Martha Hubbard

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The End of the Line by Martha Hubbard Nothing was open at 03.30 in the morning when the over-night ferry from Piraeus dropped me off in the main town of Chios. Recognising an immovable object when I see one, I propped myself in an array of chairs (It is said that a proper Greek needs five chairs to sit comfortably but so far I had mastered only the use of four.) and settled back to watch the sun rise out of Turkey. I had decided to take a weeks vacation in early May before the craziness of the summer tourism season began. This northern Aegean island of monasteries and churches reputedly built during the 11^th century – a period in Byzantine history that I had developed a desire to write about - seemed as good a place as any to fuel my psychic batteries for the work of making sure our visitors all had the best possible vacations. As the sky shape-shifted from ghosts of greyish blue through wispy buds of almond into full blown flowers of orange and yellow, lights around the little port town of Chora began to wink on and soon a Ioannis or a Georgios, detecting a traveller in need of a room, conducted me to his auntie’s. I was given a cool clean room with high ceilings, a wooden bed and pristine white sheets – bathroom just across the hall. I went back to sleep. When I woke, it was mid-morning – time for a Nez-me-gala and a toast. I spent the rest of the day exploring the town, locating the bus station for my research excursions and determining where I would have dinner that night – an ouzerie almost under Thea Stella’s Pension. There, along with my octopus and chips, I drank, not wine as on Kritis, but ouzo; the sweetish liquorice taste perfectly complimenting the iodine tang of the grilled sea-creature. Ouzo is much stronger than wine and combined with lack of sleep from the previous night’s party, I was in my room overlooking the harbour before midnight; my lullaby the Nissiotika -island music - from the bars and restaurants around the old town. Awake early-ish to find a fine mist obscuring everything, I nonetheless packed my tools: camera, two notebooks – one for words, the other for sketches, map and water-bottle and headed off to the catch the bus for Nea Moni, built in 1056 by Constantine Monomachos only to find the first and only bus that day had already left. I must have looked like my heart had broken since one of the drivers took pity on me and suggested a visit to Agia Minas instead – “Miraculous bones, blood stains from the Turkish blowing up of church in 1822” I believe in fate. You can’t live successfully in Greece if you don’t. The rational mind will not get you very far in this country where the shortest distance between two points is never a strait line. Off we went; the route winding from village to village where palm fronds waving over crumbling pink walls suggested abandoned gardens filled with the spirits of Sultanas and houries long dead, climbing slowly higher through arches of tropical plants, glittering with crimson hibiscus and intoxicating jasmine; until creaking up and around a bend we reached the end of the road – a parking area just about big enough for a bus to turn around. Then the driver informed me that the only bus back to Chora left from the village of Nechori, two kilometres back along the road at four o’clock. Above, on top of the hill through the fog, I could just about make out the outlines of the famous church and the Aegean white walls of the monastery. I began to climb, shortly reaching the church, empty and still; its ossuaries packed with the bones of the good Greek women, children and palikaria who had been killed by Turkish treachery. I sat on a bench and had a few words with the Old Man in the icon but after 10 minutes there was still no one about and nothing left to see. I had just made up my mind to leave when a hump-backed bundle of rags shuffled over. Saying not a word, she led me to some rusty stains on the marble floor, using only sign language to communicate that this was the blood of the patriots killed in the conflagration and that nothing would ever be able to wash them away. I must have been suitably impressed as she motioned for me to sit and wait while she shuffled out the way she had come. In a few minutes, she returned, and again taking my hand, led me into a large white room where several very old nuns were painting icons, while one sister, probably the Mother Superior read to them. Transfixed, I didn’t know what to do or say. The Senior Sister chuckled, “Ela tho – Come here” and indicated that I should take a place at her table. The tiny hunch-back brought the traditional glass of cold water and small silver plate with a spoonful of fresh fruit preserves. “Do you like it? We make them ourselves here.” “It’s delicious.” - like eating pure fruit-flavoured sugar. “What is your name? Why are you visiting us today?” I explained about my interest in Byzantine and Greek history; leaving out the part about missing the bus to my first choice. “Yes, a tragic story - 300 of our people killed by the firebrands of the Turk. Are you Orthodox? You’re not Greek.” “Yes, I was baptised last winter. I live on Crete, in Xania.” “That’s very good. God knows his own and calls us to him.” The other sisters had quietly put down their work and were listening intently. I wondered how long it had been since they had heard anything other than the Mother Superior’s reading and the sound of the trees sighing and the rain dancing on their roofs. Next coffee appeared, metrio –medium. The rain was heavy now, slamming its fists on the tin roof above. But in here, it was as if time had stopped or did not exist. The interrogation continued: was I married – no, divorced. So sad the way life is changing. We talked about the world. What did I think of Mrs Thatcher? Wasn’t sure how to handle that one – so I answered as neutrally as possible. The sisters were getting restless when I noticed it was already 01:00 o’clock. Time for lunch? “Would you be willing to share our food with us? It’s simple fare, but you are welcome.” I accepted gratefully and was presented with a bowl of vegetable soup, several pieces of fresh bread and a tumbler of local wine; for dessert there was fresh fruit and more coffee – and more discussion. Finally, the Mother Superior said, “Well, Martha, I don’t think you are yet ready to join us. The world calls you too strongly - but if the day comes when you want to be with us, we will keep a place for you.” I thanked her and the sisters, kissed her hand and bowing, found my way out of the chamber and down the hill to the parking area. It was just after 03:00. If I hurried, I could get to Nechori in time to catch my bus back to Chora and reality.

The End of the Line by Martha Hubbard

Nothing was open at 03.30 in the morning when the over-night ferry from Piraeus dropped me off in the main town of Chios. Recognising an immovable object when I see one, I propped myself in an array of chairs (It is said that a proper Greek needs five chairs to sit comfortably but so far I had mastered only the use of four.) and settled back to watch the sun rise out of Turkey. I had decided to take a weeks vacation in early May before the craziness of the summer tourism season began. This northern Aegean island of monasteries and churches reputedly built during the 11^th century – a period in Byzantine history that I had developed a desire to write about - seemed as good a place as any to fuel my psychic batteries for the work of making sure our visitors all had the best possible vacations.

As the sky shape-shifted from ghosts of greyish blue through wispy buds of almond into full blown flowers of orange and yellow, lights around the little port town of Chora began to wink on and soon a Ioannis or a Georgios, detecting a traveller in need of a room, conducted me to his auntie’s. I was given a cool clean room with high ceilings, a wooden bed and pristine white sheets – bathroom just across the hall.

I went back to sleep. When I woke, it was mid-morning – time for a Nez-me-gala and a toast. I spent the rest of the day exploring the town, locating the bus station for my research excursions and determining where I would have dinner that night – an ouzerie almost under Thea Stella’s Pension. There, along with my octopus and chips, I drank, not wine as on Kritis, but ouzo; the sweetish liquorice taste perfectly complimenting the iodine tang of the grilled sea-creature. Ouzo is much stronger than wine and combined with lack of sleep from the previous night’s party, I was in my room overlooking the harbour before midnight; my lullaby the Nissiotika -island music - from the bars and restaurants around the old town.

Awake early-ish to find a fine mist obscuring everything, I nonetheless packed my tools: camera, two notebooks – one for words, the other for sketches, map and water-bottle and headed off to the catch the bus for Nea Moni, built in 1056 by Constantine Monomachos only to find the first and only bus that day had already left.

I must have looked like my heart had broken since one of the drivers took pity on me and suggested a visit to Agia Minas instead – “Miraculous bones, blood stains from the Turkish blowing up of church in 1822”

I believe in fate. You can’t live successfully in Greece if you don’t. The rational mind will not get you very far in this country where the shortest distance between two points is never a strait line. Off we went; the route winding from village to village where palm fronds waving over crumbling pink walls suggested abandoned gardens filled with the spirits of Sultanas and houries long dead, climbing slowly higher through arches of tropical plants, glittering with crimson hibiscus and intoxicating jasmine; until creaking up and around a bend we reached the end of the road – a parking area just about big enough for a bus to turn around. Then the driver informed me that the only bus back to Chora left from the village of Nechori, two kilometres back along the road at four o’clock.

Above, on top of the hill through the fog, I could just about make out the outlines of the famous church and the Aegean white walls of the monastery. I began to climb, shortly reaching the church, empty and still; its ossuaries packed with the bones of the good Greek women, children and palikaria who had been killed by Turkish treachery. I sat on a bench and had a few words with the Old Man in the icon but after 10 minutes there was still no one about and nothing left to see. I had just made up my mind to leave when a hump-backed bundle of rags shuffled over. Saying not a word, she led me to some rusty stains on the marble floor, using only sign language to communicate that this was the blood of the patriots killed in the conflagration and that nothing would ever be able to wash them away. I must have been suitably impressed as she motioned for me to sit and wait while she shuffled out the way she had come.

In a few minutes, she returned, and again taking my hand, led me into a large white room where several very old nuns were painting icons, while one sister, probably the Mother Superior read to them. Transfixed, I didn’t know what to do or say. The Senior Sister chuckled, “Ela tho – Come here” and indicated that I should take a place at her table. The tiny hunch-back brought the traditional glass of cold water and small silver plate with a spoonful of fresh fruit preserves.

“Do you like it? We make them ourselves here.”

“It’s delicious.” - like eating pure fruit-flavoured sugar.

“What is your name? Why are you visiting us today?”

I explained about my interest in Byzantine and Greek history; leaving out the part about missing the bus to my first choice.

“Yes, a tragic story - 300 of our people killed by the firebrands of the Turk. Are you Orthodox? You’re not Greek.”

“Yes, I was baptised last winter. I live on Crete, in Xania.”

“That’s very good. God knows his own and calls us to him.”

The other sisters had quietly put down their work and were listening intently. I wondered how long it had been since they had heard anything other than the Mother Superior’s reading and the sound of the trees sighing and the rain dancing on their roofs. Next coffee appeared, metrio –medium. The rain was heavy now, slamming its fists on the tin roof above. But in here, it was as if time had stopped or did not exist.

The interrogation continued: was I married – no, divorced. So sad the way life is changing. We talked about the world. What did I think of Mrs Thatcher? Wasn’t sure how to handle that one – so I answered as neutrally as possible.

The sisters were getting restless when I noticed it was already 01:00 o’clock. Time for lunch?

“Would you be willing to share our food with us? It’s simple fare, but you are welcome.” I accepted gratefully and was presented with a bowl of vegetable soup, several pieces of fresh bread and a tumbler of local wine; for dessert there was fresh fruit and more coffee – and more discussion.

Finally, the Mother Superior said, “Well, Martha, I don’t think you are yet ready to join us. The world calls you too strongly - but if the day comes when you want to be with us, we will keep a place for you.”

I thanked her and the sisters, kissed her hand and bowing, found my way out of the chamber and down the hill to the parking area. It was just after 03:00. If I hurried, I could get to Nechori in time to catch my bus back to Chora and reality.