As our vessel approached Rhodes port on a hot day, I wondered where Collossus of Rhodes stood. I tried to imagine we were passing between the legs of Helios while shades of folded sails and swinging ropes were sweeping the floorboards, and cries of ancient deckhands are heard for a safe passage.
We saw the walls of Rhodes Old Town and minarets of two mosques afar, Süleymaniye Mosque and Ibrahim Pasha Mosque decorating the ancient skyline.
We rented a renovated house close to St John’s Gate at the end of Pithagora Lane. Rhodes Old Town is UNESCO listed. Decscendants of Greek and Turkish ancestors who made this place home for many centuries still live in Old Town. As you walk by on narrow cobblestone alleys you may notice some house-doors are left open, from where murmurs of old stories escape along with mist. Sometimes a motorcyclist pass by, but otherwise in this part of the town you will be breathing the past.
Upstairs, I sit on a small sofa in a small hall and fixed my gaze outside. The balcony door has windows from ground to ceiling. Outside there was a tiny Juliette balcony, on it a tiny table with a green plant in a terracotta pot and tiny chairs on each side. Beyond I see ancient walls of a desolate house waiting to be renovated. Behind that there are city walls close to St. John’s gate. I hear constant buzzing of cicadas singing through intense heat, taking me to what this place looked like five hundred years ago.
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As you walk down Pithagora Lane towards Hippocrates Square at noon you will see more and more tourists. When you reach the square suddenly the magic is lost; you will be surrounded by hundreds of sweaty tourists with bad sunburns. Phones are in hand or mounted on selfie sticks, harsh daylight is casting ugly shades everywhere, everybody is in Instagram or TikTok, or Facebook, or WhatsApp or GodKnowsWhat recording mode, desperate to show off they are having good time, while makeups, fake eyelash glues and ice creams are melting fast in thirty four degrees Celsius.
Tourists are drinking coloured drinks, taking selfies for most bizarre looking photos, standing next to store entrances where the cold AC air blows.
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When the sun sets and magic hour begins, crowds get most intense, barkers appear in restaurant fronts. Tourists appear strolling in better outfits, summery and light coloured, suitable for dinner; all had showers, young women and young men suntanned, glance at each other briefly, no doubt they are now feeling good with a prospect of romance sparkles their eyes, everybody is in their better selves, insecurities were shelved, sicknesses and world’s troubles were forgotten just for tonight.
We dined in New Town then came back to Old Town late at night. It was busier than daytime. While waiting for the girls shopping in a gift shop on Socratous Street, I threw myself to a shop front across the street to avoid crowds. I noticed it was a jewellery shop with bright lights. Realising I was blocking the shop window, I moved aside. The owner acknowledged my gesture and we started to talk.
- Waiting for the girls, my wife and my sister, they are shopping there. Sorry. I didn’t want to obstruct your shop window.
- Yes, you’d better.
- My name is Ergun. Yours?
- Nikos.
- We love Rhodians’ hospitality. We had troubles in the past. But things are better now. With relaxed visa rules, trade between Marmaris and Rhodes flourished.
- We fought for nothing. You and I are normal, politicians are not. The shop owner there and there (indicating shops) are Turks. We are friends. We eat and drink together.
- Yes. You are right. Politicians are not normal.
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We went to Museum of Modern Greek Art to see a photography exhibition, Ara Güler’s Anatolia in Colour.
After visiting the exhibition we chatted with a young guy whom we bought the tickets from. Yannis wants to be a chef. He recommended a few authentic Greek tavernas in the southern part of the city, outside St. George’s gate.
In the evening we went home, freshened up, then walked up the St John’s gate and passed to the south. We walked fair bit at dusk with a feeble white light pouring from my cell phone’s Google Maps.
We were in a working class suburb. We can tell from clothing lines, worn off supermarket store signs and black garbage bags overflowing large bins on the pavement. Not that this was off putting; I like experiencing real lives of real people. When we reached Alex. Ipsilantou lane. There it was Μια Πιρουνιά (A Fork). The entrance was modest, it could have been a garage, or a warehouse, nothing suggested there was a charming, old school taverna inside.
Alekos, the host of “A Fork” taverna greeted us. He was a sympathetic man in his seventies. He showed us a group of black and white photographs of his ancestors hung on the wall behind him. There was a beautiful girl image with sad eyes. Alekos told us she was starved to death during Nazi occupation.
Inside, it was simply a medium size hall with walls painted in pink, featuring a clock going in reverse, anecdotes written on mirrors, little pots with colourful little flowers, more anecdotes written on blackboards, some in Greek, some in English, like “The problem with the world is everyone is a few drinks behind - Humphrey Bogart”.
Inside the hall, there was a stage near the entrance. The rest of the hall had pale green wooden tables, around them there were pink and yellow wooden chairs.
The pale green roof was covering half of the hall length from the stage end. The other half was just a skeleton of beams supporting the walls. You could see the sky, dark blue, deep and sad, and stars are sprinkled on it.
It was a balmy evening with aniseed breeze and unsung songs.
We had delicious food, octopus, calamari, salad, cheese balls, fried cheese with honey and sesame seed and uzo.
Two musicians took stage. One was playing a guitar and the other one, a slim guy with glasses, a bouzouki. Ballads of Dodecanese Islands filled the air. The slim musician played Zülfü Livaneli’s “kardeşin duymaz el oğlu duyar” in Greek. I greeted him. I tapped my right hand on my chest; he did the same.
At the door we thanked Aleko; he had the waitress took our photograph with him in memory of the night.
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I saw him sitting on a stone wall under the shade of a tree. He was a dapper man, in his eighties perhaps, holding a rosary in his hands, with blue trousers, a light blue shirt and a blue fedora hat. He greeted me and we started to talk in Turkish.
- I am ninety years old.
- You don’t look like ninety.
- My ancestors came with Yavuz Sultan Selim from Karaman. I’ve seen so many things. Now everybody is gone.
There was a silence.
- Do you think Azrael discriminate when your time comes?
- Err.. I don’t know.
- No it won’t. It won’t give you a minute if you ask for a minute. It will take you right away. Who do you think then is the most welcoming?
- God?
- No. It is the Mother Earth. It will take you to its bosom whether you are a Jew, a Christian or a Muslim.
The old man was looking for something in his shirt’s pocket. He pulled two passport size black and white photographs. One a young handsome man in his thirties (it was him), and another one a beautiful woman.
- It has been many years since I lost her. I have been living here all by myself. I don’t know where I want to be buried.
- But don’t you have children, grandchildren?
- I do but I live alone and I’m alone.
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When we left Rhodes, once again Mediterranean Sea embraced us. Harsh winds were whistling through the upper deck while white foams were kissing dark blue waves. In them hundreds of stories were being retold, like sirens’ whispers they sounded unintelligible as they mixed with each-other and as we left beautiful Rhodes behind.
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