This piece draws from a visit to my family’s ancestral island, Mathraki, during a period of quiet observation and inward reflection. Removed from modern systems and constant noise, the experience offered insight into solitude, identity, craftsmanship, and the values that endure without formal structure.
It is a reflection on how environments shape perspective and how self-understanding often emerges in stillness.
Clarity, Solitude, & the Systems That Endure
My family is from an island called Mathraki. Mathraki is located off the coast of a large island about 50 miles wide called Corfu. To get there, you have to take a ferry that makes the trip to Mathraki only once a week. If you happen to miss the 6 a.m. boat going to, or coming from Mathraki, you are stranded until you return to the dock and pay your five Euro fee a week later. Mathraki is made up of anywhere from 40-50 families at any given time. The island is completely secluded from modern society and a government presence. There is only one doctor on the entire island and to see her, all you have to do is knock on the front door of her house. This one mile long mountainous rock in the middle of the Mediterranean is home to many of my great uncles and aunts. When I arrived at Mathraki in the summer of 2009, I could not have imagined how much this little island would teach me about myself.
The boat ride to Mathraki was three hours long and full of choppy waves that rocked our ferry like a dip in the road that would never end. Along for the ride was my mother, father, brother, sister, grandmother, and great aunt. My great aunt, Marietta, would not stop asking me if I wanted cookies or snacks. I felt as though I was four years old as she asked me repeatedly, “Are you sure you don’t want something? Do you want any raisins or bread and butter?” Finally, I gave in to her when she asked me if I wanted a sandwich, “OK, I’ll eat a sandwich if you have one.” She immediately turned to my grandma condescendingly saying, “See he’s hungry, I told you he was hungry, look at the poor thing.” “Come on let’s go get a hot sandwich downstairs,” she told me. I followed Marietta down the narrow stairs of the boat to find a young man about my age at the bar. The situation could not have been any more devastating. He was completely surrounded by elderly people demanding everything from grilled cheese sandwiches and coffee, to cups of ice water and whisky. He was the only human being in the room wearing anything other than a white dress shirt and slacks or a black dress and bonnet, standing out like a sore thumb with his dark blue striped, name brand shirt. Despite looking as though he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown he persevered through every picky request and concern his elderly guests threw at him. His interactions with the guests where very direct and soft spoken, “Coffee, OK do you want some milk?” One old man took a sip of his coffee and said, “Hey son, get me some more sugar, more, more! You’re a good boy.” Quickly he did as I stood there hoping my face wasn’t twitching at the madness before me. I realized me and this guy where in a very similar situation, he was trapped in the lower level of a boat trying to please everyone in the room, and I was on the upper level of the boat accepting a hot sandwich from my great aunt to please her stubborn heart. Ironically, both of our lives where full of people, wiser, and more accomplished than us, demanding anything of us just to make their own lives a little more enjoyable. As if conditioned we would swallow our pride and say, “Thank you.” As I did when aunt Marietta handed me the cold ham and grilled cheese sandwich.
Our arrival on the island was warm, as my uncle Chris met us at the dock, gave us all hugs, and drove our luggage up the steep hill to my grandfather’s house. My grandfather built the house in Mathraki before he passed away. It was supposed to be a vacation home for him and my grandmother when they needed to get away from the busy life of the small city on the island of Corfu where his real home was located. He always wanted me and my brother to go on his boat and fish off the coast of Mathraki, something that regretfully we would never experience. He had a passion for the water and even sailed around the world as a young man, living in many different countries while working on an oil rig. He had an infectiously adventurous and friendly spirit in him, something that fortunately I inherited from him. We were sitting outside under the canopy at a dinner table in front of a buffet of freshly prepared food when my mother and my uncle Chris began talking about my grandfather. My grandfather used to pass the time on the oil rig by drawing cartoons of other fellow sailors on the ship. He would make everyone laugh at the crude drawings he used to make of people he didn’t like. From what I heard from my mother his witty and friendly personality was not limited to his colleagues on the boat either. My mother told us about how my grandfather lived in Japan for three years during his travels on the sea. He was one of the most popular karaoke singers amongst the Japanese people because he would sing songs in their native language. My uncle Chris added, “They would cheer while he was on stage, Dimitri! Dimitri!” I learned my uncle Chris and my grandfather would also build models of the boats they sailed on to pass time as well. Exact replicas of the ships they sailed made out of hand carved wood and found objects where proudly displayed around uncle Chris’ home. Through the exchange of words I mentioned to Chris that I was going to school for art in America and asked him what inspired him and my grandfather to create such large replicas of the oil rigs they traveled on. He said, “We liked to work on things that took a lot of attention to detail.” The longer I thought about his reasoning, the more I thought about how similar I felt about my artwork as well.
During our week stay on the island I would be the first to wake up in the morning, walk downhill to the beach or walk uphill on a hiking trail. My great aunts and uncles always thought it was a little odd though. I was quiet most of the stay on the island and didn’t really associate with many of the relatives before it was absolutely necessary or before I starved. I didn’t want to be around them, I wanted to be alone, to be my own island and establish myself on it. The island is synonymous with my life. I have never been a predictable person, I always marched at the beat of my own drum regardless of what others thought about me, even family. My absence from the house even got the attention of my great aunts and uncles. Thinking I couldn’t understand what they where saying they would ask my mother, “What’s wrong with him? Is he sad? Does he not like us?” There was nothing she or I could say, I am just the type of person that wants company on my own terms. If I want to see you, I will go to your house, otherwise, I am going to do my own thing. It’s an idea contrary to the Greek custom on the island. People are always around one another and privacy is slim to none besides the occasional nap break. Otherwise, gossip, eating, and laughter fill the day with no end in sight. Despite their discomfort of my own slowly diminishing disinterest, I had my own comfort to worry about. There was so much to do with such a young body. I could walk uphill or downhill. I could collect bamboo sticks or I could collect seashells. There was no sense for me to be around loud noise that could irritate me when, in any direction, I could find peace and solitude just walking along-side a dirt road.
I took a left to a pathway leading to a bright orange church with a large white door. The massive cement structure looked as though it could stand for 200,000 years and only loose its color to the elements. An archway on the left side of the building contained a huge morning bell with a long rope just above an entry way to the cemetery. As I looked at the wooden ladder leading up to the bell and it’s accompanying rope I could imagine a young altar boy who, centuries earlier, must have climbed it sacrificing his young body for the enjoyment of his aged guests for the impending service. Before passing through the archway I looked through a window and could imagine a full pew of worshippers long passed listening to what revelation their God would give them before they proceeded through another day. In the church I saw men with white dress shirts and slacks on one side, and women with black dresses and bonnets on the other side. I passed through the archway and walked to the back of the cemetery. My grandfather’s face looked old and tired in the picture on the headstone. He was back to where he began, on an island in the middle of nowhere wondering where do we go from here. Or was that where he always was? By himself on the island he knew as identity, an island he took everywhere with him, an island that never budged no matter what came its way. I thought he was self actualized, as though he had all the answers, but like me, he was surrounded by questions. The only answer we both would find would be buried deep in an idea we both called love. The love for mankind, the love for adventure, the love for art, and the love for sharing. Standing there as I thought about all the lessons learned, and the gifts given to me from the one person that I can truly say defines who I am today. I still owed him a gift in return. Just as he would expect I placed a seashell from the walk to the beach down hill right next to his picture.
