GREEK TAVERNA MEMORIES--PART 2

Macedonia. The Roman roads. Greece. These are important places. History was made there.

And in the middle of it all was an ancient city, Thessalonica, now called Thessaloniki, and sometimes called Salonika.

This is the northern Greek port city of Alexander's fame. It is the city of the infamous White Tower, the Tower of Terror. Hundreds of Greeks and Turks, at different times, were there burned to death in retribution for having won a particular battle between East and West. Christians and Muslims hated eachother. How strange today to think of that ancient distrust.??

Thessaloniki is a crossroads. It is and was the central metropolis linking the east to the west. It is the next stop heading west from Constantinople, now Istanbul.

I was blessed to spend time in Salonika on two different occasions during a motorcycle tour of Europe. The first visit lasted a week: I was there to make arrangements to garage the Triumph so I could take trains and buses to India and Ceylon (now Shri Lanka). Salonika was the crossroads. I wanted to spend Christmas in Goa, on India's famed Malabar Coast.

The second time I visited Salonika was 4 months later when I returned from India (never having made it to Ceylon which was then in the midst of a terrible war). There are wonderful stories of that second visit, but they shall await another time for telling. Tonight I wish to continue the story about the Taverna in the hills above town. The Taverna adventure happened on my first Thessaloniki stay.

When I walked into the tiny mountainside Taverna I noted how small the establishment was. Fewer than 10 little 4-person tables filled the seating area, divided in the middle by a wide stone floor lit from a dim but warm glowing wheel of lights hanging from the ceiling. Only one table was empty, the others filled with men and women who appeared to have worked hard all day. They were enjoying lamb and retsina, as well as lively conversation. Bazooki music played softly in the background from an old tabletop radio.

To the rear of the Taverna was a countertop that separated the public dining area from the kitchen, a stove, a sink, and several cupboards. Pans, pots, vegetables, and assorted tools hung from the kitchen's ceiling. The walls were stucco white. The floor was black stone. The tables and chairs were solid wood. The hum of the conversation ceased abruptly when I entered. All eyes focused on me, a skinny, long-haired American who had just stumbled into a local pub that was definitely not in Fodor's.

The men looked at me with keen eyes. The women's' eyes appeared to speak of pity for my thin condition.

The silence was broken by the sweeping entry of "Momma" from the kitchen. "Yassou," she exclaimed loudly, taking my hand and leading me to a seat at the open table. She spoke quickly and I understood very little. However, it was clear that she wanted me to make myself at home, and to enjoy her Taverna. She called to her husband who was washing dishes.

I remember only a few of her words. "Papa," she yelled to her mate, "... ... ... Hippie ... ... .." Papa came out with a filled tankard of Retsina and a glass. He slammed them down on my table and smiled a hugely wonderful smile. He tried hard to speak English. "You are welcome here Hippie, American Hippie."

As soon as Papa and Mamma had pronounced me welcome, everyone in the room came over to my table to say hello. We spoke little to none of eachother's language. But what a night I enjoyed with these wonderful folk.

The women helped me order food. Greek sausages and potato, cooked vegetables of many varieties, and much Retsina. After helping me eat the right foods, the men took over. They turned up the radio and showed me how to do the Greek Wine Dance, just like the one in Zorba the Greek. Oh what fun we had.

Around 10 pm, it was clear that the night was over. I had danced with every man in the Taverna, had tossed back glass after glass of Retsina with everyone, and my entire tab came to the equivalent of about 2 Dollars. I drove home to the YMCA, about 8 miles down the hilly roads, full of food, and filled with the love that Greek people seem to embrace all strangers with.

I had little problem telling myself on that ride home that I would go back to that same Taverna the very next night. And I did, but that is another story.