The Rose and The Airport: Memories of Greece

In the sweltering summer of 1975, I first encountered Aunt Georgia amidst the buzzing activity of Hellinikon International Airport, Athens. I was a motherless eight-year-old, a tag-along to a Greek immigrant father scarred by the horrors of World War II and the constant subject of my older brother's volcanic anger. In addition, I carried the weary weight of a two-year court custody battle lost by my hippie mother. Little did I know then that this strange new land, Greece, would transform into my sanctuary for the next decade.

Reconstructed in 2001 and rechristened as Athens International Airport Eleftherios Venizelos, this airport bore the name of a celebrated Greek politician. It was revamped to welcome the world for the 2004 Olympics, a significant homage to Greece, the birthplace of the Olympic games. However, the post-Olympic years saw the nation plunge into a severe economic crisis, with austerity measures levied by the European Union. While the games were not solely to blame, the costs of such a grand spectacle added stress to a country reliant on the pockets of tourists marveling at the beauty of its islands, the rich olive oils, the grandeur of the Parthenon, and the tangible history imbued in its ancient Greek philosophers.

Older Greeks, survivors of the German occupation in World War II, carry the scars of that time. They accuse Germany of destroying Greece's infrastructure and never repaying the war-incurred debt. As a result, countless lives were lost in Europe, and many of those dead souls were in Greece.

Despite the passage of time and the rapid advancement of technology, the impact of that era remains passed down through generations. The war generation is dying out, leaving behind fragmented narratives and written records of their lived history. I'm the recipient of such inheritance, a curator of the memories my father and Aunt Georgia gifted.

Through the haze of my past, I vividly remember Aunt Georgia's stories. As she spoke of her childhood in Lamia and Paleo Faliro (Παλαιό Φάληρο), she'd often caution me, "Alexi, study hard, be independent. Cherish your family. Remember, the world is unpredictable. We don't know when the past might revisit us." Despite acknowledging that today's Germans weren't responsible for past atrocities, her advice embodied the survival instincts embedded in the hearts of many war survivors. They passed down memories and a blueprint for resilience and survival.

The Athens airport, to me, is a symbol of personal beginnings and endings. It was the birthplace of my relationship with Aunt Georgia and also the site where I said my farewell to Greece, clutching a rose she had given me, carefully placed in an old book, Η Κυρία Ντορεμί (Ms. Doremi). The rose, she said, would preserve our shared memories.

When I finally met my aunts that day at the airport, their slight physical presence was overwhelmed by the sheer force of their emotions. Amid the crowd waiting behind the steel blockade, I heard their piercing cries - Here we are, over here! The raw happiness of the reunion with my father and meeting my brother and me intertwined with the echoes of a painful past.

My image of my aunts until that point was derived from old, carefully preserved photos and my father's war-tinted recollections. He'd introduce us to them through their portraits, unveiling them like sacred relics, whispered secrets from a world we had never seen.

Aunt Georgia, in particular, was a beacon in my father's tales. He described her using the Greek word "filotimo" (φιλότιμο), encapsulating her spirit of honor and dignity. He painted her as a selfless individual who stepped into the shoes of a mother for him after his own had died during childbirth. I had been yearning for that sense of nurturing, unconditional love, and so his tales were acutely felt by me.

Reflecting on my time with Aunt Georgia, I agree with my father's sentiment. She was indeed filotimo personified. She filled my life's void of maternal love with comforting and empowering kindness. Her unwavering love and strength have become my armor, my survival guide in this unpredictable world. Aunt Georgia, to me, is not only the embodiment of filotimo, but she is also a living saint, radiating pure, unconditional love.