Tiptoe on the Cobblestone

The alleyways of Old Nicosia are tight and cramped with souvenir shops and restaurants. Cobblestone paths twist and wind beneath the buildings. They are filled with bodies waltzing and swaying to avoid each other. As the group tiptoes and stumbles and bumps and knocks things over, they are reminded again that they are foreigners not in sync with the Cypriot rhythm. Luckily, we are headed to dance lessons.

The sun’s rays peek through the buildings and over the rooftops to shine on Andreas Loïzides’ restaurant, Xefoto. This is the Greek word for the sunny patch in the middle of a forest. The open, grassy area surrounded by trees where the sun shines, the peaceful part. He wanted his restaurant to be the topiary in the middle of the woods that is Old Nicosia.

He has supplied the food, drinks, service, music and dancing for 28 years. A face wrinkled by the deepest laugh lines, long, expressive arms, and a beer belly are cues to his philosophy on life and a welcome to a good time.

Xefoto is colorful from bright round disks with geometric designs on the walls, flowers and candles on the tables, and animate hosts. There is a garden in the front with a fountain of the birth of Aphrodite and cages with pet birds. The restaurant looks small from the inside, but as we walk in, there are so many tables that curve around corners out of sight from the alley and a dance floor.

Before we start dancing and filming, all ten of us sit at a table and share a Greek meze. This family style meal comes in courses… many courses. It starts with the usual Greek salad, olives and pita bread with dips like tzatziki and houmus. The next course is brought before I’m even done with the first. It’s sautéed mushrooms, sausage and heiloumi cheese. Then the next course: two vegetable dishes, a red one and green one. No one knew what everything in these dishes was, but these were gone fast.

As the fourth course is served, I find myself choreographing a routine in order to get the bites of dishes I want and contribute to the chatter of my friends: chew, 2, 3, 4, laugh, 6, 7, 8, grab something from that plate, pass this plate, drink, say something funny. It’s fun. Everyone is working together to make sure that we all get to try the best dishes. As everyone flops back and sighs in attempt to make room for more, the meat and potatoes are catered. Not everyone can accept this portion, so there are seconds for the others.

When we fill up, the conversation gets weak, resorting to, “do you want this?” “No, but Stephen does, pass it to him,” “Stephen, do you want this?” “Just a piece, I’m so full.” The table looks like the end of a war scene when we are through. It’s covered in half eaten pork filets, olive pits and dirty utensils. Napkins are wadded up and belts are unbuckled.

And so comes dessert. It’s watermelon, and it’s actually refreshing after such a big meal. If we can move, dancing sounds fun and needed to burn off the calories

We have to move. Andreas comes over to the table and tells us to start clapping so his friends will dance. We walk and clap around the corner, and there are three of Andreas’s young friends snapping and kicking to the beat. The two girls are on their knees clapping for the boy. He swings his leg over their heads and swivels. He looks drunk. That’s because the dance is called the drunkard’s dance. There are no steps, just improvisation.

After speaking with Andreas and his friends, we find that a lot of Greek kids and teens today stick to this dance because they don’t know the steps to the others. They grew up watching their elders dance this style but never learned the steps. The old folk songs, however, are still known by eveyone, and there is a touch of sentiment when they are played. The kids still keep the tradition alive, but incorporate what they know of dances from other parts of the world like Arabic belly dancing and Latin salsa.

Andreas acknowledges the change as a clash between generations but isn’t upset. “Dancing,” he says, “is done with your soul, you don’t need to know the steps. You just need to feel the music and let it move you.”

The awkwardness and clumsiness disappeared once we were moving to the music and the supportive clapping from our friends. The will to have fun took over, and we were all swinging our legs and snapping in the end. We taught each other the moves we made up and learned some new things from the Cypriots.

Just like not all Americans take swing or hip hop lessons, not all Greeks take Greek dance lessons. Although these kids weren’t professional teachers, I think they gave us the best insight into how a typical celebration is done.

I’m reminded that in a world where bad things tend to happen and busy schedules that distract us from connecting with each other, it’s important to have fun and appreciate the good things. I think the Greeks have mastered that. Large meals with a large audience and dancing, singing and sharing are the ingredients in the recipe for bringing people together.

We left the restaurant feeling good. We waltzed and swayed though the alleyways like true Cypriots, or at least we felt like we did.

So it’s selfish, but the only thing I could think about while boarding the ship set for Egypt’s Port Said is how awesome my birthday was going to be on this ship. The fact that it was so nice was very surprising. We were all expecting a ferry or a dinky dinghy, but this was a nice mini cruise ship. There were several parlors and restaurants, a casino, and a movie theatre. The first day of our trip was spent exploring and sunbathing on the decks. Dinner was fun too. For some reason I was the target of our waiter’s napkin folding antics. I didn’t realize this was going to be an ongoing trend for the rest of the voyage. The whole weekend I was the punchline in all of the crazy entertainers’ jokes.

The next day started early. Breakfast was served at six am, and the tour was going by 7:30. Departing the ship and going through customs in Egypt was interesting. As soon as I stepped off the boat I was welcomed by peddlers insisting I purchase their things for “only one euro.” How were they able to sell all this stuff on this side of customs though? Shouldn’t they have been on the Egypt side? Hmm… it seems like there is a little corruption occurring here.

On the bus we met our tour guide. She was an Egyptian history major and spent the whole bus ride giving us introductions to what we were about to see. She was tricky. While explaining that we were on what she called a “quick trip,” through Egypt, meaning that we should always be punctual and hurry, she spent the majority of our time talking about all the opportunities we would have to check out her shopping suggestions.

First stop: the National Museum. I wish we had more time here. We only had 45 minutes. And with little free time, there was no way to see all the ancient statues and jewelry. We did get to see King Tut’s incredible gold helmet. It looked just like it does in the history books, but it was right there in front of me. It’s so weird to see how a culture from so long ago thrived and created things that still exist today. They didn’t have anything close to the technology we have today, but they were a booming civilization.

After a very short break, we were back on the bus and driving alongside the Nile River. This backwards flowing river has been the source of life for the people in Egypt for centuries, but today you couldn’t pay any one of them to take a sip of it. It’s the filthiest thing, but beautiful and mighty nonetheless.

We ate lunch on a floating restaurant on the Nile, complete with belly dancers and charming waiters. A buffet with all the Mediterranean dishes was sprawled out before us.

After lunch, it was pyramid time. As we made our way to Giza, I became the giddiest and most excited person you’ve ever seen. Two triangles appeared in the skyline, and it wasn’t a mirage, they were really there, and have been there since ancient times. It wasn’t until I was right underneath them that I was overwhelmed with their majesty. They tower above the tourists. We got to go inside one of them. We had to bend down for most of the way, and the thin air doesn’t satisfy our lungs. It’s hot and crowded on the way in. But once we enter the tomb, there is a moment of “ohh…” and then we are natural born explorers.

On the outside of the pyramids, there are many more peddlers. I have the audacity to think there is truth in their flattery instead of the ulterior motive of making money, and I give in. They knew I would. But I have some pretty cool bookmarks that were really cheap to show for it.

Most of these peddlers kids. It was sad to see the life they were living. They were hot and tired. Instead of spending a summer day swimming and playing ball, they were out sucking up and being shunned by tourists. I think the saddest part is that I know they will never see a dime from the money they were making. They were sweet and innocent, just doing what they were told. They still knew more languages than any kid their age that I know, and they had great picture suggestions.

After the bus we rushed to the papyrus museum where I bought all sorts of souvenirs.

Then it was back to the ferry. It’s amazing what you can accomplish in a day.

From Kypros to Kibris

Walking through Old Nicosia, I window shop and smile at the many passersby. By looking at the architecture I can tell that many of these places have been renovated and decorated by professionals. The buildings are well maintained and pretty. Once I left the main street for the more residential area with my tour group, I couldn’t help but notice all the doors. Each one is special. One door is either a different color or has a different design of wrought iron from the one before it. I could make a coffee table book out of all the doors.

It’s easy to imagine that each door was a passage into the home of a chic and trendy person, couple or family after window shopping on the main drag of Old Nicosia. The shops are stocked with the latest trends and sleek decorations. Things are expensive, and there are a lot of things.

I never expected what I saw on the other side of the green line.

The green line is the dead zone that runs between the north and south sides of Nicosia. It is the border between the Greek side and the Turkish occupied territory. I am told it was drawn by a British officer after the Turkish army invaded and settled in north Nicosia in 1974 to protect Turkish citizens that were being mistreated by the Greeks. They ran all the Greeks out of that side of the island, and the country has been divided ever since. After talking to a few inhabitants on both sides, it sounds like unification is distant idea that will not be put to use for some time.

Once I crossed over the green line into Northern Nicosia I enter Turkish occupied territory. This part of the island is completely different from the Greek side. Instead of dreaming at the boutiques, I feel like I am in the center of the Turkish bazaar with the barters calling me to their stores and their special offers. Here it is more like a market, or a traditional souq. Because this area is not recognized by the UN, most businesses can't or won't invest here, so every commercial restaurant, shop, and brand name is fake. Things are cheaper here.

In fact, things are so different, I feel like I’m in a new country. And it’s something I definitely want to explore more.

The first new thing I tried was a dish called Sheftali. The restaurant my group went to and filmed at was owned by Mostafa, and this lamb sausage with mint and onions was his specialty.

He arrived in 1974 during the takeover and eventually, with his wife, settled and opened the restaurant. On his right forearm was an interesting tattoo: the moon and star symbol from the Turkish flag above the nose of a wolf. Wondering what it was, my classmate, Zaina, asked him about it. He said it was from his army times, but gave no further explanation. Still, the image was engraved in her memory.

After lunch, the group went exploring. The first thing to stumble upon was an antique store. With its old contents spilling out of the shop onto the street, the place took the best pictures. Dr. Legg reminded us that these things were most likely the possessions of Greek Cypriots that lived here before the invasion.

The next thing I wanted to check out was the church, or at least what I thought was a church. Selimiye Mosque, nee St. Sophie’s Cathedral, was located in the center of town. Every hour or so the prayer call was summoned and Moslem worship was heard all through the village. But the this could never be relied on for time because the priests disagree about how correct the time really is.

I couldn’t get over how big of a deal this was. This Cathedral was once the house of worship for Greek Orthodoxies. Remembering one I saw before, I think of ornate icons with gold and silver. The insides were dripping with paintings and intricate details. Here the walls were whitewashed, as is done in mosques, and inscribed with the Prophet Muhammad’s name. The massive, open space smothered me in a silence so thick that I still became claustrophobic when I walked in. I was buried under the pressure of so many emotions. Even though it’s not my religion, and the sight of a cathedral used as something completely different worries me, I can’t help but have a sense of respect for a sacred place. It was a strange, uncomfortable feeling. On the outside, the gothic architecture typical of cathedrals was falling apart. Pieces of flying buttresses stuck out at different spots on the roof.

I walked farther back into the town and notice the doors again. This time though, they are not the entryway into a beautiful home. While they still have the Cyprian taste, they are attached to crumbling walls and rotting wood. Only every 3 or 4 houses were homes to someone. Tourists were scarce as well, there were many more on the Greek side.

Exploring more, Zaina found the symbol that was on Mostafa’s arm encrusted in gold, posted on a wall. It was the symbol of the Turkish army. Suddenly it occurred to Zaina that Mostafa was part of the army that invaded Cyprus in 1974. She thought it was a bold move of him to brand himself like that in a divided country.

After asking a shop owner what he thought about the division, he said it was much better than before. He said he likes living separately and has nothing against the Greeks. In fact, his son was dating a Greek girl. However, it would be a problem if they got married because both of their families would want them to move to their sides.

A Greek shop owner doesn’t voice her opinions much after being asked by Annie, another study abroad student. She simply recalls the house she grew up in on the Turkish side, and having to move. She can still go over to the Turkish side, but her house doesn’t look the same. She too holds nothing against the Turkish, but her reminiscent tone and a smile that suggests she misses it tells me this subject hits close to her heart.

It was an interesting day filled with a ton of learning. But I also got to shop. The fake designer bags and genie shoes are things I could not cross back without.

In Makedonitissa.

In Makedonitissa, Nicosia, Cyprus at two past midnight, a kiosk cashier is sitting outside his shop frantically strumming the chords and belting the lyrics to the 3 Doors Down tune, “Superman.”

I know because I am in my room, 1 floor up, and I’ve opened my window so I can have a better listen and a laugh. As he unknowingly serenades me, his music becomes the soundtrack to the recollections of my first few days in Cyprus.

I’m learning so much about things like history, etiquette, and new recipes. In order to make sense of it all, I have to acknowledge the similarities and differences of Cypriot culture and mine. I think what I’m going through is called culture shock. It’s what happens when a traveler visits a place that has a different set of values and customs from her own. Although this isn’t my first time away from the states, I am definitely out of my comfort zone. A lot about this place is different from home.

The obvious differences come to mind first. The climate is hot and dry here, and at home it’s humid and green. I’m used to Appalachian antiques, and everything here is ultra modern. Instead of grazing cows, there are scavenging cats. The drivers stay on the left side of the road, and their seats are on the right side of the car!

The fashion in Cyprus is much dressier than in the states, and the code of conduct is slightly different as well.

And they speak Greek, and I don’t.

Anyway, when in unfamiliar territory it’s easy to get intimidated, but I’m not going to let a little apprehension hold me back. After only five days of immersion in this country the experiences are piling up: I’ve made seven new friends, raced through London Heathrow airport, moved into an apartment, taken in a kitten, made some local friends, embarrassed myself, tried new food, assisted a chef, bargained for a bracelet, taken a crash course in Cypriot history, released a kitten, had a ghostly encounter, signed up for dance classes, and planned a trip to Egypt.

And all the while, adjusting to the changes has made me notice that some things seem to be universal. People are always willing to talk about themselves and tell about their culture when they see a genuine interest. Afterall, most everyone has similar feelings and maybe even a sense of humor. If one can attempt to relate to those and always remember that “manners matter,” then he should be golden on the communication front. A smile and a question or an attempt at the language gets even more than just an answer. The combination earns a personal conversation that resembles something like friendship, or at least a happy mutual understanding that both parties felt good vibes. And those are the same in any language.

This brings me back to my very first lesson in Cyprus taught by the kiosk keeper below: hello in Greek is “geiá sou,” (yesu).