When she dropped me off I said, “Only I would come to Greece to see Asian art! Ha!”
“That’s too funny! So, let’s say we meet at Café Liston at one o’clock? It’s not too heavy, and you know dinner tonight is going to be a big meal. My mother is cooking lamb and fish and everything in the world.”
“That sounds great! I’ll be there.”
I paid the small entrance fee with my Visa card and went inside to see the Asian art. There were endless statues, pieces of armor, ceramics, and silks. In the Chinese galleries, there were somber, beautiful funerary pieces that fascinated me. One in particular caught my eye, a lone female equestrian, oddly sitting western style, astride a noble horse, bound for the afterlife. The rider was dressed for a grand occasion, her hair atop her head in a great swirl and her clothing ornate and detailed. Her face was expressionless, as though the trip was not unexpected. It was not serene but resigned. The statue struck me as kind of a notation of life in general, that we arrive alone and we will leave alone. It was attributed to the Tang Dynasty, sometime in the late sixth or seventh century.
“Wow,” I whispered to the empty gallery.
I moved on to the Japanese galleries. After passing dozens of kimonos and painted fans, ceramics and domestic objects, I came upon a gallery of woodblock prints. When I was a young woman and taking an art history class, thinking erroneously that I’d get an easy A, we studied the art of making woodblock prints. I stood now in front of an eight-color woodblock showing two women in traditional Japanese dress, long kimonos tied at the waist with wide obis. Their hair was in an updo secured by hair sticks. They were wearing geta sandals and one woman held a fan, an indication of warm weather. They were tending a small garden, and one of the women held a morning glory blossom between her fingers. It reminded me of the great pleasure gardening gave to me. It wasn’t just about the harvest of flowers or vegetables. It was about the time spent there. I always came away with a feeling of peace. What would happen to my garden now?
I went on and on, from one gallery to another, and I looked at everything until it became a blur. Maybe visiting a museum on my first day here wasn’t such a great idea. My heart was so heavy every time I thought of Adam that I definitely wasn’t giving the collection the focus it deserved. It was still early enough to go see something else before lunch. I decided a church was in order.
I asked the ladies at the entrance which one to see and they were emphatic.
“You must see Agios Spyrídon!” said one.
“He is the patron saint of Corfu. He works many miracles!” said the other.
The first one added in a whisper, “He still protects us, and every now and then they have to replace his shoes.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because,” she said, again in a whisper, “he roams the streets at night, checking on us!”
“He wears out the soles of his shoes,” the other one said.
“No kidding,” I said. “Can I walk there from here?”
“It’s no problem at all.”
They gave me directions, and I thanked them and left.
I looked into the sky for the church with the red dome on its steeple, which was easy to find. The tower clock in the church’s belfry began to chime and I looked at my watch. It was ten to twelve. Saint Spyrídon was early, I said, smiling to myself.
In the entrance of the church were stacks of brochures about the life of the saint and the miracles he performed. Well, I’m a sucker for a miracle story, and I thought I sure could use one right about now. I took a brochure, sat down in a pew, and read. Then I looked around me. He stopped armies. He stayed the enemies of Corfu. He healed the sick.
Incredible, I thought. The church itself was a gorgeous sixteenth-century building with a ceiling covered with murals of Saint Spyrídon dressed in deep red robes performing miracles. All around the altar were beautiful icons. I couldn’t think of a single church in Charleston that was so ornate.
The brochure said that as a bonus, his incorrupt mummified remains were there, including his right hand, which no one seems to know how he lost but which is also in an alleged incorrupt state. That hand had traveled a bit—to Rome, Russia, and other spots. Saint Spyrídon? Well, let’s just see what the remains of a seventeen-hundred-year-old incorrupt saint looks like, I said to myself. I got up and went up to the altar, where others stood in a line. I assumed they were there to ask the saint for a favor.
There was an Orthodox priest with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard positioned there behind the altar, chanting in Greek. As he sang, it became clear that he was chanting to the saint on behalf of each petitioner. I only had a few minutes to think of what I wanted to ask. When it was my turn, I awkwardly introduced myself to the priest. The saint was lying there in an open silver coffin, so elaborate I could not even imagine anything more grand. It was completely unprotected by a glass panel or anything. I was astonished by the lack of security. Just me, Saint Spyrídon, and a crusty old Orthodox priest.
“Hi, I’m Eliza Stanley from Charleston, South Carolina,” I said, instantly realizing that I could’ve said I was Marilyn Monroe and it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference.
He just smiled and said, “Ask Agios Spyrídon . . .”
Then he touched his own heart several times and I knew he meant for me to ask for my favor from my heart to the heart of the Saint. I thought of Adam. Please help me put us back together again, I asked silently.
I took a good look at the saint. He looked terrible. But I had to admit, he still had skin. You’d think someone who died in a.d. 325 would be nothing but a pile of bones. And I took a look at his shoes. They were velvet slippers. I looked back at the priest. He motioned his approval to touch the foot of the saint. So I did. I know this will sound insane, but for one tiny moment it felt like time stopped and I was in midair, and then without so much as a watch your step, I was on my feet and back in the world.
“Thank you,” I said and moved on.
So, that’s probably what LSD feels like, I thought. I couldn’t wait to tell Kiki.
I left the church and hurried down the bustling streets to the Café Liston where I was to meet her. I passed dozens of shops selling souvenirs, whiskey, olive oil, and the quince liquor that was so popular. I reminded myself to buy some to take home. If I went home.
The restaurant was swarmed with midday diners, everyone talking at once. Kiki was there waiting at a table, doing e-mail on her phone. We could have been having lunch under the colonnade on the Rue de Rivoli in Paris, the architecture was so similar. She looked up at me smiling.
“Hey there!” she said.
“You won’t believe who I just saw!” I said, and we swapped air kisses.