Bill Buffet at Delphi
In the summer of 1959, Elias Rigopolous and I stood in the village square of the small Greek town of Andritsina in Southern Greece. We were virtual strangers. I didn’t learn his name until later. He spoke no English and I spoke no Greek. He owned a blacksmith shop and I was a student—at the American School of Classical Studies in Athens—having the best summer of my life.
The story of why I eventually named my son after this Greek blacksmith begins earlier that spring. Mike Greenebaum and I were both high school history teachers, and one day Mike asked if I’d be interested in enrolling in a summer school in Greece. We applied, were accepted, and on June 10th boarded a Cunard liner, the Q.S.S. Arcadia, in Montreal. On Saturday night, June 27, we found ourselves in Athens having dinner on the veranda of Loring Hall, the dormitory of the American School. About twenty comprised our group, not including our leader, Professor C. A. Robinson Jr. of Brown University. We learned that during the summer we’d make three trips: one through northern Greece, one through the Peloponnese—southern Greece—and one to the island of Crete.
Each student would prepare talks on two of the sites we visited and do research in the school library. My first assignment was an ancient healing spa, the Amphiarian at Oropos, and my second talk would be at the Temple of Zeus at Olympia. On our trip through the Peloponnese, we arrived one afternoon at Andritsina, a little town near Olympia where I’d give my talk. Neither paved nor gravel roads greeted us, but there were donkeys, children, houses, and shops around a square in the center of which stood a large tree, a spring, and a trough. Animals drank, people filled cans and clay jars. The scene felt lively yet simple. It was siesta time so most people were resting behind shuttered windows and closed doors. We checked into our hotel.
I wrote many letters home to my folks that summer:
We got settled in our Class E hotel—one toilet with no seat, a shower built out over the hill that had a barrel of water and a can with which you doused yourself, no running water in the rooms and electricity only from 8 ‘til 12—after that: oil lamps. Then we headed into the hills to the Temple of Apollo at Bassae, one of the best-preserved ancient temples and built on a beautiful site. A few yards up the hill was another of the many circular threshing floors we’ve seen. Three men were driving a team of horses around and around over the grain. Every so often they would stop, and with their forks, throw the stalks into the air to remove the chaff. Each horse wore a bell around its neck and the sound added to the setting. Mike and two other guys decided that since the hotel was so primitive and the temple so fine, they’d spend the night there. Normally I would have too, but at the moment it didn’t sound too appealing. The rest of us climbed in the bus and headed back to Andritsina. We had about two hours until dinner so I took a walk on my own. Up a shaded street I found two blacksmith shops side by side, each with cow, goat and sheep bells hanging out in front. One fellow jangled his bells from inside; the other came out to get my attention. I decided to reward the latter’s extra effort, and after comparing rings bought three small bells for 15 cents each. We smiled, parted, and I walked back to the village square.
That evening I was standing in the square watching several fellows unload watermelon when my blacksmith friend came up. He motioned me over to a table at a nearby taverna where several of his friends were sitting. There was a plate with meat and potatoes on it and four forks. We each took one and dug in. Soon beer was brought. Two other fellows were teachers at the local school. One spoke a little English; the other a little French, and my blacksmith friend, only Greek. The English teacher told me that the blacksmith’s name was Elias and that he usually had one beer, but because business had been so good he was having two. When we’d finished the food on the plate, Elias sent a boy out who came back in about five minutes with something wrapped in a newspaper. Elias laid it on the table and unwrapped a lamb, heart, liver, and some fatty tissue. He gave it to the waiter who went inside to have it cooked. In the meantime Elias and the English-speaking fellow exchanged words; then the teacher turned to me and said, “Elias wants know you sleep his house tonight?” “Nai,” I said, at first hesitant, “Nai, nai.” Elias and I shook hands and I thanked him. Soon the wife and son of one of men and the son of the English-speaking fellow joined us. Eventually the meat came and quite a pile of it there was—all chopped up in bite-size pieces—greasy and dark, but smelling good. Now we had eight forks, the communal plate, and of course, more beer. They asked me how old I was. When I told them 26, one fellow didn’t believe me, but I got out my passport and pointed to the date.
The party broke up and Elias and I headed towards his home. There were no streetlights; the road was dark, the sky was clear, and there were millions of stars. We walked about a quarter of a mile and met Elias’ wife Ereketi at a spring, filling her clay jug with water. Neither of them knew any English, I knew about ten words in Greek, but we had a fine time. As we walked I pointed to the sky and said, ‘Kala, Kala (good, good)—there were plenty of warm smiles as we tried to understand each other and usually failed. Very soon we came to their home, on the second floor of a two-story building, and one of about fifteen homes scattered on the side of a low mountain.
As we walked up the stairs I asked to see their home—a living room with a table in the middle and two cot beds along two walls. Among the pictures on the walls were four showing scenes from America, including one of Mt. Rushmore. In another room, they turned on the light and disturbed an old woman, Ereketi’s aunt, who was asleep. There were a few chairs, a radio, and at one end a fireplace. Off that room was a kitchen minus a refrigerator, though one cupboard might have been an icebox. A large can with a spigot stood over a basin that served as a sink. There was no stove but I did see a kerosene lamp for cooking. As in the other rooms, one bare light bulb lit the space. There was also a clothes iron with a compartment for hot coals. A large brick oven and the toilet were in the next room. Near the toilet was a pail of water and a can. It was a ‘flush-it yourself’ type. The couple’s big double bed was in the last room. After the tour we went out to an open veranda with a hard dirt floor. There were pots of flowers and herbs around, all protected by a grape arbor. Big bunches hung down but they were still green.
Ereketi brought out two chairs for Elias and me, and then water. We’d been told that in Andritsina we shouldn’t drink the water, but being a guest I couldn’t turn it down. They thought I’d like to bathe my feet so while Ereketi warmed water, Elias and I looked out on the beautiful night. He got up and picked us each a sprig of one of his herbs to smell. Every so often one of us would think of something that could be expressed by using sign language and a few simple words. I learned that he had two young daughters that weren’t at home, but I couldn’t understand where they were. I told him the towns we’d visited in Greece and that I’d come to Europe by boat. Soon the water was ready and I went into the kitchen where a rectangular wooden tub with soap and a can of warm water waited. As I soaped my feet, Ereketi poured warm water over them. When I finished she got a clean towel and a rag for me to dry them with.
Elias came in as I was looking at some of her kitchen utensils. He reached up and gave me a little copper pot used to brew Turkish coffee. He conveyed that it was mine, a gift. I was touched. Then we went into one of the rooms, and out of a cupboard came a huge box of photographs. Ereketi’s aunt joined us. She was big, a bit bleary-eyed, and wearing black, the color women wear for the rest of their lives when their husbands die. The four of us stood around laughing as they pointed out pictures taken many years ago. Elias disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a small, framed picture of him and his wife. He put it in my hand, another gift. I indicated that it was too good to give away, so he found a snapshot of him and his wife that I carry in my billfold. He turned on the radio and while we were listening to music, he walked over to the fireplace and got down two empty shell cases, each now holding a flower. Elias told me they were from the Greek-Turkish war of 1918, one in which his father had fought. I looked them over and Elias pushed one towards me. I was to take this, too. I showed him that the pair was necessary to decorate each end of the shelf and said, ‘Ohi’ several times, but it didn’t work.
At around 11:30 they showed me my bed: their big double bed. They insisted saying they would each slept in one of their daughter’s beds in the living room. Ereketi opened both windows for me. The breeze was cool. I looked out on the stars, the hills and the town. I remember lying awake quite a while with tears in my eyes, thinking about their fine hospitality, the best I’ve ever known. The first sound of the morning, “Bee-al” came from Elias at 5:30. Time to get up. He and I sat out on the veranda, overlooking the quiet town in the cool morning. It was light but the sun hadn’t yet climbed over the mountain.
Soon the procession began. It was Saturday and market day in Andritsina, and from the country to the town came farmers, donkeys, and horses laden with goods. Most people walked. The animals carried bags of wheat, loads of wood, fresh vegetables and one bag had a little pig’s head sticking out. Each animal had a bell around its neck. Imagine the sight and sound they all made. Ereketi brought two small cups of Turkish coffee and two glasses of water, the typical Greek breakfast. The young boy who worked in Elias’s blacksmith shop arrived with a big can of water for the kitchen. A woman passed in front of their house with a basket of fresh eggs on each arm. Elias sent the boy down and in about fifteen minutes Ereketi brought out four warm, hard-boiled eggs and a dish of salt. Before I’d finished my first, she came with two more. She gestured that these were soft boiled. When we finished there were two eggs left. Ereketi gave them to me, wrapped in a piece of newspaper. At around 7 a.m. I said goodbye to Ereketi and added ‘Efharisto’ (Thank you) several times. Elias and I walked into town to my hotel. With my camera, we walked to his shop and I took his picture. We then walked back to his house so I could get a picture of him with his wife. Back to town, the bus wasn’t to leave for another thirty minutes so Elias and I sat down at a taverna and ordered coffee. Two other members of the summer session joined us and he ordered coffee for them. I don’t need to say who paid. We all sat and watched the colorful activity in the square. Fresh vegetables of all colors, pigs and chickens tied to a stake, and a fellow with two boxes of fresh fish were part of the scene. On one side of the square stood a line of about ten donkeys with grain sacks on their backs waiting in front of the merchant’s shop. About 8:15 we headed for the bus, Elias carrying my knapsack. It was a warm goodbye. As the bus rolled past their home, Ereketi was on the porch. I waved and yelled ‘Adio.’ (Goodbye).
Over the next years, we exchanged letters that I had translated from English into Greek or from Greek into English. One letter contained a sprig of thyme from their patio. If anyone I knew was going to Greece, I’d tell them about Andritsina and Elias and Ereketi. Nineteen years passed. I hadn’t been in touch with my friends from Andritsina for a long time. In the interim I’d been married, had two children and gotten divorced. By 1978 I’d met Susan, my future wife, and together we decided to go to Greece. We rented a car and drove through the Peloponnesus and on the island of Crete.
I kept a journal and on Sunday, August 27, wrote:
Yesterday we drove into Andritsina in mid-afternoon. I recognized the square and found the street on which Elias’s blacksmith shop had been. We went to a small restaurant at the end of the street and made inquiries. Elias’s name was recognized, but a boy who spoke some English wasn’t sure if he was “here or in Athens.” . . . .
The boy, his younger brother, and a friend took us through Andritsina to Elias’s house. . . . The first words I heard were “Beel! Beel! Beel! echoing in the air. Ereketi and I hugged. Soon Elias, roused from his siesta, showed up, sleepy-eyed, and there were more hugs. One of Ereketi’s brothers appeared. He recalled how I had bumped my head on the doorframe, and imitated my long stride. Lemonade and Coke were served. I got out an old letter I’d received from them many years before which contained a dried sprig of basil. When Ereketi saw it, she stood up and plucked a fresh sprig from the same plant.
Elias and Ereketi’s daughters, Aloi and Yia, were now grown with children of their own. They helped interpret. They told me about a woman, “from Beel” who had shown up one summer, and the two men who had knocked on the door one winter night with meat and wine “from Beel.” I didn’t remember them. The children loved to yell “tourist” then duck behind a curtain.
Elias and I walked into town for more meat, and for dinner, besides the souvlaki, we had salad, feta, bread, fried potatoes and beer. For desert: watermelon. Susan and I had a bed to ourselves. The next morning, we had warm milk with sugar, along with Greek coffee, butter, bread and honey. We left about nine. Ereketi gave Susan a crocheted doily and two pillow cases made from home-spun cloth about fifty years before. She brought out a picture I’d sent of my parents and me. There were many tears when we left. As we drove off Elias stretched over some bushes to prolong the goodbye. His is the last face I saw.
By the following June, Susan and I were married and our baby boy was born. We named him Noah Elias Buffett-Kennedy. I sent a picture of him to Elias and Ereketi and said I’d named him after one of the finest men I’d ever met. We had learned on our visit to Andritsina that Elias’s health wasn’t good, and one night a call came from Athens that he had died. I had the following note translated into Greek:
Dear Ereketi,
I have thought of you and Elias, and of Aloi and Yia so often during these past months. I feel a deep sorrow because of the death of your husband and my friend, Elias. It saddens me to know that I shall not see him again, but I am grateful that we were together in the summer of 1979 and that our lives touched in such an unusual and wonderful way. I wish that I might have been with you before he died and that I might be with you now. I send you my deepest sympathy in what I know is a very sad time.
I told her a little about our family:
We are all well here in America. My parents, who live in Nebraska, are coming back to Massachusetts in May to visit us. My two older children, Wendy and Tom, are working hard in school and both had birthdays in March. Wendy is 17, Tom is 15. Noah Elias is a fine baby. He is very healthy and strong. He crawls very well and can pull himself up to tables and chairs. I took him to a beach yesterday and he ate his first mouthful of sand. Please do not think that feeding sand to babies is another strange American custom. It is just that he is quick and his father was looking the other way. Soon he will be able to walk. Susan and I love him very much. He is quite happy and doesn’t cry too often. . .
Eight years later, again on a summer afternoon, Susan and I drove into Andritsina. This time Noah was with us. We climbed the stairs. A radio played inside. Someone was at home. We knocked and Ereketi answered. As she embraced the boy named after her husband, tears flowed. Noah asked to see Elias’s grave, so the four of us piled into our small car and drove down a narrow rutted dirt road to a simple cemetery and his grave.
I came upon Elias Rigopolous by accident, like finding a rare gem on the path. Elias and Ereketi welcomed me into their home, gave me their bed, fed me. Noah is now thirty and in law school. His full name is Noah Elias Buffett-Kennedy. His last name combines his mother’s and mine. His first comes from the Old Testament and recalls the story of Noah and the ark. I trust our son will build upon the generous hospitality already a part of his character, a hospitality that echoes that of his other namesake, Elias. I hope his life is similarly enriched by the joy of a chance encounter.
