John Walters's Blog, page 8

Book Review: The Years by Annie Ernaux

Before I came across a description of The Years in a library listing, I had never heard of Annie Ernaux, or that she had won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2022. I suppose I should keep closer track of these things. What drew me to the book, though, was not the critical acclaim accorded to its author, but rather the unusual nature of the work itself. And it did not disappoint.

The Years is ostensibly a memoir – at least it is classified as one. However, it is not a memoir in the traditional style, but rather in the sense that Henry Miller’s works might be labeled memoirs. They are about the writer and even use the writer’s real name as the main character, but in fact their intention goes far beyond merely giving an account of the author’s life. In these works there is an ill-defined border between memoir, novel, and something wholly different, wholly unique.

In The Years, Ernaux tells the story of her life from around 1941 to 2006, but in the telling, she does not use the first person. Instead, she sometimes uses the collective “we,” as if she is speaking for her entire generation, and sometimes uses the third person “she,” as if she is taking the perspective of another character observed from outside. In this way, she detaches herself from the events and causes them to become much larger and more profound than they would be if they only concerned one life. Time becomes a river that flows forward, inexorably, through generations. First she is a child, then a teen discovering her sexuality, then a young mother, then a middle-aged woman, an empty-nester whose children have gone off to live lives of their own, and so on.

Throughout the personal history, Ernaux also reflects upon national history and world history and how major events impact her life and the lives of those around her. I have to admit that many of the references, especially those having to do with French politicians, writers, and entertainers, were unfamiliar to me. Most of the larger outside events, though, I understood and have even lived through myself: the Cold War; the wars in Vietnam and in Algeria; the influx of undocumented immigrant refugees; the overwhelming influence of the Beatles and other musical groups; the rise in popularity of various types of technology such as black and white TVs, color TVs, transistor radios, computers, and cell phones; the devastation and resultant paranoia of the 9/11 destruction of the Twin Towers and other terrorist attacks.

As the decades-long story progresses, Ernaux sometimes refers to the book she hopes to someday write about her life (or the life of the third-person character who represents her) – but then emphasizes that she is not yet ready. In other words, she references the point when the book, The Years, begins to grow as an idea, and then brings it to mind again through the course of the narrative. All in all, this is that incredibly rare thing in literature: a truly original work of art. It does not fit into any genre or category except its own, and as such, it must be taken on its own terms. It devastated me with its brilliance in its English translation; how wonderful it must be in the original French! Highly recommended.

Write Better Stories

In a recent Facebook post, a well-known author posed the question, “What is the best writing advice you have ever received?” There were many excellent answers, most having to do with not listening to criticism, persevering in the face of rejection, staying true to your own vision, and so on. By the time I got to it, most of the straightforward advice had already been given, so I shared a quote from my old mentor Harlan Ellison, intending it as a bit of humor: “If they are not buying your stories, write better stories.” I didn’t actually hear this directly from Harlan; instead, I read it in a blog post by Dean Wesley Smith, and he presented it as a Harlan quote. However, it sounds like something like HE would say and so I feel comfortable attributing it to him. Anyway, it got a few likes and I thought that would be the end of it.

But it was not the end. That quote came back to haunt me – in a good sort of way. You see, I have been going through some difficult times emotionally now that I am an empty-nester, sometimes feeling isolated and forgotten, and sometimes even questioning whether my best days as a writer might be behind me. Not feeling up to writing fiction, I have been focusing mainly on essays and book reviews. Once in a while a story would burst through, and that would be a cause for rejoicing, but for the most part a personal trauma I went through a few years ago has limited the fiction output. I was content with that, as long as I was able to keep writing at least something. (If I stop writing completely, you’d better check my pulse.)

The quote kept coming back to me again and again, especially the last few words. Write better stories! Write better stories! It was like a challenge that lifted my mood and got my creative juices flowing again. Don’t get me wrong: I love writing memoirs and essays and book reviews and other works. But the core of my output as a writer has always been my fiction, especially my short stories. Over thirty have appeared in magazines and anthologies, and well over a hundred have been published in my collections. Yes, I thought. I can continue to publish my essays and reviews, but my primary focus should be on creating the best short stories I’ve ever written. As soon as I set my sights on this goal, my mood lifted. It was as if I was giving myself permission to prioritize fiction writing again. I became so enamored of the idea that I composed and printed out a large sign: “WRITE BETTER STORIES” and I taped it to one of my kitchen cabinets where it will always be clearly visible. This has lifted a great burden from my heart. I don’t have to mope around anymore. Instead, I can get off my ass and write better stories. And instead of exploring Seattle’s museums and historical sites for their own sakes and merely to go out and do something different, as I have recently been doing, I can peruse them more intently – and mine them for the gold of story ideas. It is a matter of perspective, of course, and of reaching for the highest goals possible.

Book Review: Icebound: Shipwrecked at the Edge of the World by Andrea Pitzer

Not long ago I read and reviewed Empire of Ice and Stone: The Disastrous and Heroic Voyage of the Karluk by Buddy Levy. It takes place in the early 1900s and tells of a ship caught in polar ice off the north coast of Alaska and the crew’s efforts to survive when the ship breaks up near Siberia. It is a harrowing story of survival, but as I read Icebound, I reflected upon all the advantages that the crew of the Karluk had that William Barents’s crew in Icebound lacked. In the 1900s most of the world had been explored and mapped, so polar travelers at least knew where they were going; they had rifles that reliably fired; they had better methods of preserving food; they knew what scurvy was and how to prevent it. Barents and his men, on the other hand, had none of these advantages.

Icebound takes place in the late sixteenth century. It tells of the three polar voyages of William Barents, after whom the Barents Sea in the Arctic is named, focusing especially on the third voyage, when Barents and his men became trapped at the northern end of the island of Nova Zembla, north of Russia, and had to spend the winter. They managed to build a cabin, but they were cold, filthy, malnourished, sick with scurvy, and under frequent attack by marauding polar bears. Their ship became hopelessly frozen into the ice, so the survivors finally, in spring when the ice broke up and they found open water, had to make their way down the island’s coast in two small open boats.

The expedition’s purpose was to find a trade route to China by sailing north and east from the Netherlands. It was believed that beyond the icebound northern latitudes was a warm open sea. However, even in summer, the way was impassable due to the proliferation of icebergs and sheet ice.

The sailors must have been miserable indeed as they lay sick in their small cabin, struggling to stay warm, while outside polar bears stalked them and storms raged, sometimes completely covering their shelter in snow. Pitzer compares this expedition with others that were trapped in the Arctic and points out that the harmony and cooperation the castaways displayed throughout their ordeal was extraordinary. No matter how difficult conditions became, they never ceased to look out for each other and to tend to the needs of the weakest among them. Their unity was one of the key factors in the eventual survival of many of the crewmembers, although Barents himself died during the homeward journey.

In a coda, the author describes her voyage from the Russian port of Murmansk to visit the site of Barents’s cabin in an Arctic reserve on Nova Zembla. Nowadays the sea is open and the passage is fairly easy. She explains that there is even the possibility that a tourist cruise might open to the cabin and other nearby locations. The difference between the icebound sea in Barents’s day and the open waters in the present is a stark reminder that the world indeed has been warming up.

This is a gripping adventure story set in the time when, in European eyes, much of the world was still unknown and swathed in mystery. The motivation to finance expeditions to discover new lands and new routes to them was mainly commercial, but this allowed visionary explorers such as Barents to, as Captain Kirk would say, “boldly go where no one has gone before.” In this case the expedition failed, but the men displayed much courage and cooperation in their struggle to survive.

Book Review: Solo Passage: 13 Quests, 13 Questions by Glenda Goodrich

This memoir is Glenda Goodrich’s first book, and it is a powerful one. At the age of fifty the author began a series of wilderness quests, sometimes yearly and sometimes with gaps of several years. They would begin in a base camp with other participants and a guide or guides, but then she would go off on her own to a solo campsite, where she would fast for four days, drink lots of water, and seek answers to various questions about her life’s journey. Away from the usual accoutrements of her day to day existence, she hiked, prayed, danced, drummed, observed nature, and listened to what it had to say. On one quest she remained naked for most of the duration; on another, she deliberately broke the guidelines and brought along wine and chocolate so she could confront her feelings of guilt and fear. On yet another she ingested a tea brewed from the psychedelic plant ayahuasca; she envisioned stepping into a river of grief: hers, humankind’s, and the Earth’s. She concluded: “The answer was to let grief lead me into what is most alive in me: my art. I needed to take my broken heart and turn it into art. I needed to transform my grief into beauty and keep offering a way for others to do the same.” Each time she went out alone she would ask different questions, confront traumas from her past, and come back with new answers.

On one of the quests she asked, “Why had I waited so long to pursue what really mattered in my life?” What really mattered, in fact, was her fulfillment as an artist. Her writing is descriptive and profound, and she is also a very talented painter. In fact, the book contains an impressive color inset with several pages of her work.

Her accounts of her adventures alone in the wild leave the rest of us with no excuses. After all, as she became a grandmother and even a great grandmother, she continued to go on her spiritual journeys. What’s our excuse? I’m not saying that wilderness quests are for everyone; however, it is essential that everyone have the courage to in some way step out and confront their fears and traumas so that they can find inner peace.

As I read Solo Passage, I was reminded of times when I too made journeys into remote places in the pursuit of life-changing answers. For instance, once when I was on my first journey to South Asia, I found myself near broke in Pokhara, Nepal, unsure of what I should do next. On what I supposed was a whim I started walking alone into the Himalayas without map, sign posts, or guide. I found a tiny village where I spent the night, and the next day I continued upward until I found a remote hillock that I climbed and sat upon and contemplated my existence. I realized that I was running away from human society and all its complexities and perplexities and that I had to go back down and learn to live in harmony with my fellow beings. On my second trip to South Asia I was hitchhiking from Mumbai to Calangute in Goa but I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do when I reached my destination. I turned aside so I could spend a few days ruminating at a tiny, sparsely populated enclave on a more remote beach. On the way down to the shore, I left my belongings and even my shoes with a friendly villager and continued barefoot and without possessions. I found an abandoned grass shack at the edge of the water and spent three days there, meditating and pacing along the shoreline where the gentle waves met the sand. And once when I was staying in a cottage outside Kathmandu, Nepal, another traveler and I dropped acid at dawn; we then hiked into the foothills surrounding the city. As we were peaking on the psychedelic, we sat down on a hillside where we could see countless snow-capped peaks. For a time I even took off my contact lenses so I could explore my inner landscape.

These significant quests don’t happen often, but when they do, they can be life-changing. Even if you don’t feel that you would be up to spending days fasting in the wilderness, I recommend that you read this book. Its sincerity and commitment to truth will give you inspiration for your own life’s journey.

Road Signs Is Now Available!

I’m pleased to announce that Road Signs: Tales of the Surreal and Fantastic, my thirteenth short story collection and thirty-seventh book, has just been published and is available at numerous online venues. Links to some of the major booksellers are below. Here’s what it’s about:

When a hitchhiker returning from an extended trip abroad in the early 1970s crosses the United States, he plunges into a dark, surrealistic, frightening landscape from which there seems to be no escape.

After a worldwide plague has decimated their city, four children searching for sustenance enter a seemingly deserted mansion, only to find out that its owner, a madman seeking the alchemical secret to immortality, has modeled it after an elaborate ancient torture chamber.

In the aftermath of the official cancellation of Medicare, Social Security, and other government welfare programs, a destitute senior is relegated to an internment camp for old folks. There he discovers that all is not as it seems, and the recalcitrant elders have some tricks up their sleeves that they can use to deal with the pitiless system that has banished them from its midst.

In these and other provocative, mind-bending tales you’ll find alternative realities, future battlefields, enraged poltergeists, mythological mischief-makers, and freedom fighters on a far planet.

You can find it at these and other booksellers:

Trade Paperback

Amazon Kindle

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Kobo

Apple iBooks

Hitting the Pause Button Does Not End the Game

This afternoon during the time when I usually compose creative prose I instead took a walk. My ostensible purpose was a trip to the library, but in truth I wanted to clear my head and perhaps come up with an idea for my next writing project. As soon as I exited out of the apartment building into the clean cool fresh outside air I realized I had made the right decision. Even the heavy rainfall I encountered on my way home, sans umbrella, didn’t dampen my enthusiasm.

I have just completed a volume of memoirs and essays called Thoughts from the Aerie, the aerie being the fourth floor apartment in which I am at present ensconced. It has a magnificent view of the changing weather, and on a clear day through the trees I can even glimpse Mount Rainier in its snow-covered majesty far to the south. Sometimes, though, as I labor at my writings within my compact but comfortable domicile, I feel as if I have come to an end, that I will wander the world no more, that I have come to this place to grow old and die. When I get into this frame of mind I become depressed. After all, I have been wandering the world much of my life. When I set out on my travels in the 1970s one of the main purposes was to find my voice as a writer. If I stagnate in one place, wouldn’t the well dry up? So I muse in my darker moments. But as I walked under the overcast sky this afternoon, I realized that such was not my fate. I am a nomad. Even if the vagaries of destiny have cast me temporarily upon this shore, I remain a nomad in my heart. I don’t know where specifically I will go next, but that is beside the point. I have paused before in my meanderings, sometimes for long periods of time, but always eventually I have got up again and resumed my journey. It is not the temporary location that is at fault; it is the sedentary mindset that is my enemy. I often daydream of traveling. In fact, I wrote two novels in which I gave substance to those dreams: The Senescent Nomad Hits the Road and The Senescent Nomad Seeks a Home. (Spoiler: in the second book, as soon as the senescent nomad thinks he has found a permanent place to live, something clicks in him that causes him to want to set out on the road again.) I’ve also written memoirs about my world wanderings, and I have used my experiences living in other countries amidst other cultures to provide backgrounds and depth to my novels and short stories. It is the thought of solidification, of petrifaction in one location that thwarts and stymies and perplexes and befuddles me. For my creativity to remain fluid and dynamic I have to remember that regardless of my earthly locale I am a stranger in a strange land. We are all of us pilgrims and only temporary residents of the planet Earth, but it is imperative, for the sake of my art, that I do not forget this.

I’m a professional writer; I make my living by my words.  I’m happy to share these essays with you, but at the same time, financial support makes the words possible.  If you’d like to become a patron of the arts and support my work, buy a few of my available books or available stories, or support me on Patreon.  Heads Up: I haven’t been keeping up with my Patreon posts recently – I have been posting here instead. If you head over there it should be for purely philanthropic motives.) Thanks!

Book Review: America Fantastica by Tim O’Brien

Tim O’Brien is best known for his dynamic 1990 collection of linked short stories The Things They Carried, which concerns the members of a platoon of soldiers during the Vietnam War. In it, O’Brien draws from his experiences in the war; it is a devastatingly dark but deeply human look at a group of individuals attempting to cope with a hellish conflict that they do not understand. As I wrote in my review of the collection: Generally, O’Brien writes in an autobiographical tone, even using his own name when he refers to himself as a first-person character. It’s hard to know what’s fiction and what’s fact in the collection, and O’Brien alludes to that, intimating that it doesn’t matter.

In contrast, America Fantastica is obviously all made up. It’s a tall tale about a chronic liar who may or may not be named Boyd Halverson, a hero of the fake news networks who abruptly snaps, robs a bank, and kidnaps the petite teller. She turns out to be amenable to the abduction; in fact, she continually tries to seduce him and become engaged to him. In the meantime, they are pursued by her psychotic murderous ex-boyfriend, a psychotic torturer hired by Halverson’s ex-wife’s husband, and other unsavory characters. It is initially difficult to make sense of all the strange goings-on and satirical plot twists, but eventually, about two hundred pages in, everything falls into place and the book becomes very difficult to put down. At times it seems to be infectious nonsense, a comic book without pictures. In fact, it is one of the most entertaining and insightful novels I have read in a long time.

The underlying theme running through the book is America’s obsession with falsehood, a national malady that O’Brien calls mythomania, the lying disease, which at the time of the story, just before COVID shuts down the country, has reached epidemic proportions. It is promulgated in the novel by the current POTUS and by a nationwide grid of falsifiers who try to outdo each other by spreading more and more outlandish stories; it is epitomized by Halverson, who is so used to lying about everything that it becomes second nature to him. He hardly realizes what the truth is anymore.

Recently I read a book called Trust Me, I’m Lying: Confessions of a Media Manipulator by Ryan Holiday, and it was perfect preparation for America Fantastica. The thing is, Trust Me, I’m Lying is nonfiction; it is an expose of a horrific malady flooding and overwhelming the internet of unscrupulous so-called reporters who generate clickbait stories out of their imaginations without bothering to research and find out whether they are true. O’Brien’s vision about a country inundated with falsehood, its citizens gobbling it eagerly and begging for more, is hardly even an exaggeration. This bodes ill for those who crave honesty and forthrightness as national and international standards.

Near the end of the novel, COVID strikes and the world goes into lockdown. However, this does nothing to contain the spreading and escalating of the plague of mythomania. Like COVID, it infects the vulnerable, leaving them helpless to its ravages. Some of the wild news stories that O’Brien’s fake news writers throw into the mix seem hopelessly far-fetched until I glance at current internet news feeds. I then realize that truth in the media is already in danger of extinction. O’Brien’s satirical spotlight is timely and essential. Highly recommended.

Hope and Grief: The Pacific Northwest Asian Experience

I first visited the Wing Luke Museum in Seattle’s Chinatown when I was invited to the opening of a temporary exhibit highlighting Asian science fiction and fantasy writers. The exhibit was on the main floor; it was so absorbing, and so many interesting people were there (I had a long conversation with the renowned author Ted Chiang) that I didn’t have much opportunity to explore the rest of the museum. This time, with the science fiction and fantasy section gone, I was able to focus on the museum’s core message.

On its three floors, the museum celebrates the history and art of the Pacific Northwest’s Asian American, Native Hawaiian, and Pacific Islander (AANHPI) community. The native son Bruce Lee is prominent, of course, in several exhibits, but there is so much more. Various rooms are dedicated to the historical experiences of South Asians, Cambodians, Vietnamese, Japanese, Chinese, and others as they immigrated to the United States and attempted to adapt to their new homeland. Fleeing for their lives and to make a better future for their children, they were often met with racism, denigration, oppression, stereotyping, and denial of access to good jobs and housing. Despite these obstacles, the new arrivals were determined to make it in this new land and opened businesses, often restaurants and laundries, raised their families, and even served in the United States armed forces.

As I perused the exhibits, it was easy for me to sense the hope that gave these people the impetus to keep struggling, despite the obstacles, to build their new lives. However, it was also easy to feel the all-but-overwhelming grief of being treated as members of a lower-class, relegated to poorer housing and infrastructure, and regarded with suspicion. For a long time the laws of the land forbade Asian immigrants from obtaining citizenship. During World War II, many Pacific Northwest Japanese Americans were interred in concentration camps. Even nowadays, Asian Americans are sometimes harassed on the streets and denied opportunities. Despite the animosity, though, the AANHPI community has persevered and even prospered.

When I first arrived at the museum, shortly after it opened, I was alone. I was able to explore the upper levels in peace and silence, for which I was thankful, but at the same time I wished that more people would become aware of and visit this amazing place. After all, apart from Native Americans, we here in the United States are all immigrants. Our parents or grandparents or great grandparents all came from other countries with similar dreams: to find a new land where they could build lives and raise their children in peace and prosperity. It is to our shame that we relegate any groups of our fellow immigrants to lower-class status; it is to their honor that they managed to succeed in spite of the irrational bad attitudes of many. Visiting Wing Luke Museum is a cultural experience, but it is also a moral and spiritual experience. It helps us realize the inestimable value of the AANHPI community to the totality of what comprises the USA.

I’m a professional writer; I make my living by my words.  I’m happy to share these essays with you, but at the same time, financial support makes the words possible.  If you’d like to become a patron of the arts and support my work, buy a few of my available books or available stories, or support me on Patreon.  Heads Up: I haven’t been keeping up with my Patreon posts recently – I have been posting here instead. If you head over there it should be for purely philanthropic motives.) Thanks!

Book Review: Trust Me, I’m Lying: Confessions of a Media Manipulator by Ryan Holiday

I came across this book while searching for practical guidebooks on how to improve my website/blog. This is not that sort of book. It is, however, a fascinating look at the mindsets of people such as politicians and advertisers who seek to exploit the internet’s countless vulnerabilities to their own advantage. Holiday claims that for a long time he was as corrupt as anyone, an eager media manipulator out to make as much money as possible.

According to Holiday, there are very few people you can trust online. Almost everyone is out for themselves. News blogs are primarily after page views and clicks, and their writers care very little whether the sensational stories they upload are true or not. Better, they think, to go ahead and publish them and then – maybe – post an update if the so-called facts turn out to be untruths. The pattern is to post something, have it picked up by other news sources, and then use those sources that republish your story for verification that your story checks out. A wild sort of loop that feeds on itself. This all sounds too insane to be real, and yet Holiday, who has been deep in the trenches himself, gives multiple examples for every point he makes.

If we go by the title of the book, of course, we might conclude that we can’t trust anything Holiday says, and in fact that’s a valid argument. However, the book has intense verisimilitude. Anyone who spends any amount of time online can attest to what he writes. He claims to have written this book when he came to realize that the things he had been doing – and also witnessed many others doing – were too sordid for him to stomach. He wrote the book as an expose, and it is a much needed one.

He emphasizes that more than anything, news blog writers want their pieces to spread. That’s how they get paid. Hopelessness, despair, pity, and empathy are unhelpful in this context. What drives spreading are emotions such as “anger, fear, excitement, laughter, and outrage.” Provocation is the key, and it comes at the price of a blatant disregard for truth. This attitude not only drives sensational pseudo-news, but it also adds fuel to the present social and political polarities.

In the first half of the book, Holiday confesses his deep complicity in all this evil. The second half, he claims, which is more in the nature of a condemnation of it all, was written because his conscience bothered him too much. In a lengthy appendix added to this edition of the book, there are interviews with various other successful media manipulators. Although Holiday claims he wrote Trust Me, I’m Lying as an expose, several of the high-profile interviewees attest that they came up with some of their best and most successful ideas after reading the first edition of his book. Weird. It’s like a criminal’s confession leading to a whole swarm of copycat criminals.

As for me, the book has the opposite effect. I have no desire to emulate any of Holiday’s unscrupulous tactics. To the opposite: reading this has inspired me to be even more honest in my own essays and blogs, even if I never go viral and have only a few sincere, discerning readers. It reminds me of what Henry Miller once said, that he writes for “one true reader.” I looked up the extended quote and it goes like this: “The great work must inevitably be obscure, except to the very few, to those who like the author himself are initiated into the mysteries. Communication then is secondary: it is perpetuation which is important. For this only one good reader is necessary.”

I think that the greatest flaw in Trust Me, I’m Lying is that Holiday implies that everyone is dishonest, everyone is out for the money and for themselves, and there is no real truth to be found online. In this I think he is mistaken, and as you read, you should be on guard against this cynicism and despair. Yes, the internet is like a Wild West of mudslinging half-truths and downright lies, and it’s hard to find the gold amidst all the flung dung. But there are honest people out there sharing the truth as best they can. To find them you need discernment, wisdom, and persistence, but the search is well worth it.

A Visit to the Greek Festival

Most of the people visiting the annual Greek Festival at St. Demetrius Church in Seattle come for a brief sampling of another culture. For me, however, the event provoked nostalgia. After all, I lived in Greece for over fifteen years. My ex-wife and I raised our family there; we bought a house there; our kids went to the public schools; in summer we frequented the incomparably beautiful beaches. During the course of several conversations with people staffing the booths, I discovered that I’d spent more time in Greece than most of them. No matter. Besides the desire to stir up pleasant memories from some of the best years of my life, I was hoping to pick up some tasty Greek specialties that are all but impossible to find most times of the year.

I arrived when it opened at ten on a Saturday morning near the end of September 2024. That meant that I’d miss the music and dancing that was scheduled for later, but I’d also miss the heavy crowds, so the people running the booths had more time to chat. When they learned that I’d lived in Greece, we’d compare the locations I lived in with where their relatives were from.

The first place I wandered into was the gift shop, which sold jewelry, clothing, candles, paintings, sculpture, icons, books, and other items. I looked for Greek-language books for children but there were few, and then I realized that it didn’t make sense to buy anything for my grandson from there: at that very moment he was on vacation in Greece with his parents, and it would be much easier to find appropriate Greek-language educational products at the source. Plus, to be honest, most items were beyond my budget.

From there I wandered through the food venues. There was a room devoted to the sale of alcoholic beverages by the glass, including a wine-tasting booth. A taverna set up under a vast tent out back sold Greek cuisine such as lamb, roast chicken, moussaka, pastitsio, tiropita, spanakopita, kalamari, souvlaki, gyro, and other dishes. It was in the deli, though, where I made most of my purchases to take home and consume at my leisure. Just before Greek Easter, which occurred in May this year, I’d made a futile search for tsoureki, the special sweet Easter bread; here at the deli they had it in abundance, so I bought a loaf. I also bought some halva with almonds, some traditional holiday sweets called melomakarona and kourampiedes, some Halkidiki olives, and some feta cheese.

Later, after I had got home and broke out the goods, I was displeased with some of my purchases. The sweets and the olives were superb. However, the tsoureki bread was too dry; it crumbled when I tried to cut it. The tsoureki we’d bought in Greece when I lived there and that my ex-wife sent or my sons brought back to the States after visits was soft and easy to cut, and it pulled apart reluctantly. And the feta cheese from the festival was a bit rubbery instead of moist and crumbly. I didn’t expect the food to taste the same as the food we used to eat in Greece. Too many variables stand in the way of replicating the totality of the experience. Even so, I had supposed that the various tastes would help me recall good times thriving in Greece when my kids were young. In a video call with my ex I voiced my complaints, suggesting the possibility that they had sold me stale tsoureki. Not so, she emphasized. Tsoureki was made in two fashions, one dry and one softer and moister. It just happened that they served the dry style at the festival. As for the feta, it was made in diverse ways as well, and some people preferred the firmer version. This somewhat mitigated my irritation, but it also made me realize that to get the Greek food I remembered eating when we raised our family there, I’d probably have to pay a visit to get back to the source.