Jeff—Saturday
First the Bitter.
All of Greece is in mourning, and I’m purposely not posting
photographs of the source of its grief.
The world’s seen enough of those scenes by now.
The fires this week that claimed so many lives weigh heavy
on the nation’s mind. So, too, do the responses of its government officials to
criticism of both their preparedness and reaction to a far from unexpected
phenomenon—wildfires happen across Greece every summer. It is a developing
story, with finger pointing well underway. Indeed, the head of the junior
coalition party sharing power in the current government (he serves as Defense
Minister), in an interview with the BBC, blamed the victims for building their
homes illegally. Here’s a
link to that much
talked about interview.
Barbara and I add our prayers to those of the many from
around the world sharing in Greece’s mourning.
Now for the Sweet.
Not actually sweet, more like bitter-sweet. It’s an article I wrote for the just
published thirteenth-year anniversary issue of Mykonos Confidential, the sleek, annual summer magazine celebrating
all things Mykonos that’s come to be known as the “Bible of Mykonos.”
The theme for this year’s issue, as envisioned by its publisher,
Petros Bourovilis, was “My Summer of Love,” and so that’s what I wrote about. Whether or not my tale is what Petros expected
I cannot say, but I can assure you it’s all true, and reveals how I came to
write my first mystery novel on Mykonos.
PS. In the interest of full disclosure, I also was asked to
participate in the fashion shoot section of the magazine (for comic relief, no
doubt) and most of the photos in this post are taken from that totally fun
experience, as captured by photographer Thanasis Krikis, and styled by Stefanos
Zaousis . Thank you, one and all. Here’s the article:
“My Summer of Love” is a tricky subject. It can mean
decidedly different things to different people. Perhaps that’s why Mykonos Confidential chose it as the
topic for the likes of me to write about?
After all, as varied and complicated as love relationships can be, so
too, are our respective relationships with the island of the winds.
My Summer of Love experience occurred unexpectedly on a
stifling August afternoon in 2005, during my third decade of summers on the
island. I’d not yet given up my New York
City law practice, but had returned to Mykonos committed to writing a book
about this place I call home. I had no
desire to write a guidebook, or wax on about summer tavernas and island
romances. I planned to write a serious
novel, one that told the truth as I saw it about the island’s people, politics,
culture, and beauty, but in a way that held my readers’ interest as we explored
life together on the island.
A murder mystery-thriller format seemed the natural way to
go, but my plans encountered an unanticipated setback when my closest friend on
the island deeply opposed my idea.
We’d been friends since my first day on Mykonos. I happened to pass by his jewelry shop on my
way into town from my hotel, and though I forget how he’d lured me inside, the
next thing I knew I was (unsuccessfully) dodging drinks, pastries, and candies.
Unbeknownst to me, I’d stumbled upon the most loved man on
Mykonos. A consummate gentleman and
fervent booster of the island, he had an extraordinary circle of local,
national and international friends, all of whom made a point of regularly
stopping by to say hello to him.
Over the years we developed a deep friendship, sharing our
birthday parties (he was seven days younger than I), watching out for each
other’s children (I escorted his older son to his first days at Syracuse
University), and attending together many a Mykonian panegyri, concert, baptism, wedding, and funeral. Without my
realizing it, he’d subtly turned me into a Mykonian—or at least as close to
that elevated status as a non-Greek American could hope to achieve.
 |
| Me, Tassos, Renate and Thomas McKnight |
That’s why, when he expressed his heartfelt concern that
placing a murder mystery on Mykonos might harm the island, I put my project on
hold. Disappointed as I was, I did not want to write anything that might harm
his business, or reflect badly on him in the eyes of Mykonians because of our
friendship.
Then came August.
I’d stopped by his shop one evening around eleven, and he
asked if I’d like to join him for dinner. He said he was “about to close,” but
I’d been down that road many times before.
I knew that as long as a single potential customer lurked nearby, he’d
remain open. True to form, we finally made it to the restaurant around one.
He had a lot of things on his mind, and I did a lot of
listening. Then out of the blue he said
he’d decided I should write the Mykonos book I wanted to write. I never asked him what had changed his mind.
We finished dinner, I walked him back to his home, and said
goodnight.
Around daybreak the next morning I received a call that my
friend had suffered a massive stroke, and was at the medical clinic waiting to
be airlifted to Athens. I made it to the
clinic as he was being wheeled to the ambulance for transport to the airport.
That was the last time I saw my friend alive. He died on
August 3rd, with family and friends at his bedside.
I know what you’re thinking. How could this horrific tragedy
possibly serve as any sane person’s Summer of Love?
It’s complicated, but real.
His body arrived back on Mykonos by ferry to the old port.
Tradition had family and friends meeting the casket there to accompany his
remains to church for the funeral service. Fittingly, the procession passed by
his shop on its way to Agia Kyriake.
I’m not Greek Orthodox, so I did not think it appropriate to
participate as a pallbearer. I walked
close behind the casket, trailed by a crowd of hundreds. As the line of
mourners approached Kyriake, Mykonians pushed me forward toward the casket,
politely telling me to participate as one of the pallbearers. When I said, “I’m
not Orthodox,” one of the pallbearers insisted I take over his position,
saying, “You’re his friend, that’s all that matters.”
We carried his casket into the church, and I never felt
closer to the people of Mykonos than I did at that moment. My feelings only grew stronger once we left
the church, and wound our way through the town’s narrow streets toward the
cemetery. Locals I barely knew kept
stopping me to share hugs and tears over the genuine sadness we all felt at the
loss of such an extraordinary soul.
During that brief bit of a summer afternoon, I was immersed
in a communal outpouring of pure love, unlike anything I’d ever experienced
before—or after.
Amen.
There is a remarkable postscript to this story, one I credit
to the spirit of my dearly departed friend.
During his funeral, as I stood at the foot of his casket struggling to
maintain my composure, I stared up at the church’s dome. Spread out before me
in what I can only characterize as a vision, I saw the perfect story line for
tying together all the many ideas for my book.
It was as if my friend were saying, ‘Okay, Jeffrey here it is, now write
it.”
I think it’s fair to say that my debut novel, Murder in Mykonos, is a product of “My
Summer of Love.” Even today, it stands as a tribute to the memory of my friend,
Tassos Stamoulis, proprietor extraordinaire of the Ilias Lalaounis Jewelry
shop. God rest your kind, sweet soul, my friend.
You remain deeply missed by all lovers of Mykonos. Perhaps
now more than ever.
—Jeff
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