I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for plants and vegetables they will give me next year. Marinos agrees, yes we’ll meet at mia y ora, one o’clock. In the background I hear Evangelia shouting, Mia y ora, mia y ora. She is always boisterous, calling out, “Ela, ela!” come, come, have a coffee, to get my attention whenever I pass by the port where she and Marinos sit by their truck selling fruit. This is the Roma way.
Yes, their families are large and their behavior often fun-loving and boisterous. I remember one hot day in August, I drove outside Volos along the shoreline in search of a swimming spot. I found a quiet cove and swam out to an outcropping of rocks. Suddenly a white van pulled up rocking with music. Five or six young Roma men and women and a bunch of kids poured out and began running down the path to the sea, shouting and hollering, the kids squealing, excited to jump in and get cool. A four-year-old girl bawled as she stumbled down the rocky path in flip-flops and no one seemed to care. Roma parents do not dote on their children. It’s a harsh world—get used to it—seems to be the motto. In no time, the quiet cove became a party beach.The young men splashed and roughhoused, yelling and laughing loudly, while nearby a few tourists sat up looking affronted. Then, 20 minutes later, the film reversed and with more shouts and hollers, the kids stumbled up the path, adults pushing them along until they reached the van. Doors flew open, the music began to roar, and with a great clatter they disappeared down the coastal road.