The Dance-Off (or Held Hostage in Rethymnon)

We concluded the 2007 family trip on Crete. The second night in Rethymnon, our children begged us to have an early night. For the last week, my wife and I had been cramming in activities, interspersing encounters with locals, to give them the full flavor of Crete. And in Greek fashion, all our dinners had started late and kept going. Three children lobbied for six o’clock, two were okay with six-thirty. Bridget and I compromised. We agreed to meet at 7:00.

After circumventing the busy center, we chose the first taverna we came to: The Lemon Tree. Ordinarily, Bridget and I shun restaurants advertising a back terrace. If we can’t see it, we don’t take any chances. We don’t want to be trapped in a claustrophobic grotto, serenaded by the resident accordion player. Fortunately, the terrace had an open feel to it. The moon was peeking through the pergola and kids were riding bikes on the adjacent playground.

Once we were seated, our family was all business. No dilly-allying with the menu. No luxuriating over a glass of wine. We ordered everything upfront: a few Greek salads, dishes to satisfy the carnivores, pescatarians and vegetarians, along with the obligatory zucchini fritters, the only thing Lela would eat.

As the meal wound down, I was glad that we followed our children’s lead. They had gone along with our ambitious itinerary, even when the heat peaked at 47 Celsius (116.6 Fahrenheit). Everybody deserved a night off. There was one last hurdle. In a Cretan taverna, if you say you are finished, teleiosameh, the waiter will clear the empty plates, then abandon you to smoke and stare at the night. Second, the word for check, logharismo, is hard to pronounce. The middle syllable, the tricky guttural ghar sound, always gets stuck in my throat. Third, once the request has been communicated, you need to receive the gifts from the taverna: usually orange cake served with a chilled decanter of raki, their homemade moonshine. Aware that draining the decanter would hasten our exit, everyone pitched in.

Our sleepy-eyed waiter had been particularly chummy. We knew Emilio’s name, his wife’s country of origin, Estonia, and that their newborn (I forget her name) had colic. Throughout the meal, he had taken a special interest in our girls, making vague entreaties about a discotheque. When I told Emilio we were ready to settle the bill, he returned with two carafes of wine. On the house. Our kids let out a collective groan.

I gave Bridget a shrug. She grabbed a carafe, “Let’s do this.” Up to that point, she had turned a blind eye to the beers that Luke, the one underage child, had been ordering. However, she poured him a glass like everyone else.

He balked, saying, “Actually, I prefer white.”

“Man up,” she snapped. “Everyone has to pull their weight.”

When we had made our way through the complimentary carafes, I summoned Emilio again. This time, he shared more good news: the owner would be joining us. Our kids shook their heads in disbelief.

Emilio delivered more carafes and decanters, assuring us that they were also on the house. Then, the owner settled in at the head of the table. Despite the fact he owned a popular restaurant in a tourist area, “The Captain” was a self-styled revolutionary: Fidel Castro beard, army jacket with chevron epaulets, and ubiquitous cigar.  

The next five to six hours are hazy. I know the Captain told us stories about the merchant marine, periodically challenging us to defend capitalist principles. When a carafe ran dry, he had it refilled. Eventually, the kitchen staff joined us, the cook, still wearing her poofy chef hat, and a guy sporting a hooped earring, who introduced himself as “The Healer.”

A quick side note: Our second night on Mykonos, Lela had jumped off some sort of ledge and broken both her arches. Her self-diagnosis. In any case, she had rendered her feet inoperable. The last three islands, Brace had been carrying her everywhere piggyback. 

When the healer heard Lela’s diagnosis, he got down to work. Everyone in our party averted their eyes as he tended to her feet, administering a cross between reiki and an old-fashioned massage. The healing continued while the Captain regaled us with more stories. Bridget and I were ready to intervene when Lela abruptly stood up. After a few feeble steps, she held her crutches aloft like Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol, proclaiming, “I can walk! I can walk!”

At some point, Emilio abandoned us. Before he left, I called him over. “We really need to go.” He assured me, after he made a quick errand for his wife, he would help us. One consequence of losing our waiter, besides not being able to settle the bill, we had to slog our way through the complementary wine without any hydration. Gillie and Megan kept sneaking off to slurp water from the bathroom faucet.

An hour or two later, Emilio returned. He looked refreshed as if he had just taken a nap. I beckoned him once again, mouthing, “Help us.”

He gave me a thumbs up. Emilio whispered, “We’ll use the disco.” Then he poured himself a glass of wine and sat down.

I gave him a You’ve got to be kidding me look.  He tipped his head deferentially toward the Captain, as if our exit was a delicate matter.

You might wonder why we didn’t just get up and leave. First of all, Emilio had hidden our bill. Secondly, the Captain had an imposing presence. Accustomed to commanding tankers on the high seas, he was clearly in charge. But mostly, after six trips to Crete, it felt rude to decline his hospitality. In my novel, a shopkeeper says, “It’s like Tinkerbelle in Peter Pan. Every time you refuse a gift from a Greek, you diminish his spirit by one.”

When Emilio finally told the Captain that we had our hearts set on dancing, he lifted his chin. The Greek negative. Somehow, Emilio smoothed over our exit. We thanked the Captain profusely, tapping our hearts, as we fled the restaurant. The only problem was that now we were beholden to the waiter. While he led us to the harbor, Bridget and I hung back. We had no intention of going to a dance club. It was four in the morning and we were three sheets to the wind. Bridget whispered, “We have to sacrifice the girls.”

Her younger daughter fell back, hooking arms with her mother. When she heard we were calling it a night, Megan was adamant that we stay with them. “The boys will protect you,” countered Bridget. But Megan wouldn’t let go.

The disco was pretty much what I had imagined. Greeks and tourists standing around, trying to talk over the brain-rattling techno. There was no dance floor. No place to sit. While Emilio strode to the bar, the boys propped Lela in the corner so nobody knocked her over. Emilio came back, brandishing a bottle of Jose Cuervo.

After he had guilted everyone into tequila shots, the eight of us stood around like everyone else, grinning at each other or, in my case, grimacing at the godawful music. Suddenly, I missed the Lemon Tree. At least, that impasse had chairs and audible conversation. I remember studying Emilio. What could this guy possibly want from us?

I had almost forgotten about Lela until Bridget pointed to the corner. Flashing a mischievous smile, she started to coordinate her hips and crutches. If there’s a beat, Lela will find a way to dance to it. And make it look damn good. Before our eyes, Tiny Tim Cratchit metamorphosed into Nelly Furtado. Lela must have inspired Brace to bust a few moves. In any case, Emilio got in Brace’s face, making aggressive dance moves, and Brace responded in kind. It was like two gorillas beating their chests. Our family formed a circle and Gillie exclaimed, “It’s a Dance-off!”  As bystanders gathered behind us, Emilio and Brace continued to trade moves. Emilio did some fancy stomping and elbow-jabbing, his eyes fixed on Brace. Brace broke out his breakdance repertoire, before rising on his haunches and kicking his legs like a Cossack.  

That was all it took. Once the dance-off subsided, Luke said he needed to go to bed. Bridget and I insisted we help him find the hotel. Megan let us go. Emilio too. While I assumed Emilio was going to hit on one of the girls, it turns out he just wanted a night away from the colicky baby. I have to admit I was surprised when he handed me the bill for the tequila, which was ten times the cost of our complementary drinks. Still, it was worth the price of release. As the three of us exited the club, the sky was starting to lighten. I’m sure that the other four kids were struck by a similar irony an hour later: that their early night had ended at sunrise.

Emilio and I (2016)

Emilio, Bridget and I (2024)

The first photo was taken nine years after the Dance-Off. I was traveling through Rethymnon by myself and Emilio immediately recognized me. He made me sit down in his new taverna and we reminisced. Nine years later, Bridget and I had just eaten dinner in a rival taverna and Emilio hailed us. Bridget instinctively backed up. "I can't do this again," she whispered.

I said, "It's okay. We won't have to drink any raki."