Miss China
It’s autumn and a typical Friday night at Naufsika’s Taverna in Kefalohori, a bustling village beneath the towering Grammos mountains in northwestern Greece. Tonight seven or eight tables are full of diners; some locals, many family members.
With a rush of cold air, the front doors swing open and a young masked Chinese woman appears. She wears shiny black spandex running gear hugging her shapely body and carries two large satchels full of “Made in China” clothes and colorful nick-naks. She is a regular visitor here; the family wastes no time making their choices. A screeching fire engine for Dimitraki. Red, green and blue plastic clothes pins for Naufsika. A phone charger for Eleni. A warm sweatshirt for Takis. After working the crowd, she disappears to the far dark corner where she appears to be giving massages. Whose body could it be? At first, I can’t imagine a single friend or relative of Naufsika’s who would submit to a massage in the dining room of the Taverna. From my table, all I can see is Miss China’s back and a pair of extended legs with socked feet. I look around the room for an empty chair. Of course, Takis, Naufsika’s flirtatious younger brother. Do you think he has a sore neck? A back problem? No, Takis just loves women and adores touching and being touched.
The night before, I slipped out into the night for a stroll. A small car pulled up, Takis jumped out with an enthusiastic “Beatriki! Ela!” He rushed to my side (I smell beer) and hugged me hugely, burying his face in my hair. But caution. Wife Eleni is just a skip across the road where a glance out her kitchen window could land Takis in the goat shed for the night.
Back in the dining room, Naufsika tells me that Miss China is from Thessaloniki. She tours the villages all summer long, cooking dinner beside her car on a small gas burner, sleeping in her car at night, then returning to Thessaloniki from time to time to restock her inventory. Her husband stays in the car too, but no one has ever seen him. She speaks Greek fluently. “No English,” she says when I ask.
In days gone by, every town the world over had a Chinese restaurant. Even in Glens Falls, New York, the small northern city where I grew up, a tiny Cantonese restaurant with exotic lanterns in the windows flourished downtown. Now China Shops are seeding like weeds in Greek towns and cities. And traveling shops too. I like to think that they are a modern version of the Roma peddlers of old always on the move from town to town with horse and cart, selling wares, resurfacing copper pots, sharpening knives.