Hello there. Excuse me. Do not read any further if you didn’t read Part One. I care deeply about how my readers experience the stories I tell. Please read Part One before you continue.
(Feel free to refresh your memory with that link too!)
If you are still reading, I like you. You read my last essay and need more. You’re hungry for something I have, and I like that.
Your last image of me is one where I’m racing through darkness, a darkness born out of terror. Too scrambled to recognize which arrival gate we’d just deplaned. My bones trembling mid sprint at the thought of having to lose. my. dad. again.
We must’ve left him on the plane???
Somehow, through the panic, a stupid hat came to mind. A hat I owned in 2009. An especially 2009 knit fedora. One I was proud to score sixteen years ago, but wouldn’t be caught dead in now. A hat I parted with before I was ready to, having mistakenly left it on a flight home from spring break. I loved that stupid, stupid hat, and fought embarrassingly hard in an effort to retrieve it, waiting on hold with American Airlines, even driving back to the airport. But to no avail. See ya never, stupid hat. A lesson learned the hard way. Like throwing your new pants in the drier without checking garment tags. An unforgettable lesson— never exit a plane without accounting for everything. Items can disappear forever if you’re not attentive. Just like people.
My mind and body raced simultaneously. Goddamn me. I’ve already learned this lesson! When God schooled me by stealing that cheugy ass hat! What was my excuse for allowing it to happen again? To something so much more precious?? How could I have carelessly abandoned my dead deadbeat dad???
The only full Greek sentence my father ever taught me happened to be a proverb; “Το δις εξαμαρτείν ουκ ανδρός σοφού.” Which basically means, “only an idiot makes the same mistake twice.” Thanks for that, Pop.
Now, searching terminals, I was swimming through my own sweat, back tracking steps to the best of my limited cognitive ability. Through that mental fog, I spotted a familiar round shape hovering behind a crowd of travelers like a UFO. Globular, full, a floating bun. A top bun. I know that top bun!
It was the top bun of that charming ruby-lipped flight attendant on our flight who’d consoled me after a thoughtless man in a goatee intentionally woke up my baby. Her eyes knowingly on mine, she glided towards me.
She was cradling the pink striped bag containing my dad.
I screeched to a halt and cried, “That’s! … that’s my…” I knew I couldn’t let the word dad out without a river of tears following it. I shook visibly, and she put her palm on my shoulder. “I was coming to find your gate,” she soothed.
I should’ve felt relief but the panic wouldn’t vacate my skeleton.
She added, “I looked inside. I’m so sorry for your loss.” And the word loss was all the dam needed to break. Through my blurry tears I barely registered the small audience of travelers and crew members moved by our interaction. “My dad,” I blurted with a hint of embarrassment. And the truth felt good.
I peeked in the bag as I made my way back to Jon and Claude. In that striped bag, my dad’s urn sat beside my folder of official documents and a couple of sandwiches we’d packed last minute but never ate. I wondered if that was maybe a weird choice— to pack a person and your lunch in one bag. I wondered if my dad felt disrespected by the stench of uneaten turkey and mayo. Or if my top-bunned hero had peeked in and thought, let’s see what’s in this bag before I bring it to lost and found. Hmm, a couple of old warm sandwiches and… oh. Wtf? A dead body. God, people are weird.
(Please don’t judge me, my cherry lipped angel. Packing for a 24 hour travel day with a toddler is tough).
Jon and I developed a new bag counting system, and, after an excruciating three hour delay, with America’s most overtired two year old, we boarded our flight to Athens.
The cabin was closed. Seatbelt signs on. We once again held hands— me, Jon and Claude— waiting for takeoff. However, the plane just kept. not. leaving. Sitting in the aisle, I stretched my body to investigate. Three police officers had boarded the plane and were getting impatient with a passenger. ARE WE EVER GOING TO MAKE IT TO GREECE? I decided in that moment, the answer was possibly No.
Thanks to a deliciously gossipy crew member, we learned that a male passenger was too intoxicated to follow simple instructions and had to be removed from the aircraft. Even juicier, he was sitting in coach while his wife kicked-back up in business class. And when the wife was alerted that her husband was being removed from the plane, she chose to stay. I need to know more about this married couple and her solo trip to Greece.
The tea-spilling flight attendant added, “The guy didn’t go easy. He probably just got himself on the no-fly list.”
A playful wink from my old man maybe, just before we took off into a dark violet sky.
By the grace of Claude, and our newly outlawed toddler mattress, our kid slept nearly the entire ten hour flight. The flight itself was a success. We fucking made it.
We exited the plane after quadruple checking our bags, and found ourselves at the back of a very long customs line. It occurred to me that this was the moment I’d be asked to present officials with my Greek consulate paperwork. The paperwork that declared my close relationship to a wanted Greek man. Through the chaos of world travel I’d almost forgotten my fear of being detained in the Athens airport. If you recall from Part One of this essay, according to Greek law, I was legally responsible for my dad’s mountain of debt.
I asked Jon to pass me the “dad bag” so that I could have my forms at the ready. Seeing the folder bent at the bottom of the bag, I lifted out my dad’s urn to readjust the pages. I’d felt concealed by the long line of tired travelers ahead of us, but a deep Greek voice broke my concentration. “Κυρία! Ελάτε, παρακαλώ.” I looked up and saw an airport officer. Guns visible. He was pointing a loose finger at me. And I was holding human remains. I knew enough Greek to know that he was basically saying, “Come with me.” My heart dropped to my butt, and I turned to Jon. “He wants me to go with him. Follow close. Don’t leave my side!” I placed my dad back in the bag as the officer unhooked the rope keeping us in line. I pushed Claude’s stroller as Jon followed close with our three other suitcases.
Oh god. Where is he taking us. Please don’t separate us. At the very least, keep us together. Holy fuck. What is about to happen???
The officer ushered us to… the front of the line. He then held his hand up to prevent a frontline woman from taking her turn— guiding me, Jon and Claude to the customs agent counter instead. The officer politely bowed his head and walked off as the customs agent asked to see all three of our passports.
I handed her our passports. She barely looked at them. Or us. She definitely didn’t even glance at our stuff. “Okay! Enjoy Greece.”
Baffled, we moved ahead. I turned around to survey the scene one last time, and spotted a mom with a five year old both being led to the front by the same officer.
It was for the kids. Everyone in the Athens airport had been trained to prioritize the kids. Huh. How lovely.
And thanks to that moment, we were free to roam about the country. Just beyond customs’ doors, we found Jon’s mom, aka Gigi, waiting for us with open arms. Because of our delay, she’d arrived first. We strolled out of that airport all together, enveloped by Athenian rays of sun. I took in the familiar space.
I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m here. Oh my god. I can’t believe I’m here.
It occurred to me that it might behoove my nervous system to say it out loud. “I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m here.” Jon and Gigi turned to me, reflecting, “Oh, honey.” “I bet.”
And for the next ten days, I explored Greece with a new weight, a new lens, and new support.
It also struck me pretty immediately that this was my first time on Greek soil as a mother. Day one, we attempted to board a massive ferry to the Greek islands. The dock was utter chaos. Dozens of cars and vans and motorcycles driving onto the boat while a thousand passengers lugged all their heavy shit up the boarding ramp. No organization. Just the deafening insanity of honking vehicles and cranky Greeks as the crowd raced to board. As passengers, we appeared to have two options— either three flights of hot stairs, or a ramp shared with exhaust bleeding cars. With a stroller and multiple heavy bags, neither choice was ideal. But as we marched fourth, a man in a white collared shirt appeared in front of us. As jolly as Santa, and as mysterious as the Cheshire Cat, he singled me out in the middle of the zoo. Like a whimsical mime, he motioned for me and my family to follow him. And we did. He took our heaviest bags and seamlessly maneuvered us out of the crowd. And the next thing we knew, Jon, Gigi, Claude and I were all guided into a small private elevator with our things. The elevator door closed and the sounds of mayhem vanished. We rode up three floors in silence, as our Cheshire Santa made sweet faces at Claude. Gigi, Jon and I exchanged looks like, what the fuck is going on? And as we exited the elevator, our jolly helper gestured to Claude and murmured, “the King.” He brought us and our luggage to our seats, flashed his goofy smile one last time and disappeared as magically as he’d arrived.
It wasn’t just the Athens airport; it was the culture. Everywhere in Greece, Claude was treated as precious and deserving. I was reminded repeatedly that America, as a nation, treats kids like absolute shit. And that we as American citizens have largely accepted it as our cultural norm; in recent American mass shootings, the adults were guided by the children— the children know what to do because of their countless shooter drills in schools. Under literal gunfire, the kids are caring for the adults. Whether we like it or not, that speaks volumes about who we are.
One morning, on the island of Milos, we chose to spoil ourselves with breakfast at a boutique hotel known for its unmatched ocean view. When we arrived, we asked a server for a table that could seat three adults and a highchair.
She responded in her best English, “So sorry. This is a 21 plus hotel. I’m so sorry.”
Jon nodded in response, “Ah. We didn’t realize. All good.”
But when we turned to leave, she stopped us frantically. “What? No, no. Why would you leave? The baby can have a seat on a simple chair, yes? You must stay!”
We didn’t understand at first. But she clarified…
She’d only meant that their establishment didn’t own high chairs. The thought that a child would be turned away from a restaurant repulsed her. Not only was this 21+ hotel more than happy to have a toddler dining here, they also insisted on feeding Claude for free. It was an all Claude could eat buffet. All the hotel guests waved and beamed at Claude too, undisturbed by his presence in their adult sanctuary. A safe welcome space. The message clear all over Greece, even where children “weren’t allowed” — we care for kids here.
Can you imagine bringing a toddler to a 21-and-over fancy hotel in the US? Wanting to take advantage of their ritzy view with your kid? Can’t you picture the judgey looks you’d receive from patrons and staff? And how weak the apology would be as you were turned away?
It was a palpable and pervasive societal difference. And I felt proud of it, appreciating how my values aligned with a piece of my cultural identity. Perhaps for the very first time, I felt proud to be Greek.
Because Greece is astonishingly beautiful, I will let some photos guide me in telling the rest of the story. Come with me to Greece, will you?
We walked at least ten thousand steps a day, and showered outside. We’d wash away a sandy day as wild cats climbed and tussled in the branches of a towering pink bougainvillea above us. (How can I find more ways to incorporate the outdoors in my daily routine??? It worked wonders on my anxious tendencies).
I barely had the time or even capability to scroll on my phone. I intentionally chose not to enable data outside the U.S. Without Wifi, I didn’t have access to internet, social media, or even texting. My iPhone was essentially a simple camera for the majority of the trip. I was fully there…
Playing with film.
Appreciating vibes and details.
Bonding with spots that felt especially Greek.
I floated for the first time. Ever. In my life. Since I was little, family, friends and teachers have exhausted themselves trying to teach me to float— in swimming pools, in the Aegean Sea, didn’t matter where— I’ve never been able to float. But on this trip I had an urge, and I floated for as long as I felt like it. Holy shit! I’m doing it!
Maybe I’ve just gotten better at being held.
The quality time with my family. No work. No assignments.
The cats… everywhere.
The views that compel you to pause.
The food.
Watching Claude thrive and take joy in a new world! He spoke the language! Fed the kittens! Chased the fish! Devoured the tzatziki! My inner child had someone to play with, to re-experience with. My little love has no idea what he did for me. He is my favorite explorer.
Greece. It’s for the kids…
And perhaps the most thrilling of all, I watched my husband fall in love with Greece too. The crush continues…
Our vacation was so heavenly, so genuinely filled with magic, that I kept delaying the burial of my father. To my great relief, the panic attacks weren’t finding me here. But I worried they might still be lurking, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. What if pausing to bury my dad would leave me too vulnerable to escape them?
Another reason I delayed our private funeral was probably because I had a deep fear of fucking it up. My dad had been clear about wanting to be buried under a tree in Greece, remember? He’d say, “I want to be with the animals, Peach! Bury me under a tree so I can live with the animals! A Greek tree!” But I didn’t really have more information than that. He may have given me more specific directions or an exact Greek location— a favorite park or island maybe. He was opinionated and stubborn; he most likely did give me specifics at some point in my life. But I was a kid. Nothing was written down. Location specifics were probably Greek names that my American brain couldn’t retain. I remembered that he wanted Sweet Child of Mine played at his funeral. I remembered that he wanted to be under a tree. But that was it.
The pressure to keep him happy didn’t die with him. I felt obligated to do this right. This is eternity we’re talking about! Oh, the pressure!!! Don’t be mad, Dad. I forgot! I forgot where you wanted to be! What a fuck up! I’m sorry!!!
You can maybe understand why I dragged my feet. But, finally, on the last day of our priceless getaway, Jon gave me a tender look. His beautiful brows and lips communicating in unison, “I think it’s time, my love.”
I think a teenager-sized piece of me also didn’t want to let my dad rest after all he’s put me through. I was resisting the idea of letting him just disappear into the earth when he had so much unfinished business. Being able to physically grip a box containing my often absent father was inexplicably satisfying. I got you now!
Initiating the burial was hard. It was the ultimate act of letting it all go.
I’m relieved to say I knew the right tree the moment I saw it: a fig tree overlooking an endless sea. And slightly uphill, a Greek flag waved like it would gladly watch over him in my absence. Because, you know, my dad’s just a baby.
Jon dug a hole in the shade, and played Guns N’ Roses per my dad’s request. Jon had also queued up another song, one written and performed by my dad. He played that too. I bawled, and Claude chirped, “he’s singing for you!”
I buried my father and said goodbye again.
Leaving Greece was much more painful than I thought it would be. For some reason I’d imagined that going would be the hard part. But it was the departure that made me feel unsettled to my core. The tension in my body was illuminating, my next obstacles brought to the surface. I love being a work in progress, don’t you?
At my dad’s grave, Jon and Claude shared a fig, and I left out some cooked fish in the tree’s shadow to invite the animals.
With the car finally packed and my family buckled in, I told them I’d be right back. I needed one last look.
I jogged back for a final glimpse of my dad’s new home.
When I spotted it, I gasped— three kittens were feasting beneath his branches.
♥︎
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