My Ikaria Read online

  A few weeks later, I catch up with my friend and former colleague Julie and talk to her about my feelings of malaise. I tell her that even though I am privileged and have so many comforts, I often feel tired, strung out and unable to properly enjoy what I have. We talk about how important it is to appreciate the day-to-day things, and to look after ourselves in order to be able to look after others – but it’s easier said than done.

  Julie and I worked together in various cancer charities. Around the same time several years ago, we both give up our salaried positions to try and find more balance, to do things we felt passionately about – while still paying our bills and mortgages. I’ve known Julie since I was in my twenties, and value our friendship. When my father and Katerina died, she comforted me with words that made me feel understood and supported. Now she helps once again by offering to put me in touch with a friend of hers who works at an organisation that might have some answers to my health woes.

  A few weeks later, I am sitting in the light-filled office of Jerril Rechter, the CEO of VicHealth, a body that focuses on promoting good health and preventing chronic disease. When we meet, Jerril’s already had a few early-morning meetings, and apologises that she needs to rush off to catch an afternoon flight to an international conference soon. We have an hour to get to the bottom of the causes of chronic ill health and what can be done about them. Easy.

  Jerril is not shy about sharing with me that, as a former ballerina, she used to go on crash diets and smoke menthol cigarettes in a bid to keep her weight down. She tells me that she gave up smoking when she finished dancing and that no amount of tobacco smoking is safe. Her days of crash dieting are behind her as well – she has more of a ‘balanced eating’ mindset now, which helps to maintain her energy levels during her busy days.

  She then talks about obesity as the ‘new smoking’ in its widespread impact on health, saying, ‘We used to walk through clouds of smoke on the street, in our offices. It was pervasive, it was everywhere, and it just became part of the norm. That is what we’re going to be experiencing with obesity. We will have this whole community that is unwell and struggling. It’s a huge concern.’

  Jerril acknowledges that change is difficult, and that our environment doesn’t encourage us to move or to eat well. And it doesn’t help that we are so busy.

  When I ask her what we should be doing to avoid obesity she says, ‘Ultimately, it is around encouraging environments to help us eat well and move more. Around eating fresh fruit, vegetables and whole grains, looking at portion sizes and having a balanced diet. It’s also important to build some regular physical activity into your day – whether it’s walking your kids to school, taking the stairs instead of the lift at work or if you’re out and about, or even getting off the bus or tram a stop early and walking the rest. It should be about your lifestyle and what works for your body to help you maintain a healthy life. It’s all about moderation.

  ‘For many people, it can be really hard to live a good life that’s active, and to eat well. If you think about quitting smoking, there are tools out there that can help you do it, but ultimately it’s hard. I’ve done it. It’s really hard. It’s the same with eating well and moving more. We all know that it’s important to eat well and move more, but it’s changing behaviours that’s the hard part!’

  She notes that many of us sit for many hours a day – and that there’s good research to show that this is shortening our life.

  What becomes clear to me is that Jerril is passionate about the idea of investing in our health future, likening it to the way we invest in our financial future, a bit like superannuation for our health.

  But she adds that being healthy is not just about food and movement. It’s also about social connection.

  ‘Without good social connections, we know people have poor health outcomes, without a doubt,’ she says. ‘You will die earlier if you are not socially connected. Studies have found that loneliness can be as harmful to our health as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. It’s literally a killer.’

  ‘Everyone’s waiting for the next magic pill,’ she continues, ‘but it’s really all about living a good life; eating well and being active. I think everybody should be investing in their health. Little changes every single day are going to really help you live that happier, healthier life as you continue on.’

  I’m struck by how the Ikarians have been doing the things Jerril has spoken about all along. Not only that, but what she says reminds me that a lot of this stuff is what we did as kids. Maybe the Ikarian villages are closer to home than I thought . . .

  Late that night, my father’s sister, Kanella, rings from her home in southern Greece. As always, she asks about George and the kids, about Mum and Dennis. I tell her that we are well, that I saw Mum and Dennis only a few days ago. Mum was gardening when we arrived, tending the wild greens and herbs in her spring garden, a fact that my Theia Kanella appreciates. I ask her what she is growing, and she tells me about her large plot filled with autumn vegetables – the last of the summer tomatoes, cucumber, zucchini, and wild greens as well.

  I tell her about my newfound interest in Ikaria. She tells me that one of her sons, my cousin Dionysios, was stationed there as a policeman when he was younger. I remember now that my aunt went over there for his wedding.

  She goes on to talk about Ikaria as if it’s another planet, not an island in the same country she lives in. ‘When I visited, I found them to be a strange people. They open their shops in the middle of the night. They just do what they like, they don’t care. They are anestitoi, apathetic. Don’t worry about Ikaria – just come and visit us,’ she concludes.

  Rather than putting me off, Theia Kanella’s comments only serve to pique my curiosity further.

  My cousin Sakis from Athens happens to be staying with her. She puts him on the line, and I talk to him about my growing interest in the Ikarians too. He tells me he has spent lots of time on the island – attracted by its harsh beauty and its isolation. The superhot natural springs around the island are good for the congenital spinal condition he has. He speaks reverently of the springs’ therapeutic qualities, and reflects on the stark contrast between life in Ikaria and the smog and bustle of Athens.

  Sakis also asks when we’re coming to Greece. I explain how expensive it would be to bring the whole family, how it’s not easy to leave my work.

  After I hang up I join George and Emmanuel at the table, pulling a bowl of nuts in their shells towards us, and cracking some to share.

  Emmanuel picks up an almond in its shell and asks, ‘What are these?’

  ‘Almonds.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s where they come from.’

  George and I both raise our eyebrows at the same time. We have an almond tree in the garden, though admittedly it hasn’t yet provided any fruit.

  Emmanuel leaves the table and George asks about my family in Greece. I tell him that my aunt’s health is worsening – she has a lung disease, chronic pain from rheumatoid arthritis – but her spirits appear strong. She too asked when we’re coming to visit again. George shrugs. A family trip to Greece isn’t exactly at the top of our agenda.

  ‘Spiri, you’ve been talking about this for a while now. Maybe you need to get Ikaria out of your system. You could go on your own. You know we will manage.’

  I look at my husband, who I’ve known for nearly twenty years now. It’s moments like this I know I’m with the right man.

  ‘That’s good of you, darling, but I can’t do it. It’s too big a sacrifice, and we can’t afford it. I think I’m hankering for this because I need to make some changes.’

  ‘Like what changes?’ George asks.

  ‘Well, the way we eat. We’ve started to eat less processed food, and we’re eating more food that we cook ourselves. But still, we eat too much – too much bread and pasta, our portions are quite big, we eat out a fair bit. And we need to move more, sit less. That would be a good start.’ I look at George expectantly.

  ‘Well
, that sounds . . . positive,’ he replies, though he looks a bit dubious. Thanks to the Ikarians, he’s already started getting off a few stops before he gets to work in order to move more. He’s happily eating the healthier meals I make. And he is snacking less on sweet treats each night.

  ‘I’m happy to tweak what we do even more – as long as you don’t make me give up bread.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Shifting

  Since reading more about Ikaria and the other Blue Zones around the world, I can’t help but think more about what’s important to me. Sitting down one day, I reflect on the many daily lists I make: what to do, what to buy and how to lose weight. I think about how so many of these lists feel trivial, chronicling the minutiae of my waking hours. I daydream about the things that matter most in my life. Putting pen to paper, I write down three words . . .

  Family. Health. Creativity.

  I stare at the three words I’ve just scribbled. The list is small, but it may well be the most important one I’ve ever made.

  I think about my family, how much they mean to me and how much energy they take. George and I invest a lot daily in the business of keeping the home fires stoked; keeping the house and garden in a semblance of order, paying off the mortgage, making sure our kids are safe and fed and doing what they’re supposed to be doing and happy too. In all this, we try and make time for each other. If we’re lucky, there’s a little something left over for ourselves.

  As parents, George and I try to comfort and guide Dolores and Emmanuel through the awkward land of adolescence as they begin to make their way into adulthood. Being a mother is perhaps the hardest, most rewarding and most relentless job I’ve ever done. After their births, there was no turning back, no taking the responsibility for another human life away. I would throw myself in front of a car for my children if push came to shove. Their need for me is both daunting and comforting.

  As I stare at the word ‘family’ I wonder, not for the first time, what my life would be like if something were to happen to my children or husband: a terrible accident, a serious illness, a mishap that would change the course of their, and our, lives forever. Or what would it be like if something terrible happened to my brother, Dennis, or my mother? I know from my friend Katerina and from Dad that illness and death can strike at unexpected moments. I remember feeling helpless, at a complete loss as to how to help, but also trying to be with them as much as possible, trying to enjoy the limited time we had and appreciating each moment. I want to spend more time with my mother, in particular.

  I know I can’t control everything that happens to the people I love, but there are some things I can do. I suddenly realise that making a home – a comfortable nest for my family, where we are fed and feel safe and know that we are loved – is very important to me. It’s no wonder I expend so much energy on my family, often at the expense of work or time spent on other things I enjoy.

  I look at the word ‘health’, and understand from my wanderings on the internet these last few months that I’ve been letting my own health lag behind in my bid to make sure that everyone else is okay. What I’ve read about the Ikarians has reminded me that health is not just about eating well or even moving more. It’s about feeling connected, about having a sense of purpose, feeling that your life is meaningful. I think about the malaise I’ve been feeling, the sense of needing something exciting to happen to lift me from my stupor, something to reignite the mojo I had when I was younger.

  Finally, I reflect on the word ‘creativity’ and wonder what it is doing there. It sounds so indulgent, so pretentious. But for me, I realise, it’s important. To be creative means to make words sing and dance on the page. To be able to make something from the odd vegetables in the bottom of the crisper. To have or listen to an inspiring conversation. To me, it’s feeling that you have a special place in the world and are interacting meaningfully with those around you. It is about feeling alive, spirited, vital.

  I look at the words for a few more moments and realise I’ve made a purpose list.

  Three words to describe what’s most important in my life. It feels like a start.

  With my newfound focus on things that matter to me, I reconnect with my interest in cooking healthy food and start preparing bigger batches on weekends. This means there is more home-cooked food on hand for the weekdays when we are sometimes too busy to cook.

  In keeping with this, I’ve been taking myself off to my local greengrocer on a more regular basis. The greengrocer is a big shed off a suburban highway. It’s a little further away than my local supermarket, but worth the trip as it’s easier to place more real food in my trolley there, helping me to plan meals around fresh produce.

  Today, I eye the wooden pallet just inside the door, which is heaped high with string beans. Their price has been reduced. Another customer is already expertly looking through them. As I step up alongside her, she moves aside, making room for me.

  ‘They seem alright,’ I say, quickly looking over them. It can be a bit hit-and-miss when it comes to the produce in the pallets placed strategically at the door of the greengrocer. The owner runs a warehouse-style operation – and sometimes the produce near the door is a little overripe.

  ‘They’re not bad,’ she says.

  We stand side by side, picking quietly. I plan to use them in the next day or so, before they have a chance to lose their lustre. I look for small, tender and unblemished beans, just like my mother taught me. I love the feeling of knowing what I’m doing, the tactile sensation of handling fresh produce.

  ‘How do you cook them?’ I ask the woman.

  ‘In a wok, quite quickly,’ she replies. ‘Just with some peanut oil, garlic and ginger. Then I add a dash of soy sauce at the end.’

  ‘I do something similar, but I use olive oil,’ I say. ‘And oregano instead of ginger. I find they look a bit washed out. How do you get them to keep their colour? Do you blanche them in water first?’

  ‘No. I don’t worry about it. My son sometimes says to me, “Mum, these don’t look like they do in the restaurant.” I say to him, “Just eat them. In the restaurant, they add lots of sauces that aren’t good for you, too many bad oils. The beans go in your stomach. They don’t need to look pretty!”’

  I laugh, recognising what seems to be a universal desire to get our kids to ‘eat their vegetables’. I can’t help but admire this mum’s no-nonsense attitude.

  ‘In fact,’ she says, ‘I crush some garlic and keep it in a jar of oil. Makes things quicker when you get home from work. My mother, and her mother, used to cook the beans this way in China, simply, quickly. No bullshit!’ She takes a sideways glance at my hair, my face. ‘You’re younger than me, but when you get a bit older, you get nostalgic. You go back to the things your people before you did.’

  I smile. I’m already there. While I sometimes scoffed at the food my mother cooked when I was a child, yearned for the packaged food of television commercials, I’ve come to realise that the food she offered us was real food. The more traditional food of her native Greece was simple, wholesome, tasty. I realise now that a lot of it was seasonal, locally sourced – much of it right out of our backyard – and a lot of it was vegetarian. Back then I didn’t know that words like ‘seasonal’ and ‘vegetarian’ even existed. All I knew was that anything that came out of the garden tasted better than the fruit and veggies we bought from the shops. My father taught me to appreciate garden tomatoes and cucumbers, just picked and washed under the garden hose.

  I think of the qualities we ascribe to food today, the wholesale angst around what to eat, and especially what not to eat. There was no angst then – just food that fuelled your body and brought people together around the table to talk and argue and enjoy.

  I remember fondly the huge trays of tomatoes and peppers stuffed with rice Mum would cook; the tomato and cucumber salads with lashings of olive oil; the stews she made with green beans, tomatoes and zucchinis, flavoured with dried oregano from our garden. Th
e pots were always large and would usually feed us for a few days. Most of our meals were accompanied by bread, a little feta cheese and some olives Mum had prepared and marinaded herself. The best meals were those shared with cousins and family friends, plates balanced on knees as we sat wherever there was a space at someone’s house.

  If people dropped in on us, it was no trouble for Mum to quickly whip up ‘snacks’ of laganes, which are fried tendrils of bread, or delicious loukoumathes – syrupy donuts sprinkled with walnuts. It was unimaginable for our guests to refuse such treats because they were counting calories, ditching gluten or omitting carbs from their diet.

  I want to say to this other mum that I often find myself taking the meandering path back to the Land of the Past, even though I don’t have as many grey hairs as her. Not for the first time, I lament that my children aren’t more adventurous in their tastes when it comes to the traditional foods of my childhood. It’s not really their fault though, because I pandered to their whims when they were younger. When they refused fakes (brown lentil soup), or fasolatha (bean soup), I stopped offering them. I couldn’t imagine exposing them to the more exotic staples of my childhood, like sweetmeats cooked in wine, spinach tossed through with black-eyed beans, or lemony fricassee of celery, herbs and pork.

  When I finish picking my string beans, I have a half full bag. My neighbour is still going. I turn to her and say, ‘I’ll try your method. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she replies with a smile.

  In the next aisle, I pick up a packet of dried chickpeas. When I get home, I’m going to make a trip to the past.

  The last time I saw chickpeas being cooked from scratch was in my mother’s kitchen as a child. She used to prepare them as a simple soup with freshly grated tomatoes, oil and onions. We had the soup during the last week of Lent – the fasting period before Easter. I remember the tomatoes being fleshy, lush – probably the last of the autumn produce. The soup was oddly comforting, filling.