Advice from a Shit Greek

Alekos Fassianos. Languid Woman, 1975.

In June, I was invited to submit for a magazine of which I would have never thought such an opportunity to be possible for me in this lifetime. Really. All because I wondered one day, whilst I was alone on the side of a mountain somewhere on the west coast of Crete, what might happen if I chose not to wait.

I contacted the editor with what i remember to be somewhat of a wacky offer, and found a response that read “colour me intrigued” in my inbox shortly after.

Fast forward to then being slated for their eighth issue, bear with me as I practice all my new publishing lingo, though more honestly to keep up with these people I’ve had to google it all. I filed my piece on August 4, as requested and i was honestly truely proud of it.

Unfortunately, due to and most politely put - unforeseen circumstances - the issue and now magazine are no longer going ahead. Can you believe it. And although I have kind of, quite pathetically attempted to find a new home for it, I actually don’t really want it to go anywhere else, I wrote it for them. 

And for me. I read it again today and said to myself, fuck it. Just give it away for free.

So here it is, it’s called Advice from a Shit Greek, ie. Me.

—

For most of my life I’ve been as Greek as licking the icing sugar off a couple of Tiropites once a year on the wrong Easter weekend.

As Greek as the two-dollar coin waiting patiently for one of us to bite down and break a tooth on it in the Vasilopita during one or maybe two New Year’s Eves.

As Greek as the English word “disgusting,” (of Latin origin even) I would say to myself as I stared into the Stifado on the stove at my grandparents’ house.

As Greek as my grandmother who cooked it, a one Patsy Farrell born and raised in Muswellbrook.

Up until just over a year ago everything was much the same, that was until I decided to change my name. High on a cocktail of grief and sambal in a very low-season Sri Lanka, of all places, of all times of the year (don’t ask, just go figure) to Svoronos. My father’s name at birth (before Bondi in the 60s beat it out of him and the Yellow Pages turned it into Benson) and who had passed a few months prior.

Suddenly the part on paper, or not so suddenly, really or cheaply, either though more on that later, what’s a girl to do with all her newfound Greekness but spend the rest of her year disassociating there.

Fast forward ;) another 12 months of going back and forth, I feel everything but the language. Caffeinated, cynical, never in a rush nor starving. I hardly sleep, smoke way too much and quite comfortably stare. I even take my gym clothes to the gym now and get changed into them there, and definitely don’t sort my garbage.

I couldn’t tell you the time, though I know time has passed because my hair now gets stuck in my bum when I wash it, and with every winding, of each transeasonal gust of remembering that he isn’t here and that I don’t know what I’m doing. As I get around in souvenir shop clothing.

And what I have to show for all this healing in Hellenika, other than my receipts on Airbnb and Booking.com, is finally being able to confirm that it’s actually pronounced fah-yay, guys and I only assume that it’s also Greek for yum.

And what I have to say and in all seriousness after this journey that I have been on, is to first and foremostly leave nothing on the table, I beg of you, because the curiosity inevitably comes. Too much and I’m afraid too soon after our wogs are gone. (Like finding out only a few months ago that we’re also a little bit indigenous. Turns out Patsy had more than a few secrets).

Change your name if you have a name to change, it’s a process and expensive but I regret not embracing my Greekness, and all my uniqueness a lot earlier on.

Cook and eat the food, it turns out all these years later that I love money, and octopus is rather delicious.

Lastly, try to get to Greece. Make sure to spend time in the islands. Visit your island. Download Tinder in Athens. Greek fuck boys have personally treated me better than many boyfriends in 24 to 48 hours.

And if you see ever me around looking like I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the Med, I’m actually doing ok now, thanks for asking and it could just be because I don’t ride anywhere before midday let alone dawn these days, Malaka; we sleep when we’re dead.

The end.

By Penelope Svoronos, nee Benson.