November 2020

Another month, and I find myself irresistibly reminded of the opening sentence of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…Life being the mixture that it is, Melburnians probably felt they were experiencing the best of times with the good news about the control of the virus, and that they were over the worst of times endured during the long months of restrictions. But everything is relative, and everybody doubtless has his/her idea about the nature of the times. Consider Afghanistan and France. Not to mention the Turkish/Greek earthquake.

There is a lot of talk about the pandemic, and much use of the word ‘unprecedented’, but of course the idea that the world has not been tried like this before is just not accurate. Think of the Black Death and of the Spanish flu, and other epidemics as well: when I was a child, polio was a scourge that was greatly feared. Greece is still doing well in comparison with the rest of Europe, but there has been a strong surge in cases, about which the experts and authorities are very worried. New restrictions have been introduced, but people are still free to travel outside their home areas, which may be a bad idea that could lead to a marked spread. Who’d be in government? Juggling the matters of safety, freedom and the economy is such a demanding and wearying business.

One could perhaps be forgiven for thinking that election results could herald the worst of times. This is the way I feel about the possible re-election of President Trump, who has several other names: the one I like best is the Tangerine Toad. I’m not the only person who is finding the suspense very hard to bear, and who considers the whole long process to be a tormenting roller coaster. I have millions, probably billions, of mates. There are mutterings of discontent about Joe Biden, but at least he is a decent man who is acquainted with grief and has been tested many times. But I’m very afraid that Trump might somehow wangle a win: by hook or by crook, as is his nature.

October 28 is OXI (No) Day, when Greece commemorates the 1940 refusal of PM Metaxas to allow Italian entry into Greece. Greek resistance on the northern border was so fierce, despite a hard winter, that Hitler had to come to Mussolini’s aid, and was apparently not best pleased. The day is always a public holiday, marked by military parades and school children marching through the streets before reciting poems and singing patriotic songs in town and village squares throughout the country. There could be no parades this year, but in Athens at least people walked through the streets and carried Greek flags in their own impromptu display.

We are still enjoying the idyllic burst of autumn weather called the Little Summer of Saint Dimitrios: the Saint has his Feast Day on October 26. Today, October 31, there were people still swimming and enjoying the beach. It has been so mild and sunny that the bottle brushes and the jacarandas have bloomed for the second time, and now the Virginia creeper is reddening walls everywhere. It is a pleasure to see people tending their gardens: neat little beds have been carefully laid and planted out. Many gardens also boast heavily laden quince trees, and the sight never fails to remind me of my Granny’s inimitable quince jelly.

A nearby shop is a family-run business, as is the case so often in Greece. A young man and his wife run the place, and the man’s widowed mother helps. She lives next door with her mother and mother-in-law: three widows all together. The yiayathes will never see 90 again, but one of them continues with her routine, despite having lost her 65-year-old son about 18 months ago: I think that is a terrible fate. But she sweeps outside the shop, tends her plants, and peels vegetables while sitting on her balcony. I always say hullo and exchange a few words when I see her. Yesterday she insisted that I come in to her front yard. Of course I obeyed. She then disappeared into a store room and emerged holding a paper bag. In it were five eggs. ‘From my own chooks,’ she told me more than once. I was so touched by this spontaneous gesture and its grace. This is the sort of generous act that makes hard times a little easier to bear.