Who is that man on the motor bike coming my way? It must be Adonis, husband of the vet Ourania. No. It’s the former boatman, Kosta, whose family ran the taverna at Glisteri Beach. And the woman at the ATM? Kary, the daughter of Yeorgos the carpenter? Close, but no, that’s not her. Perhaps a cousin? That, indeed, is the problem on Skopelos and probably many a village in Greece. Everyone is related and so a thread of similarity defines the faces of the butcher, the baker, the carpenter, the hotel keeper.
The last few days, a phantom woman enters as I exit the fruit market, then the grocery then the butcher. Her features are large and exaggerated. Perhaps in by gone days she might be the Muscle Lady, the Queen of the Carnival with her lips darkly painted, cheeks rouged, hair a crusty blond bouffant. Now I realize once again that I am fooled by the wide embrace of the Skopeliti family. She is not one woman but many—the cousin, the sister, and an aunt—at least 3 different women.
I enjoy all the varieties of the Skopeliti look and I know I will long for it come early July when the village will fill up with foreign faces and weekend visitors. By early September I will rejoice when I recognize my friend Xristos, a local, riding his mixanki with his fluffy little dog sitting primly in the back carrier basket.