For whatever impulsive reason, I ended my first published novel, Subway Hitchhikers (now revised into Subway Visions) in a Greek family’s restaurant in Indiana. In a town I I’ve dubbed Daffodil, which shows up in the title of the next book in the series., in fact

At the time, I saw it as emblematic of East Meets West, especially apt considering its Tibetan Buddhist twist.

Little did I know, once I picked up the trail again not quite two decades after that publication, of the ways Greek-Americans interacted with my life, even in the Midwest.

Consider these tidbits:

My best friend’s mother was delighted by her neighbor’s repeated explanation, “Athens! She is beautiful. The rest of the country?” A spitting sound I could never ever spell out was accompanied by the open palms of both hands coming down side by side from overhead.

His other best friend was Greek-American, someone of a philosophic outlook who wound up living in my circle in Upstate New York after getting out of the Army. Yeah, some hippies were veterans.

Later faint details of a landmark restaurant passing into a new generation much like the one in the novel, still in Daffodil.

In the Pacific Northwest, discovering souvlaki on our forays to the University District of Seattle.

Back in Northeast Ohio, the Greek bakery in a small storefront surrounded by houses on a quiet street six or seven blocks east of our home.

In Baltimore, “All the pizza’s made by Greeks,” which seemed wrong – where were the Italians? And, in my salesman role on the road, “All the diners are owned by Greeks.”

In New Hampshire, the Athens restaurant downtown – popular but, to my senses, bland and tired – in contrast to one of my favorite takeout places where we ordered for the office – the menu that introduced me to gyros.

Add to that the cathedral’s big Glendi, which sent food to the newsroom in gratitude for our coverage, or the little frame St. Nicholas church I’d pass on one route to and from the paper.

One of our older coworkers, a photo lab tech, was Greek – kind, smiling, though I got to know little else. Later, one of the men I worked more closely with in the composing room was half Greek. His name, Perry, was after his grandfather, Pericles.

All of this fleeting, fragmentary, but coming together in once I moved to Dover and its annual, free-admission Greek Festival. From there, I picked up Greek dancing and the liturgy of the Orthodox faith, not that I converted. It still enriched my Quaker Christian strand.

And then there was Davos, in Watertown Square, a block down the street from my weekly choir practice. The restaurant was expertly run by Hispanics after its founders moved on.

It’s an element I miss living on this end of Maine. The closest Greek restaurants are in Brewer and Waterville, both blissfully satisfying.

For more of what they present, look to the Cassia’s World category here at the Red Barn or to the novel, What’s Left, which is available in the digital platform of your choice at Smashwords, the Apple Store, Barnes & Noble’s Nook, Scribd, Sony’s Kobo, and other fine ebook retailers. It’s also available in paper and Kindle at Amazon, or you can ask your local library to obtain it.