Emporios Bay to Mesta

Mesta, small walled village a few kilometers from the southwestern coast of Chios, is only about 13 kilometers from Emporios Bay (which is on the southeastern coast).  Milo having been all swimmed out, had fallen asleep on his bed at our hotel while we packed up, so we had to carry him into the car and strap him into his seat.  Once in Mesta, we were met by Vasilio and Rula, a young couple who own a business called masticulture; we had rented our apartment from them.  We drove as far as we could, until the town became pedestrian only and the streets too narrow for cars, and found our place.  It is a bit more, shall we say, “rustic” than the other places we have stayed, but charming in its own way.  It has thick stone walls, a kitchen and bath dating from the 60s or 70s, and a nice little terrace and courtyard.  We’ll be just fine here for the week, but it’s a far cry from the Jacuzzi tub, crisp sheets, fluffy towels, and comfy couches we had in Drosopigi.  Then again, it only costs 78 euros a night.

After we unloaded, Alec went out for groceries.  The kids were too lethargic to go for an explore in town, so we cuddled up on the bed and watched Night at the Museum.  And then ensued a well-rehearsed scene that has played itself out over and over in my relationship with Alec.  Here’s how it goes:

Alec goes out to do the grocery shopping.  Although I actually like grocery shopping, and find it to be a really interesting activity when in other countries, Alec has more of a need to do it.  And, truth be told, he does more of the cooking these days.  So he goes off, and it takes him longer to do the shopping that I can possibly imagine, at least double what it would take me.  He studies labels, considers every aspect of every product—where it’s from, how much it costs, how much sugar, fat, wheat it contains.  I can’t really explain it.  I can’t even explain it when I shop with him. I can lap the entire store and return to still find him in the produce aisle, or wherever it is he started.

And then he returns, hours later, with a mind-boggling amount of stuff.  He is excited at his finds—local goat yogurt! Olive paste! A tin of stuffed grape leaves! (they are on all of the menus, but no one seems to have them when we ask.  I stand there speechless, wondering how we are possibly going to eat all of this food in one week.  There are only four of us after all, two of us are children, and we will likely eat some of our meals out.  I try to suppress my negative comments—“Do we really need another jar of peanut butter?” “Wow, that’s a big bag of spinach!” “Two kinds of rice and two jars of pickles!”  But I am largely unsuccessful.  Alec’s enthusiasm is dampened, my anxiety rises.  In the end, I must admit, that we do not generally have much waste.  But this time, I swear, he’s gone too far!

We unpacked the perishables and walked into the village square for dinner.  Vasilio had told us that there would be a big dance performance starting at eight, with several groups from Chios and a few from Chicago!  How random is that?  As we approached the center, we could see the dancers gathering, all in traditional costumes, from as young as 2 or 3 to very old.  Musicians playing drums and fiddles strolled around, too.

As we settled into a table at a restaurant in the square, the groups assembled and began to parade to the local school, where the performance would take place.  After a really good dinner—stuffed tomato and pepper for me, a spicy pork stew for Alec—we got some ice cream, picked up a jar of local honey, and made our way over to the school.  A stage had been set up nearby, and the performance was in full swing.  It was quite beautiful—the starry night, the live music, the earnest, joyful dancers.  We stayed until the kids got tired, and then headed home to bed down for the night.