Alex Morton - Somewhere Else

For Mina always

Dedicated to the people of Ikaria, who live decades longer than the norm because its worth it.

My late friend, Bob Gold, on visiting Ikaria, told me that I hadnt just married a woman, Id married an island. He was right, and my love affair with both is never-ending.

In writing Somewhere Else, I thought often of Andoni Tsalis, Minas uncle, who introduced us to the Ikarian way of life all those years ago and of generations of her family, past and present, who contributed. Im grateful always for the patience and love of my children, Nikki, Julia and Andrew and their mates, Martin, Jeremy, and Jasmine. And of course, the youngest generation, Anise and Ariel. Thanks to Spider Robinson for his never-ending support and friendship. And to our fairy godcousin, Mary Pasti, who is even more special in real life than she is in the book.

My enduring thanks also to all the friends and relatives on Ikaria who have made this book, and our special life on the magical island, possible.

Cover design and formatting for Somewhere Else by my very talented, old friend, Fotis Kapnistos.

For information on upcoming books, as well as a bunch of stories and photo essays; www.alexmortonwriter.com.

Somewhere Else by Alex Morton

www.alexmortonwriter.com

2020 Alex Morton

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from Alex Morton, except as permitted by International copyright law. For permissions contact:

amorton@shaw.ca

Cover photo by Alex Morton

The Flight to Ikaria

On the airplane, on the first leg of our trip back to the land, we live on Nyquil, sleeping pills and tea. No one wants to sit near us, and the poor woman with the window seat has her hand over her nose and face as if that will protect her. Good luck! It took a month of sullen rain in Vancouver to produce this cold, and its not to be defeated that easily. Weve hacked and coughed our way through the last week, and by the time we got to the airport, our colds were in full gear, but there was nothing much to do but get on with it.

Who knows how many people in our path we infect? The noisy ones two seats up from us deserve it, but the rest are just collateral damage. Regardless, we are going back to living a peaceful existence, in tune with nature, no matter how many people we have to take down along the way.

In Schipol Airport in Amsterdam, Mina slumps in a seat, draped, face first, over her carry-on, hoping that there are no vultures in the airport looking for a fresh corpse. I wander in circles, searching for mint tea, cough drops, chicken soup, and a new book. Weve put aside our real problems, and focus on the colds that have us dizzy with fever. Last wed heard, a resolution to the money market issue was being formulated by a team of lawyers and accountants, with the assistance of the major Canadian and International banks. A likelier band of villains has never been gathered, but nevertheless we believe that our money will come back to us, because we cant allow ourselves to contemplate anything to the contrary. Or, at least, not out loud.

We also try to keep Minas health out of our thoughts. At least there, though, the medical tests show everything is now clear, and there is nothing more to do other than wait it out three months for the next exam. We try to concentrate only on the present.

When they call our flight, we stagger aboard, reeling on too much Nyquil and too little sleep. The flight attendant, who brings our meal, covers her mouth and tries to stay as far away as possible. The food is barely worth sneering at; sticky warm cheese on a soggy bun, and a salad of macaroni and what appear to be mouse droppings.

We are headed for the tiny Greek island of Ikaria, where generations of my wifes family lived until the wars of the Twentieth Century drove them to America. But the land on Ikaria and a few crumbling old stone houses stayed in the family, and the plum of it all, sitting on the side of a mountain overlooking the Aegean, is where we are going to make our second attempt to go back to the land. The island has been recently recognized as a Blue Zone, a part of the world where the average lifespan is considerably longer than the norm. After the past year, it sounds like just what we need.

We sit on the plane waiting to finally arrive in Athens where we will be able to rest and take cough medicine while watching CNN and the monument outside the window of our favorite hotel. If only we can reach Athens. BUT, first, there were priorities . When we land, we check the luggage at the airport and hail a cab to take us the half mile from the airport to IKEA. Although we intend to keep our lives as simple as possible, we need a little furniture, some pots and pans, and a few other things to add to what weve managed to accumulate in the old house over the years.

The Greek version of Ikea is packed with people waving their arms, and bright-yellow clad salespeople hiding in the shadows. I want to hide. But there is no escape. It is total insanity. Once youre in Ikea you have to follow the arrows to find your way out, and Greeks dont follow arrows. Talk about the fog of war! We are there for several hours. Did we buy! The only problem is I cant remember exactly what. I think there might be some loungers, a desk, desk chair, and a couple of end tables. Who knows? The numbers and names make absolutely no sense. Mina bought a wooden thing that looked like it was designed for pulling out toenails, and I know we shipped ourselves something called either a malm, palm, or psalm, and that the box said it was a number 202-345-20 green regular. I wonder what it is? It might not matter, anyway, because in my Nyquil fog Ive been musing about mixing everything together, throwing out the directions, and seeing what I can build on my own.

We stagger through the store, faithfully following the arrows that lead through every nook and cranny, past more furniture and household stuff than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.

A wardrobe, several lamps and a medicine cabinet are piled on my big, unwieldy cart as I head for the shipping department where I find that they still have me in the database from last year, right down to our cousin Marys phone number as a contact point. This is obviously faux Greece. In real Greece, they would tell me that you cant ship stuff from here to there. And who are you to ask me, anyway?

When we finally leave Ikea it is with the assurance that they will, indeed, ship everything to our isolated little island, and our even more obscure little village. The way I figure, it takes a company that can design a chest of drawers that fits into a cigar box and can be put together with a bent toothpick, to manage to get thirteen cartons to our island. Not that theyll have an easy time of it, but then again, designing that furnitures no snap either. Getting it all up to our house is another matter, entirely. Since we dont have a driveway, everything will need to be hand carried up the mountain from the road.

Barely able to walk, we take a cab from Ikea back to the airport, pick up our luggage, and board the new metro, for a quiet glide to Athens in splendid air-conditioned ease. I fall asleep, immediately, while Mina attempts to set a record for the most number of tissues ever used in a half hour. We still have our colds.

Finally, we reach our train stop, which is a few blocks up the hill from our hotel. We trudged toward the Zafolia Hotel as if we are just coming down from Everest, except that it is hot and there isnt a Sherpa in sight. There are lots of men who need a shave, and a few women who could use one too, but no Sherpas. We are also not snowblind, but it is bright and we are wearing sunglasses.