Old Age

Old in Cyprus can describe two things - not exclusively of course, but these are the two things im talking about.

1. A YaYa or a Papou's (thats a granny and a grandad to you): you have had umpteen children and, therefore have numerous grandchildren. You are the head of the family, you are well respected, and you're either brilliant at cooking, or a master of tavli.

2. A Building: that has had the life sucked out of it; been shot at and attacked. A building that is now a wreck of its former self, and is now sitting abandoned and just about standing.

With little money in our pockets, although Harry now has a job (assistant manager at Adidas flagship store in Nicosia) we are spending cautiously, and the sun still persisting even though it's November, we have started walking. Not just because we don't have a car, but because the streets of Cyprus are like a living, breathing history museum. The architecture is stunning; new and old, and the streets hide signs of the Cypriot culture at every turn; from the traditional men's only coffee shops, to fruit markets and carpentry studios down back streets, and long forgotten tailors, to the green line dividing the country and the evidence of war.

The old buildings are the ones that fascinate me; how they are still standing, I don't know. Surviving the weather, the war and a lifetime of use, most are now nothing more than a hollow shell. Some are without roofs and windows, and others have been cut in half - by the green line - while some are being lovely restored to their former glory. The details on each hefty wooden door mostly remain, and the date above proudly displays its age.

And while the buildings are as wrinkly and even older than granny and grandad, I don't think they are as loved.

Image Obsessed

Trundling round the supermarket on a Saturday morning at 7.30 am, the amount of women with a full a face of make-up and 6 inch stilettos is a little astounding. Shopping in Cyprus is like a catwalk show; big sunglasses and bling are essential accessories and while I like to make an effort, trotting down the aisles in your best gladrags isn't really my thing. If you enjoy people watching, I recommend Cyprus. Its only about 70% of the population who are like this, and thankfully Harrys family fall into the normal 30%. 

Half asleep still, and faced with a supermarket the size of the Millennium Dome, each aisle was a challenge in itself. Not only does the fact that I can't read Greek slow down any shopping trip, but the sheer amount of choice available is a little confusing. For such a small country they produce a lot of products! And with Kakoullis asleep behind the trolley, there was a heated discussion in the cheese section.

In England fruit and vegetables come washed, wrapped and packed in a layer of plastic. In Cyprus fruit and vegetables come wrapped and packed in a layer of dirt fresh from the field. Cucumbers a tiny (due to the lack of chemicals pumped into them), potatoes are knobbly and bunches of rocket come complete with ladybugs. In England we would always buy the cleanest potatoes and i've only ever seen rocket cleaned, de-stemed and shoved in a plastic bag. And while ladybugs falling out of my salad will take some getting used to, food here tastes fresher and full of flavour, so a little bit of a dirt here and there won't be putting us off our food (although seeing a lambs head for sale in the meat aisle might).

So future visitors be warned; the supermarket will be part of the sightseeing schedule. 

House Guests

The "debate" began with puppies, and while we would love a little barking bundle of joy, the responsible part of our brains kicked in and that idea with swiftly stopped in it's tracks. Next came goldfish, an idea that Harry rejected before the words had even settled. So along came turtles. Although the baby turtles are growing on me day by day, their arrival was not expected. The pet shop, on route home from the bakery, was obviously too much temptation, so with bread and desert came turtles and a tank.

Table for 2 Please

Welcome to our humble abode

After much cleaning, moving, sorting and shopping, we finally moved into our home away from home on Tuesday night (after one last kebab supper in the village), with freshly washed sheets courtesy of granny and a tavli set on loan. In an attempt to settle straight away unpacking was the aim of the game, and the winner of that one was Harry. Although notoriously good at organization, I appear to be horrendously bad at packing and unpacking. 

Since Tuesday we have well and truly stamped our mark on the place; there's washing on the veranda, camera lenses on the coffee table and turtles in the kitchen. While I would like to give a rational and reasonable explanation for the turtles, I live with harry now and turtles are apparently part of the package. In all honesty I started this - I wanted a goldfish, but according to Harry they are boring, and returning from the bakery with baby turtles is quite possibly something I should get used. While Harry claims they were a present for me, im still annoyed at my lack of goldfish. I will admit, however that the turtles are growing on me. They swim they sunbathe and they are gradually getting used to me and Harry sticking our ugly mugs in their home to see what they are doing. 

So we are about 90% settled; there are some bits of furniture clogging up the living room that the landlord has to remove, throws need to be purchased to cover the camel coloured sofas, we can only get Turkish channels on the television, and further trips to IKEA are needed to deck out this place with frames, cushions, candles and lamps, but we are getting there.

As I said; Welcome to our HUMBLE abode. 

Rough round the edges.

Photographs by Harry Kakoullis

Bleach is my NEW BEST FRIEND

After two weeks of searching, sunburn and days spent viewing some questionable properties, we have a home. Its big, bright and we signed the contract on Friday 12^th November – our 6 year anniversary – which we hope will be a good omen. Its not only our first home, but its our first time living together. I think we are both prepared for tears and tantrums, from me most probably, but more over it’s exciting to have four walls to call our own.

Renting property in Cyprus is pretty straightforward, depending on how picky you are. There are estate agents, but most people renting, put out signs hanging from the balcony, or advertise in the local papers. We must have seen over 25 flats across Nicosia, some more desirable than others, and some not fit for human habitation.  When you walk into a once white bathroom, that’s covered in black mould the sight, let alone the smell takes your breath away for all the wrong reasons! And while I will freely admit I haven’t been the easiest house hunter to please, I have certain standards a property must meet. We have had several discussions about the important things, and begrudgingly I have had to admit that the colour of the sofa, the tiles in the bathroom and the light fittings are not factors that should be put before price and location. Rationally thinking I have to agree with “Mr always right Kakoullis” but with a feminine brain on my shoulders, and one that likes things to look nice, I cant help the fact that I want our first home together to be exactly how I imagined it. 

In typical Cypriot fashion we found our flat because Harry's dad knew someone at work who knew someone who was renting it out. So contracts signed, deposit paid and keys handed over we have ourselves a three bedroom, 1 ½ bathroom, 1^st floor flat with open plan living room, kitchen, air conditioning, central heating, balcony, parking space and storage room on the edge of Engomi and Strovolos. It’s a 10/15 minute walk into the centre of Nicosia, depending how fast your feet move, and Harry’s favourite take-away, Sam’s, is round the corner.  Chicken, tatziki and chips all wrapped up in a big flat pitta bread and toasted. Mmmmh.

We have spent the last three days hoovering, moping, wiping, scrubbing and washing every inch of this flat. My hands permanently smell of bleach, and there is a lemon aroma wafting around this place. We have gone through one bottle of bleach, one bottle of dettol, one can of mr muscle oven cleaner, one bottle of fridge cleaner and about 15 sponges and 10 cloths. And after cleaning wardrobe doors, shower heads and harry hanging out the windows to clean the outside (obviously a man's job) we are DONE. We have moved the furniture around in the living room countless times and think we have found the perfect position for sofas, TV, coffee table etc. And we even survived putting together our IKEA bed.

And while we are rather excited about our new home, and slightly worried about the fact that neither of us have jobs yet, Granny is sad to see us leave. We have one more night with her; she wasn’t ready to let us go just yet, and apparently its her duty to wash our curtains and sheets before we move in. We have protested but granny shouts louder and wins the war every time. 

So home is Strovolos, Nicosia, CYPRUS

Evidence

I told you Granny was a gangster...

Old Town

Flip Flops aren't made for walking

Our search for somewhere to live seems never ending, and as a new week begun, Monday saw us pounding the pavements and walking the entire city of Nicosia in search of a home. I say pavements but, as those of you who visit us will soon find out, Cyprus has a distinct lack of them, and where there are pavements, some fool has planted a tree in the middle. Its one of those things that you have to laugh about, until you get run over by a car cause your forced to walk in the road!

Anyway, as temperatures in the city hit 29 degrees, me and Harry took our search to the streets, and starting at his dad’s house in Engomi, we began our walk around the circumference of the city. The centre of Nicosia can be found within the ancient walls, which form a circle around the very heart of Cyprus, and using these as our map we headed into the old town and off to the other side of the city [To put this in context imagine walking from Waterloo up to Piccadilly Circus, across to Covent Garden and then east to Bethnal Green and back round to Waterloo]. The old part of the city, although rough around the edges is probably my favourite. While we wouldn’t want to live there due to its ghetto like atmosphere at night, it’s the part of the city, which screams character from every angle. The buildings are old and suntanned, and the materials used are traditional. The heavy wooden doors are engraved and adorned with intricate ironwork and the walls are weathered to within and inch of their life. And despite the war wounds of the Turkish invasion, bullet wholes are evident on most buildings in the old town, they are still standing today. Just.

Out of the old town and back into new shiny Cyprus we headed round to Makariou Avenue, the main street in Nicosia, and plodded up and down the many little roads running off away from the noise, cars and coffee smells. And after a pit stop for Burger King (our belly’s have been filled to bursting with Cypriot delicacies) it was back to Engomi. While I make it sound like a mini stroll it was more of a walking marathon, and a rough estimate of the miles clocked on Monday is 25.

This, however, was not the end of our walking. Our morning search turned up little hope of housing, so we headed away from the city centre, from Harry’s dad’s house to the edges of Engomi (While this makes it sound far, walking distance from Engomi into the centre of Nicosia is approximately 20 minutes). By this point it was 5pm and with the sun going down we decided to admit defeat. Wearing flip-flops for our day of walking was probably not my best idea ever, and as a result my feet and legs suffered. I thought this would be the end of our walking but Harry had other ideas and decided to take me on a walking tour of his childhood. So now I have seen the football pitch he used to play on, the primary school he went to, the walls he used to climb over with his best friend, and the kebab shop he ate at. And to finish our day, he decided to walk me to his auntie’s house, the walk he used to do every day after school. As much as I liked our trip down Harry’s memory lane, and our walk into the heart of Strovolos to his auntie’s house, his perception of distance and time is somewhat out. And when Harry says we will be there in 5 minutes he really means 15. I was promised a frappe at the end of our jaunt into Strovolos and I am still waiting for it. We found a handful of flats along the way, none of which are winners, but my bus stop tan benefited from a boost. Lessons learnt on Monday are a follows: bullet holes are forever, pavements are for plants, and flip-flops aren’t made for walking!

Im Building a Wall

Ok, so I’m not literally building a wall, although I haven’t ruled out builder as a possible profession here in Cyprus (there are developers and builders everywhere, so I figure they might need an extra pair of hands, and I can get a tan in the process…everyone’s a winner). It’s a rule of Tavli I picked up during my recent “how to play Tavli” lesson.

Sunday everyone flocks to granny’s, where we are still residing due to our lack of permanent home, so we spent the day finding extra chairs and pulling out the “spare” table from upstairs to accommodate the million and one surprise lunch guests. To say I was overwhelmed was an understatement. Aunties, Uncles, 2^nd Uncles, kids of all ages and a dog were not what I had expected on a quiet Sunday in the village. I’m quickly learning, that here in Cyprus granny’s house is open like a 24-hour Tesco and she probably has enough food in stock to rival one.

So what started out as Auntie Maria and YaYa (Greek for granny) cooking for me and Harry, turned into lunch for 10+. In Cyprus, family are your friends and your friends are your family. While I say it was overwhelming, it is also quite fascinating. To watch them all interact with each other is a cultural study in itself. And while I don’t understand what they are saying half the time, I’m slowly understanding the Cypriot way of life. And hopefully by Easter I will be experienced enough with this Cypriot family eating thing. I say Easter because Harry has warned me that this is when every single family member comes out the woodwork, descends on granny’s and it gets rowdy to say the least.

For now I can tell you several things about Cypriots; they like frappe (cold coffee), they shout, they don’t understand red lights and they love a bit of Tavli (backgammon to you). So on Sunday evening I embraced the village lifestyle and let Harry and his Uncle teach me Tavli. I have what harry calls beginners luck. The running score is 10-7 to me. And Tavli is my new favourite game. Only, that is until I start loosing. It’s a far cry from watching the X Factor eviction show that’s for sure.