Dolmas, Donkeys, and Yiayas: Childhood Summers in Cyprus
As a Greek-Cypriot American whose dad grew up there, my fond memories of the Mediterranean island are numerous
The youngest of three brothers, my dad was born at home in the seaside village of Polis, Cyprus (population 1500). A doula helped deliver him—his family’s next-door neighbor who navigated around town on a scooter from baby to baby.
He spent most summers picking grapes in the vineyards of his father’s village of Agios Georgios. The adults wore large hats to block out the sweltering sun, placing the fruits they’d plucked into sacks attached to their donkeys.
At 16 he moved to Michigan, then to California where he met my mom.
My sister and I were young children the first time we traveled back to his homeland.
I recollect the lamb souvlaki roasting on a spit in Uncle Giorgiou’s vineyard, green grapes hanging over our heads and dust sticking to the sweat on our feet.
I recall days, endless days. A language I could understand only bits and pieces of. Elderly ladies pinching our cheeks. Heat that never relented even at night. Dust, donkeys, and food that transformed the tongue.
