Retracing our first taxi ride.
I was still basking in the excitement and self-satisfaction of my memoir’s publication. In those first months, whenever I picked up a copy of Taxi to America, A Greek Orphan’s Adoption Journey, I ran my palm over the cover slowly, as if caressing it. So, when I heard my husband say, “when we go to Greece this time, I would like to retrace your first taxi ride and to go to all the places you wrote about in the book,” he had my attention. I pushed away the invitation and the schedule of events for the destination wedding we would attend in Greece. For the first time, neither one of us minded a destination wedding. We were combining attending a friend’s daughter’s milestone day with a vacation.
“I am certain Lena will like the idea,” he continued, oozing with excitement. I had no doubt my sister would be all in. Since our first taxi ride, Lena and I had returned to the old neighborhood only once. “I know we have been to all the places except your childhood neighborhood, but I want to visit them again. After reading the book, those cities, towns and buildings have me wanting to see them again. I will see them from a different point of view,” Charles continued.
On the morning of our much-anticipated ride, we did not linger in the hotel’s café. We did not declare our appreciation for the variegated pink and white rose blossoms surrounding our table. Nor did we express our admiration for the nearby gardenias exuding their fragrance the way we had done when we checked in the previous afternoon. Instead, we drank freshly squeezed orange juice, followed by cappuccinos which someone took the time to design smiley faces on the surface of thick foam.
Our animated conversation was all over the place as we ate our breakfast. “I haven’t been in the bus station for decades.” “The last time I was at Vardari Square, a lot had changed from the time we lived in the area.” We talked over each other. “Ahh tiropitakia (cheese filled filo triangles) my favorite.” “Ever since the new highway we don’t need to go through the square to leave Thessaloniki.” “My omelet is yummy, but I’m eager to get going.” And soon we joined the morning traffic on Tsimiski Street for our 1st stop.
My 10-year-old memory of Vardari Square was of an intersection consisting of three or four streets. On that September morning, we navigated a busy roundabout and one-way streets converging into it. High-rise buildings replaced the kiosks that had been prominent on every street. We managed to find our way to the bus station where our retracing the taxi ride began.
“Is this how you remember it?” Charles asked.
“No, I have to recreate it in my mind.” I looked around and tried to visualize where the bus may have stopped. Where we got off and walked up the street past Agia Paraskevi and on to our house whenever we returned from visiting Yiayia. That was before our parents’ death. “See where the taxi stand is? We used to get off the bus somewhere near there. To go to our house, we just walked straight up there, I pointed to Agia Paraskevi’s street. All these decades later, the thought of those bus rides with their diesel fuel smell settled in my stomach and the familiar feeling surfaced. The memory included the two sad bus rides I took with my Theo Pavlo in the year following our parents’ death.
Lena had a totally different experience after we were orphaned. The bus station brought positive memories to her after her adoption. “The taxis in those years were on the street, not in a parking lot like today. I remember taking the taxi to go visit my aunts who lived past the White Tower. Or to shop at the stores on Tsimiski Street.”
Our first stop-Agia Paraskevi Curch and Cemetary where our taxi had stopped in the predawn light in 1958. As we approached the gate, the unnerving memory of that morning surfaced.
I hope you enjoyed this ride with us.
Return to my website for Episode 2 of Retracing our first Taxi Ride.
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