A special edition by my husband that I thought was very pertinent, current, true…and funny.
I’m asked that often. Well… after nearly 30 years in the U.S., my New Yorker wife and I decided to move to Greece—my homeland. Armed with a few suitcases and a trail of cardboard boxes bobbing somewhere in the high seas, we made our way east.
Those boxes took quite a circuitous route before landing in Greece. Their passports were stamped in Naples (no, not Italy—the one in Florida), Miami (South America), Chicago, New York, New Jersey, Damietta (Egypt), Dubrovnik and Rijeka (Croatia), Venice (this time, yes, Italy), Piraeus, and finally, Kalamata.
117,000 miles and 157 days later, they arrived at our doorstep safe and sound, delivered by a courier aptly named “Sparrow” (or Spourgitis in Greek).
So, back to the original question: Where do you live? In Greece! Most foreigners think they know what that means, or at least the name rings a bell. Still, their expressions often resemble that of deer caught in headlights.
Just to stir the pot, we reply:
“In Kalamata.”
Jaw drops.
“Huh?”
“You know—Kalamata. Olives?” “Ahhhh, yes!”
“And where is that?” “In Greece.”
“I love Greece! I’ve always wanted to go.” “You should come visit.”
“Yes, yes! Send me your address?” Address? Hmm. Let me think about that. It’s like the name question I used to get.
For 30 years in the U.S., that conversation usually went something like this:
Name? Nick. Or Nikolaos—before I became Nick. After a decade in the States, I made it official. The NY DMV couldn’t fit my full name on the driver’s license. Instead, they settled for “N” and my last name.
N for...? Nick? Nicolas? Nicholas? Nikolaos? Nikos? Nikki?
Last name?
Here we go. “You sure you want to know? It’s a long one.” Smirk. Let me spell it for you: A-T-H-A-N-A-S-S-I-A-D-I-S. (Two s’s in the middle)
Reactions have ranged from:
“OMG.”
“Oh sh*t.” “Nervous chuckle.” “That’s a mouthful!”
“That’s the whole alphabet.” “Where is that from?” And, my favorite: “Beautiful.”
In three decades in the U.S., I stepped into a courtroom twice. Once as a juror in Miami (yes that counts as the US, even if it’s said the best thing about Miami is its proximity to the United States), So... yeah.
The other time? Let’s rewind to the BlackBerry era. (For the record, it was neither black nor a berry, but it could make calls. Sweet.)
The State Police in upstate New York didn’t share my enthusiasm for multitasking. I was yapping away on my Blackberry, cruising in a convertible, one of those hands-free earpieces dangling from my ear. Long black cord and all.
Court date: Case 123456.
“Calling Officer XYZ.”
No show.
“Calling N. Asdhdfsfhjfs?” “Calling N. Aewyterwfewh?”
I raised my hand. The judge waved me up to the bench and whispered,
“How do you pronounce your name?”
I answered in one breath: “ATHANASSIADIS.”
He smiled.
“Beautiful.”
Case dismissed. (True story.)
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