone in a foreign language and if there is, even that needs some cultural context to fully understand. For example, in Greek if someone says things are esti k esti (so, so), you can take that to mean things are actually pretty bad. But they are a happy people so they generally won’t come out and say things are bad.

Lithuanians on the other hand have quite a different cultural prism with which they view the world. If you ask someone how they are in Lithuanian, they will probably respond with “not bad”. This actually means that things are great, life has never been better. If you ask them if a restaurant is good, they will say it isn’t bad. This means it’s the best food they have ever tasted. So if you take a Greek and a Lithuanian, ask them how they are and they respond somewhere in the grey area you can make very different conclusions. The Greek will actually be having a horrible day but will be intent on turning things around; the Lithuanian will in fact be having the time of their life but will be afraid to admit to being happy. On the other hand, in America, if someone asks how you are, you’ll reply, but they will have stopped listening because they didn’t really care about the answer in the first place. Cultures are weird obviously.

So back to the charity dinner. Vagelis and me and the foreign diplomat were having a discussion in the lobby as people poured into the ballroom. We decided a few things; Vagelis and I are obviously long lost cousins, I am definitely Greek, and that if possible the foreign diplomat will help me get a Greek passport. The evening was off to a good start.

To add to my amusement, I asked the diplomat if the government buildings were really going smoke free. I think the whole situation is comical. The very people that made the laws are going to be the first to try out the new ban. He responded with a, “are you serious?” and laughed. Clearly he doesn’t think it’s going to work nor did he seem too enthusiastic about sharing an office with people in nicotine detox.

Eventually we made our way inside to a table of interesting characters. Across from me was an old shipping businessman who speech was becoming more and more viscous as the night when on. On one side of me was a 97-year-old Greek woman who had been born in Izmir, Turkey before the Greeks fled. She doesn’t like to be reminded of this only because it assures people that she was borne before 1922, as if her age was a huge secret. She also refused to use a cane because then people might think that she was old. Halfway through the dinner I saw her eyeing my silver stilettos ankle boots. I’m certain she was wondering if she could fit in them.

The woman to my left could have been anywhere from 40 years old to 70, had bleach blonde hair, red fingernails and smoked cigars the whole night. She didn’t speak a word of English but I liked her immensely. Any woman that smokes cigars with red fingernails is good in my book.

Vagelis was definitely the captain of everything he was involved in. To start off the evening, Vagelis started distributing his homegrown pistachios and instructing people’s seating arrangements. He introduced me to everyone as his cousin and it wasn’t until halfway through the meal that the shipping guy across from me realized that Vagelis was only half kidding. He probably thought I was his mistress.

I felt like a giant at the event. I literally towered over almost everyone. I think they were all shrinking. Vagelis was about 5’4” so in my heels I felt like an amazon woman. The 97-year-old next to me, I could have thrown her over my shoulder in one quick movement; something I’m sure she would have enjoyed. Like most events like this in the world, the room was filled with rich, old, rounded men that looked like they might be important, or wanted to feel like they were. The only difference was in America, the men often look exactly like they are feeling, namely that the only reason they are there is that their wives made them attend. Greek men enjoy any occasion to socialize.

The meal started with a prayer from the Orthodox priest, followed by the Greek National Anthem. Surprisingly the Star Spangled Banner was then sung and I felt a surge of pride I hadn’t felt in awhile. Maybe it was the fact that Obama had just been inaugurated, maybe it was because I was in a foreign country, maybe it was simply because there are very few times outside of sporting events that I hear the song. Either way, it was a wonderful surprise to hear my national anthem sung in a room full of standing Greeks. Then ‘Oh Canada’ was sung and my feet started to hurt (sorry Bre).

Then the meal came out and the table of drinking Greek orthodox priests got served first every time. I only found this amusing because I wasn’t hungry. I realize that they might be closer to God but I was closer to the kitchen, which I mistakenly thought would count for something. I also had a time crunch. We had a big game the next day and I didn’t want to be out late. I was hoping to get to dessert fast so that I could make a respectable exit.

Between every course, Vagelis came over and talked to me. Each time he wanted to talk about Turkey and the more he drank the more intense he became about the subject. I could tell he was trying to convince himself that I was just naïve and not stupid or heartless. After all, the barbarians had murdered 4.5 million Christians and the way he made it sound, every single modern day Turkish person is not only to blame for this but is entirely capable of committing these atrocities themselves. It’s like going to Germany and bringing up the Holocaust. Its not that I don’t think its important, or that I disagree with the moral judgment, its just that I’d feel a little weird if someone blamed me for slavery. Not to be flippant but the only thing I can compare this hatred to is a deep seeded sports rivalry; the kind that is passed down through generations; the kind that grows exponentially over the years because of shared memories of victory and failure. That being said, I wouldn’t call University of Iowa fans barbarians. Stupid maybe. Or brainwashed. But not barbarians.

Now that I think about it though: maybe this is only because we usually beat Iowa. Like my coach says, “Its different when you are the one doing the f-ing.”