Ela, come in, says Evangelia as I drive into the campsite. Their chained pit bull, spying my dog jumps atop a car wreck in the yard and bounds crazily up and down like a carousel horse. No matter. We sit down to a glass of cold water—it’s too hot for anything else.
Evangelia wears her usual long skirt (the trademark of all married Roma women) and today a head scarf. I tell her she looks beautiful but she scoffs. With her deep dark eyes, flowing black hair streaked with grey, sculpted cheek bones—she is a striking woman at 55. We are mutual fans often complimenting one another. She asks how I manage to keep my teeth so beautiful and bright. I say my dentist cleans them twice a year but immediately I feel too rich, too entitled and wish I had spared her the details. Evangelia has probably never visited a dentist. Already she has lost a front tooth and feels ashamed and embarrassed. Although she receives a small monthly stipend from the government, her family often go many hours between meals. Sometimes days. Yet they are almost always upbeat. I have to remind myself that this tribe of Roma are truly poor.