Chapter 49 Charlotte
Charlotte
Charlotte sipped her coffee. It was nice to feel needed in Athens, Greece, though at times she felt as if she was running a two-star bed-and-breakfast, just cooking and cleaning like a scullery maid.
With the girls situated at their fancy school and Lee sleeping late (as usual), Charlotte was at loose ends.
She decided to head to the local market, which was more like a Gas Mart than a real store.
No grocery carts! Brown eggs with bits of straw and feathers clinging to them!
Charlotte bought a dozen, and, as usual, the shopkeeper wrapped the eggs in dirty newspaper.
There was no actual fresh milk, just some foil-box “long-life” milk, which tasted downright weird.
No sliced cheddar, just icebergs of feta floating in oceanic brine, scooped out by hand.
Instead of an appealing wheel of Brie, Charlotte sampled hard cheeses called graviera, kasseri, and kefalotyri.
They were revolting, too salty; the word that came to mind was “fetid.”
The butcher shop down the street reeked and featured hanging legs of spiced beef and air-dried pork.
When Charlotte asked for thin-sliced honey ham—her preference for a sandwich—the fat man with blood on his apron told her they only sold “full cuts, real meat, like for boiling.” Beneath the fatty bits of meat, Charlotte spied an ashtray with a half-smoked cigarette.
She supposed she should have been glad he put his cigarette out to serve her!
And woe to the American who yearned for a bag of uniformly sliced sandwich bread!
There were none of the snacks that made packing lunches simple, the Go-Gurts and Fruit Roll-Ups, the cute and salty Goldfish crackers.
Charlotte could not bring herself to buy dried prunes.
She got the weensy bags of potato chips, and—for dinner—fresh pasta, a can (not a bottle) of olive oil, lemons with the leaves attached.
No Mallomars! Charlotte bought some cheap-looking cookies called Gemista.
After unpacking her groceries mid-morning, Charlotte ran out of things to do. Outside seemed overwhelming, but not going out felt worse. She put on her sunglasses and a floppy hat that read It’s All Greek to Me, and walked.
She checked her phone for messages. Paros still hadn’t called.
At last, she reached the Acropolis Museum, a sleek monument of glass and steel. Blessedly cool inside, the museum floated above an ancient excavation site. Charlotte saw broken walls and sunken hearths beneath the glass floor. People had lived here thousands of years ago.
She wandered through the Archaic Gallery. Blank-eyed statues stared into eternity. She picked up a magnifier and peered through it to see fossilized seashells embedded in the marble. Charlotte tried to feel enchanted.
The glorious Parthenon Gallery had been designed to mirror the exact dimensions and orientation of the temple itself.
Through wall-to-ceiling windows, Charlotte watched the merciless sun beat down on the actual Parthenon.
A tour guide spoke loudly in English behind her.
“Behold the Parthenon temple, dedicated to the goddess Athena. It is two thousand four hundred and seventy years young,” he boomed.
“The Elgin Marbles were hacksawed off and stolen in the nineteenth century. Their spaces remain, waiting for them to be returned.”
Charlotte pretended she wasn’t eavesdropping.
“We have created blank spaces for the stolen Elgin Marbles to live when they are returned. More and more museums are researching the provenance of their heists.”
The guide walked to a corner and pointed to a red dot on the floor. “This dot,” he exclaimed, “marks the exact spot where an ancient craftsman once dropped a tool while working on the original temple.”
Charlotte stared at the dot, realizing with sadness that she’d never understood Paros, who had tried to explain where he belonged. She had treated Paros like a souvenir…like something she could cut from his world, bring home to hers. Maybe that was why he hadn’t called.
The guide went on. “Now,” he said, “this mistake will be remembered for all time.”
Isn’t that always the way with mistakes, thought Charlotte.