It’s not often a son gets a chance to travel exclusively with his father to some far flung exotic destination. Usually family, time and economic restraints limit such rare partnerships. During the summer of 1989, I had the opportunity to take such an excursion with my father to a remote and distant Greek island called Ikaria. The island where my father was born and raised, and where I also spent my first five years of life. The purpose of this father and son journey was the building of a family summer home. Naively, I thought this four week stay on Ikaria would be a combination of work and play. Laboring arduously in the mornings with the builders and then spending the hot afternoons lying on the pebble beaches under the sea pines with the warm Aegean breezes blowing over my body. Such were my idealistic and visionary vacation dreams.
Wanderlust was an inheritant part of my father’s personality. He had traveled extensively during World War II, and continued somewhat after the war. He was always ready and able at the drop of a hat to grab his passport and head to his Aegean island home. He was a man slight in stature, full head of grey hair, bi-spectacled with a thin 1940’s style mustache, and always full of energy and on the move. My father had the distinction, or maybe I should say a “devil’s mark” when it came to traveling. He always seemed to bring about some unpredictable, chaotic and challenging misadventure, which usually required others to come to his rescue and bail him out of his predicament at the last moment. It’s not that he went looking for such misadventures, they just naturally happen to occurred around him. This would include any ordinary, mundane exposure to the outside world, whether a trip to the local grocery store, or a trip half way around the world.
My journey started innocently enough when I kissed and said farewell to my wife, my seven year old son and my six month old daughter. Jokingly I mentioned to my wife, it would be a highly successful trip if both my father and I returned unscathed and alive from Greece. My curt comment referred to the fact, as it was widely known by all, that my father’s magnetism for misadventure grated and infuriated me to no end. I figured occupying my father’s time with full days of work on the house should keep him out of harms way, and away from any embarrassing mischief.
Our trek started peacefully enough on a Sabena flight out of Chicago to Athens, with a stop in Brussels. Events quickly took a dark and ominous turn as we left Brussels, when almost immediately we hit a thunderstorm of massive proportions over Belgium. A storm so immense we couldn’t fly over it or around it. Then when the pilot came on the intercom in a stern Gaelic voice and announced that dinner would not be served because of the turbulence, and for the stewardess to strap in, we knew instinctively we would be in for quite a ride. During the next two and a half hours every disposable sick bag and container on board was put to good use as the plane lurched violently from side to side, sometimes seemly dropping several hundred feet at a time in elevation. The plane fuselage was filled with the sporadic screams of mothers, the moans of grown men and the crying of young babies, along with the varied and countless prayers offered to the Gods by the nervous and apprehensive passengers. Even my father being a relative stoic figure, mumbled and swore under his breath using words that I had never heard before. Finally, as we approached Athens the storm eased, and we all took reconnaissance of our sore and aching bodies, passing the bags and containers down to the stewardess who profusely apologized for the lack of our in flight meal.
Thinking that the worse part of our trip was over, and glad to be on solid ground, we gallantly, still on wobbly legs and queasy stomachs from the jarring plane ride went trooping up to the passport control window only to come face to face with the notoriously ubiquitous Greek bureaucracy. My father in his younger and more idealistic years happened to be a Communist sympathizer and after World War II was briefly detained by the Allies in an army detainee camp in Egypt for expressing his radical views. As we handed our American passports to the passport official he immediately pulled out what seemed to be a rather large size 20 shoe box, full of 5x7 note cards. When he came to the M’s he pulled out a card with my dad’s last name on it, along with a brief dossier. Looking suspiciously at my father then intently studying his card, the official made a comment in regards, that my father, now an American citizen, must have accepted the glories of capitalism and the proper and correct political views, and thus would be allowed to enter Greece. I, on the other hand knew better, and before my father had a chance to open his mouth to express what he really thought were the correct political views, I grabbed him by the arm, thanked the passport official and briskly pushed my dad through the turnstile and proceeded to drag him to the baggage area muttering something about capitalist pigs, or maybe he was channeling Karl Marx.
Having survived the passport ordeal and now firmly planted on Greek soil, like a true Odysseus longing to get home, we moved to the next challenging task of collecting our luggage. Luckily our suitcases were already on the baggage carousel, a feat which I believe was, and possibly still is a world record time for Greek airport baggage handlers. As I lifted my dad’s suitcase off the conveyer I became suspicious of its’ enormous weight.
I turned and asked him, “Why does your suitcase weigh so much?”
He swiftly answered, “I just have a few things for the house and my clothes, come on let’s go.”
Our final stop in exiting the airport was customs. Normally, the Greek custom officials don’t want to be bothered with the task of ordering tourists to open their suitcases and having to pilfer through all their soiled clothing and belongings. They usually give you a summary glance and wave you through. As we hastily passed the first group of custom officials one of them, who looked like a heavy from an old black and whiteT.V.western, unexpectedly started to glare at us, as if we were mentally suspect. Stepping around the other officials he approached us and asked if we had anything to declare.
My father in his rush to exit the airport quickly chirped in, “No, no we have nothing to declare, we’re fine, nothing to declare, our suitcases are all right,” words that seemed to resonate off the building walls, and which immediately raised the suspicion of the less than sympathetic custom agent. Commanding his most surly voice and with a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips the official with his head held high ordered us to follow him.
“There,” he pointed, to a large steel table, “put your luggage there, and open them up. Let’s see what you don’t have to declare” he said in an officious manner.
Now my father, reflecting back on his knowledge of functionaries and people in positions that could possibly be influenced to ignore breaches of rules and guidelines, had packed inside his suitcase, what he considered to be the international symbol of bribery, cigarettes. Not just any cigarettes, but the most revered, coveted and preferred brand in the world, Marlboro Reds. Immediately my father fumbled around, opened his large and heavy suitcase and there on top were two sealed cartons of Marlboro Reds. Glancing at the customs agent, my father cunningly smiled and giving him a wink or two, stood quietly by waiting for the official to confiscate the two prized cartons for his personal enjoyment. Unfortunately, this scene was played out in an open public area with other officials watching this comical scenario closely. The customs official, feeling the glare of a dozen eyes on him promptly ignored the cigarette payola and started his dutiful search of the suitcase. Reaching to the bottom of the suitcase, while giving my father a curious and perplexed look, he pulled out an old beat up framing hammer.
My father instantly pleaded, “That’s my favorite hammer, and I need it to build my house.”
In a calm and collected voice the official replied, “We have hammers in Greece, in fact we’ve had hammers for thousands of years.” Dropping the American made hammer back in the suitcase, he once again reached his hand in the pile of my dad’s clothing and this time emerged with a hack saw and a half dozen replacement blades. By now I was totally speechless and just as mystified as the customs agent. I had no idea my father was carrying such unconventional travel items, I imagined the next tool to be unearthed was going to be a Paul Bunyan type ax. Examining the saw and the blades, the official shaking his head in a bewildered manner, threw them casually back in the suitcase toolbox.
“Open the rest of your bags” he ordered. Nimbly we proceeded to open the remaining three suitcases, wondering how much longer this inquisition was going to continue. Apparently by now the official was also becoming frustrated, seeing that we really didn’t have any meaningful contraband to speak of just a rag tag collection of old tools.
He gave our bags a quick once over then abruptly said, “Close them, you can go.” In a flash the suitcases were slammed shut, still containing the two not so enticing cartons of Marlboro Reds and with passports hot in hand we briskly walked out of the airport and headed to the taxi stand.
Commandeering the first taxi we could find, we slung our suitcases in the trunk, gave the driver the address of our hotel, and settled in the backseat of the taxi for the half hour car ride. It was at this point I realized I could finally relax after the non-stop events of the past few hours, which had seemed to have lingered for days. Jet lag had caught up with me as the taxi maneuvered cautiously in and out of traffic, and just when my eyes shut for a quick cat nap we arrived at our hotel. Sluggishly we crawled out of the taxi, retrieved our suitcases, and paid the cab driver, who courteously wished us a restful and peaceful vacation.
Approaching the hotel entrance with our luggage in hand, my father looked around and in a soft voice said, “I think I left my jacket in the back seat of the cab.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll buy a new one tomorrow.”
In an even softer voice he whispered “My passport is in my jacket.”
“What?!” I exploded, “Your passport?!” Without a moment’s hesitation I dropped my suitcases, looked around and then down the narrow street I spotted our taxi, two blocks away, stuck in mid-afternoon traffic. I took off running at a speed that still amazes me to this day, hoping that the taxi would remain locked in the everlasting traffic jam. About half a block away I saw the stalled taxi starting to move and pick up momentum as it approached a major intersection. Thinking I had no hope of catching up to the cab, I immediately started to orchestrate in my mind the dreaded and time consuming trip to the U.S. embassy, and the explanation I would have to give the embassy official. Could my father’s personality suffice as an explanation?
Suddenly with what seemed like divine intervention, as the cab sped up to cross the busy street, the traffic light turned red. With an unusual squeal of the brakes the cab abruptly stopped at the crosswalk just in time for me to catch up to it. Winded and out of breath, I banged on the taxi window shocking the startled driver, who instinctively thought he was going to be robbed by a hot sweaty, mad man. It took me a minute to catch my breath and through heavy breathing I explained that my dad’s jacket was somewhere in the cab. The driver unaware of the mislaid garment and its’ contents, looked around and on the back floor found the jacket scrunched under the seat. Handing me the wayward jacket, passport still snugly secured in the inside pocket, accompanied by my father’s wallet, with all his money I thanked the stunned cabbie.
Holding my dad’s jacket, as one holds a holy book, I lethargically walked back to the hotel. The hot afternoon sun, jet lag, an empty stomach, combined with the unexpected jolt of physical activity turned my mind into a congealed glob of mush. I was left with one sobering thought, it had only been a few hours since my father and I started this exhausting journey, what else could possibly happen to us in the next few weeks? I reached the entrance of the hotel to find my father sitting on a stool silently waiting for me. I presented him the jacket and without saying a word we both turned and entered the hotel lobby knowing this father and son odyssey was just commencing.
Maybe Zorba the Greek was right, when he said, “Life is trouble, death is not, to be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble.” My father not only removed his belt, but his jacket, shoes and socks as well. I realized that the next four weeks, would be not only challenging in trying to keep my father safe and out of trouble, but a trial of my capacity for endurance, patience and civility. All these attributes were going to be inevitably and severely tested in the days to come when we reached Ikaria.
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