On a return trip to Famagusta this week, I photographed churches, ruins, walls, and castles from many angles. It is spring here, and the flowers have taken root everywhere, even in the nooks and crannies of ancient history. Tennyson was with me with this image.
Flower, in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies.
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand.
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
On another note, I am constantly aware of contradictions, the old and the new, the expected and the unexpected. Next to one of the ancient church structures is a new sign: "de Molay Café and Bar." The picture I captured of the sign on the church actually contains more contrast than you may be able to see. At the bottom are new concrete construction blocks and a large yellow dumpster. The narrow lane in front was being resurfaced with blacktop. In the distance, on the back balcony of a second story apartment, an older woman was hanging out clothes to dry in the sun, under the shadow of the satellite dish.
Last evening, I was a guest at one of the best fish restaurants in Nicosia. We had the seafood meze, a table full of food that never stopped. It was exquisite: squid, calamari, fresh anchovies, mussels, sardines, baby octopi, sea bass (of sorts) and other dishes I couldn’t identify. Of course, it was all accompanied by yogurt and cucumbers, humus, fried potatoes, salad, bread, and more. We ate for two and a half hours and talked for two hours more. My dining partner, a faculty member at the University of Cyprus, is a native of Greece who spent much of her childhood in the U.S. She is now back at UCY as a professor of literature. What I didn’t know about her is that her sense of humor matches mine. What happened at dessert was one of the most hilarious moments I’ve had in life. I call it, “Karidaki, the Flying Walnut.”
Glyko Karidaki is a special dessert, a “boiled sweet,” they say. Immature walnuts, complete with their outer shell are picked early and processed in a mixture, unknown to me, cooked, and served in a tasty syrup on a little dish. When the glyko karidaki arrived at the table, it looked like an enormous black olive in a spoonful of dark oil.
Still, my colleague anticipated its delightful taste and couldn’t wait to share it with me. Taking a fork and knife, she prepared to cut it open. The nut, however, (you know what's coming) refused to crack. In fact, the knife couldn’t penetrate the shell. Evy was puzzled. “It’s supposed to be softer,” she said and returned to its dissection. I watched the dish sliding a bit, to and fro, and the karidaki resisting all efforts. I sat mutely, thinking, “I hope that thing doesn’t slide off its plate and soil the white linen cloth.”
Not to worry. It didn’t do that. Instead, it launched itself into the air, with a dark stream of syrup trailing in its path. It ricocheted off Evy’s shoulder, pirouetted across the walk space, bounced under the table behind us, and came to rest at the feet of the four men, who never knew a thing. Evy looked at me. I looked at Evy. She arched an eyebrow. And, I lost it! I have never been so convulsed in a public place before. I simply could not stop the giggles. Then, afraid I had insulted my host, I looked at her through watery eyes and chortles. She was there, head turned, smothering her laughter behind her napkin. We couldn’t stop. She kept turning to look at karidaki (he had become a friend now, hiding under the table). The men thought we were rude, probably. And, then, the fits would begin again. I had to excuse myself, stumble red-faced into the W.C., hoping I’d chosen the right one in my haze of hysteria. I recovered, wiped the mascara off my face, returned to the table, only to start again.
I'm still chuckling as I write this. It was an historical moment. I will forever remember Cyprus, where even the walnuts bring joy.
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