Mr Be Strong: The Tourist of Life E-Book

Panagiotis Michael

• Herausgeber: AKAKIA Publications
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 512

Beschreibung

“One of my dreams was to write a book about my life. Most people stop dreaming when they become adults. We become stern, busy, cynical and we forget to dream. Without my dreams, I wouldn't have made it through life. This book was written as a reminder of the importance of dreams. It is the realization of my own dream, perhaps my biggest one so far. I wrote this book in hopes that someone would gain strength through my story. If my ordeal empowers even just a single reader, then it will have been worthwhile. Had I given up on my dreams, life might have given up on me.”

Panagiotis Michael, a professional gymnast, delivers an “aerobics” lesson on finding our inner strength and getting through hard times. After a health ordeal which left him paralyzed as an adolescent and battling cancer as an adult, he shares his experience with us through his empirical writing. He gives us an important lesson on empowering our body through exercise, feeding our soul with laughter, drawing strength from our dreams and never letting go of our hope. Because when you stop dreaming, you stop living!

70% of the sales' net income will be donated to BE STRONG Charitable Organization which supports people with cancer from Greece, in order to create the 1st Cancer Survivors Wellness Centre in Greece.

Leseprobe

PANAGIOTIS MICHAEL

Mr. Be Strong

The Tourist of Life

A TRUE STORY

Translated from Greek by Leda Sourla

AKAKIA 2013

Copyright © Panagiotis Michael2013

Published inEnglandby AKAKIA Publications, 2013

AKAKIA Publications

St PetersVicarage

Wightman Road

LondonN8 0LY,UK

0044 203 28 66 550

0044 7411 40 65 62

www.akakia.net

[email protected]

Panagiotis Michael

Mr.Be Strong

The Tourist Of Life

A True Story

Translated from Greek by Leda Sourla

Cover Images:

Source: ShutterStock.com / Copyright: Dudarev Mikhail / File No: 82567510

Source: ShutterStock.com / Copyright: Dudarev Mikhail / File No: 79396294

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, microfilming, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the Author and the AKAKIA Publications, at the address above.

ISBN:978-1-909550-41-4

Copyright © Panagiotis Michael 2013

CopyrightHouse.co.ukRegistration ID:138557

London,UK

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

PART ONE

MY CHILDHOOD

ADOLESCENCE

PARALYSIS

RETURNING TO LIFE AND GYMNASTICS

PART TWO

PROFESSION GYMNAST

LOVE, INVINCIBLE IN BATTLE

CANCER

CHEMOTHERAPY

LIFE AFTER CANCER

MY SOULMATE

PART THREE

ST MARY’S GARDENS

THIRD TIME’S A CHARM

EPILOGUE

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Dedicated to my grandfather,

my guardian angel.

He inspired the title phrase.

“Panagioti, in this life we are tourists…”

he had said to me before he ‘departed’.

I'll never forget it

PREFACE

One of my dreams was to write a book about my life. It was neither to satisfy my ego, nor to make money (after all, I’m not a writer by profession). It was the simple belief that even if what I’ve been through was read by just one person, and that one person drew strength from it, then it would be worth putting on paper.

Writing the book about my life would be worthwhile, for just that single person.

The idea stuck around in my head, but I didn’t know how to go about it. Until one morning, while reading my Sunday paper, I noticed a writing competition by a publishing house and one of the many categories advertised was “biography”.

The winners of each category would get to see their books in bookstore windows…for sale.

That was it: “Time to make my dream come true”, I said to myself and that same afternoon, I planted myself in front of my computer and started typing these first few lines. I didn’t give it much thought, all I knew was I wanted to write the story of my life. I wanted to set down in black and white each experience, each feeling it sparked in me and how I felt about it now, right at this moment, while putting it into words.

Suddenly, the first tentative words already painted on my screen, I realized I’m not a writer… “How am I going to write this, how will I compose it?” I wonder, the first signs of hesitation coming over me. I felt a wave of panic. That’s when I decided that I would simply narrate all my feelings and experiences as if I were sitting with my mates, casually sipping on a cup of coffee. At the end of the day, even if mystory never gets turned into a book, I will have written it; because what’s left of our lives in the end, but the things we’ve done and the things we’ve written?

Delving deep into my memories trying to figure out where to begin, I’m flustered. I think my grandfather will help me out once more, with his wise words: “In this life we are tourists…don’t ever forget it!”.

I couldn’t if I wanted to; life itself had a way of reminding me. Two dates left a mark on me, they completely changed my life and I will remember them to the day I leave this world:

April of 1984: I was 17 years old when suddenly, without conceivable reason, I found myself paralyzed.

July of 1997: I was 30 years old when I was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I’ve booked myself in for an appointment tomorrow morning, to enroll in a nicotine addiction treatment program. Indeed, despite my health issues, I am a smoker, but I have decided to quit after 15 years. I’m taking it as a sign that the appointment coincides with the beginning of this book, as I will feel your presence beside me for the duration of my ‘treatment’. You’re my mates, after all, aren’t you?

PART ONE

MY CHILDHOOD

In a foreign land

Hamburg,Germany,1971, aglum winter’s day in a dark blue Opel Kadett. The driver, cheerful but pensive, a cigarette in hand and the window open to spare his passengers the inconvenience of second-hand smoke.

It’s my father, Andreas. A Cypriot immigrant, who moved away from home at 18, seeking a better life. He worked as a weldor in German shipyards, a tough job considering he had to endure temperatures as low as -18c to provide for his family.

Let’s take a look at his passengers: In the back seat my mother, Sophia, cradling a tiny baby in her arms. She had also left her homeland, Topoliana, a beautiful village on the outskirts of Karpenisi, as a young girl, for a better future. She’s a worker at the Nivea factory. Later, she will double as a seamstress to help her growing family make ends meet, since on this day, we are bringing home its new addition: My newly-born sister, Stella.

How strange life is! Two people from a far away land found each other and fell in love in 1966Germany. The fruit of this union arrived shortly after. On the 27thof July, 1967, I was brought into this world, though I had no say in the matter. I was their first born, and they named me Panagiotis.

Contrary to what most people might think, I was far from pampered. My father was a strict man who came from a conservative, underprivileged family. In later years, I would come to realize he wasn’t as rigid as he had seemed through my childhood eyes.

I’m sitting in the back seat by my mother, my wide hazel eyes set on the little creature covered in a blanket. I feel a little uneasy about having to share my parents’ attention.

“Mom, where did we get this little baby from?” I asked.

“From the supermarket”, my mother answered.

“Can’t we return it? I don’t like it.”

You see, I felt threatened- even though I was only 4, I knew I was losing my exclusivity. That’s for those of you who think kids don’t understand.

What we call the ‘stone years’ were particularly tough inGermany. Not that I had any comprehension of this fact at the age of 4, but as I grew older my father's vivid accounts painted the situation for me. In order to marry my mother, he had to sell his only professional tool, his welder.

Present at the ceremony were just a couple of acquaintances and the best man. Ostensibly a modest ceremony, it was lavish in feelings of love, companionship and devotion. So, they managed to provide for all our needs while we were growing up and remain deeply in love to this day. To me, they are the epitome of a successful marriage.

Inevitably, the mind drifts to today’s youth, who think that they need to have all sorts of earthly possessions before taking the plunge…the point, my friend, is to really want it. If you don’t, forget about it. How come the older generations always found a way to overcome whatever hardship was thrown their way, while we constantly make excuses, even though we have everything?

I started speaking German before I even uttered my first word in Greek, so when I hear it today, it sounds especially familiar. I don’t speak German any longer. When I came toGreece I was too shy to do so and my parents decided I should study English instead.

I never understood why.

My memories are filled with images of Germany. On Sundays, his days off, my father used to take me to these huge fun fairs- he remembers me as an enthusiastic, demanding, whiny child. Why? As he explained when I was older, I was passionate, impatient and wanted to do everything at once. I just had a very loud way of expressing my demands.

Three character traits that have stayed with me are enthusiasm, impatience and assertiveness; I can achieve anything if I set my mind to it! And to think we shake our heads in doubt when experts claim an adult’s character is fully formed by the age of 5.

Apart from the vast fun fairs, I remember zoos, playgrounds, parks with jungle gyms and greenery. Of course, I could never forget the state-of-the-art department stores. I always tagged along when my parents went shopping. That’s why, to this day, I love hanging around malls. I got a kick out of it, especially around the massive, well-stocked toy stores. I wanted my father to buy me everything. I remember dragging him by the hand to the latest toy that caught my fancy. Sometimes he’d get it for me, but more often than not, he’d refuse. It was understandable, since the family could hardly make ends meet.

Surely I couldn’t leave out the darkness and gloom that mingles with each happy memory. And I mean that literally; the days in Germany were usually cloudy and dull. To catch a ray of sunlight, you’d have to be watching a travel documentary about Greece. After all, ‘sun’ is just a synonym for ‘Greece’!

Talking about playgrounds has brought to mind an old home movie I once watched. It had been filmed by my father on one of those hand-held cameras that were popular at the time and the reel was mounted on a similarly hoary projector. It was the DVD of the era, you see.

In this film, I saw myself in a playground in Germany. My father liked to capture our moments, either as stills or motion pictures. I’d be running around and dad would chase after me with his camera. I took a leading role at everything I did. I’d find ropes to hang from with urgency and eagerness to be first. I’d spot the highest point in the playground and climb up so everyone could see. On the merry-go-round it had to be me setting the pace, I wouldn’t let anyone else turn it.

If there was a climbing frame, I’d surely be hanging off it like a monkey…which makes me wonder…could it be that the profession we eventually choose is also defined during our childhood? Just saying, since I chose to be a professional gymnast.

In search of childhood memories, I opened up the old chest where I kept a photo album from the years I spent in Germany. Looking through those pictures, it's crystal clear that the tiny baby I had once wanted desperately to get rid of, had turned into my favorite little sister. In so many pictures I'm holding her in my arms, the expression on my face clearly stating: “Hurt my little sister and you're dead meat”.

I loved her deeply, and I still adore her. My parents confirm this undeniable fact. They tell me I had taken her under my wing and was prepared to literally crack the skull of anyone who mistreated her.

Speaking of cracked skulls, I still remember an incident between myself and a little Turkish boy that left a mark in my memory and also, on the top of my head.

Right across the street from where we lived, there was a park. My dad frequently took me there to play with the neighborhood kids.

Conveniently, the park was visible from our home so our parents could keep a watchful eye on us from the comfort of their living room. That day, after my father had dropped me off, I noticed a little boy I hadn't seen before. I went over to speak to him and asked him where he was from, because his name sounded unusual. When he said he was from Turkey, I got an odd feeling. I knew I was from Cyprus and I knew my country had trouble with Turkey. Turkish people were “the bad guys”.

Not that anyone in my family had ever expressed such a view directly to me, but keep in mind that children are like sponges: they absorb every morsel of information, store it in their brain and, eventually, they bring it up. There are good and bad people everywhere, it has nothing to do with nationality.

That day, however, I wanted to hurt that little boy. I wanted to pin him down on the grass and claim victory over him. I put my arm around him, and under the pretense of friendship I asked him to take a walk with me around the park. As we walked, I cunningly slipped my foot between his legs and tripped him. Clearly, he hadn't expected it and looked stunned. I wanted him to eat dirt, but he managed to get it together and nothing but his knee touched the ground. Next thing I knew, we were rolling on the grass, struggling, fighting each other.

In the heat of the “battle”, as I'm on top of him, he turns around and flips me over. As he straddled me, I felt a bolting pain in the back of my head and he ran away. I thought I had won, since he was the one that fled the scene, but when I brought my hand to where I had felt the pain, I saw that I was bleeding. What had happened? When he turned me over, my head landed square on a brick that was lying there. I was taken to the emergency room and had to get 5 stitches in the back of my head. I carry the mark to this day as a reminder that wishing harm on others will always come back to bite you in the ass.

Those pictures brought back so many memories: My favorite toys, my teddy bear, my rocking horse. There's a picture of me on that wooden rocking horse: I'm standing on it, an imperious look on my face, my arm outstretched and pointing forward. I look like some kind of leader, guiding his people towards a more prosperous land. Perhaps I was gazing into my own future. Who knows what was going through my boyish mind at the time.

I also saw my childhood bathtub, which was a plastic basin in front of the wood stove. I'm sitting in it, naked, while my mother is trying to get me to be still so she can wash my hair.

One thing all the pictures have in common is that I'm always posing for the camera. Making goofy faces, looking serious, smiling or mimicking the mannerisms and movements of a professional model.

The ones that touched my heart the most, are the ones in which I'm in my father's arms. The way he holds me is so affectionate, so tender and protective it makes me want to be a baby again, just so that I can feel his touch. Unfortunately, I wasn't aware of it at the time, and my most prominent memories are those of his stern and strict manner. I don't want to have those memories any more, I'm tired of them. I have no reason to keep them alive. I'd like to have amnesia!But there's no way to delete what your hard disc stores when you're a baby.

To be honest, I wasn't the most well behaved child. I was mischievous and naughty. When out with my father, my hands would be darting in all directions, feeling and touching everything that came my way. And if something didn't come my way, I would surely go after it. As any child, I wanted to discover the world, I couldn't help it, could I? Hence, the insurance policy my father had taken out for any damage I might inflict on the stores we visited.

I remember the huge malls we used to go to with my parents. I guess it explains my love for window shopping. My mother tells me of how the sales clerks would fuss over me in all the shops. She says I was a beautiful baby, with large lively eyes and long eyelashes. I was frequently mistaken for a girl, which really isn't the best compliment one could hope for. But what did you expect my mother to say? Even a baby crow is beautiful in its mother's eyes.

Looking at myself today I can tell you that I was a cute baby, sure, but nothing to write home about, really.

The 50 or so pictures from Germany in my collection might not be a whole lot, but they are enough to bring back scenes, events, celebrations, faces and landmarks of my childhood.

One of those landmarks was my christening, as I actuallyrememberedbeing christened by two people. They were brothers from Crete, friends of my father. That must seem like a really good thing to you, a child having two godparents. I mean, who wouldn't be excited about their child having two spiritual fathers, right?

Well, not really. Sorry to disappoint, but as it turns out, it wasn't exciting for me. Remember how I said Irememberedbeing christened by two people? That obviously means I hadforgottenabout it.

The reason is simple enough: I never saw them again after the christening ceremony. No Easter chocolate baskets, no Christmas presents, not even a postcard. It was frustrating and always a sore point for me.

That's why I've been trying to be a godfather to a child for quite some time. I would honestly like to be someone's spiritual parent so that I could give them what mytwogodparents never gave me. You'd think my chances would have been better with two, rather than the typical one, wouldn't you?

To be fair, I did see one of them again, at my wedding. Although I was quite hurt by their lack of interest, it gave me great joy that one of them was present on my big day.

What's really funny about the whole godfather situation is that they had insisted to choose my name. And that name was...Sofronis! An extremely dated and awkward sounding name.

Thankfully, my father put his foot down and I was named after my maternal grandfather: Panagiotis.

I mentioned that I'm actively trying to become godfather to a child. That is because the people I have asked so far, have refused me. Don't think I go around asking just anyone, I'm talking about people I think of as friends, people who are dear to me. All of them have given me a plausible excuse, that they've already promised someone else. I can understand making a promise, but a child can have more than one godparent if the couple so chooses.

Anyway, let’s not dwell on it. Perhaps the reason I'm being rejected is that I'm not ready to be a godparent. I think these things have taken the form of “agreements” more than anything else. Even when friendship is involved, all too frequently godparents fail to meet their responsibilities. We tend to forget our sacred duty to stand by our godchild, at least until he or she comes of age.

Here's a little kid now, just three years old, alone at home, hiding under the covers, feeling scared. He's waiting to hear the familiar voice of one of his parents so he can shed the fear and be normal again. Who is that little boy? Why, it's me of course.

A memory so clear, like a picture etched on glass.

This is how he feels: Under those blankets his mind is constantly replaying the last thing his parents said to him before they left: “We're going to work now, so we can put food on the table. Don't open the door, no matter who knocks”.

They'd give me a kiss and then they'd go away, leaving me alone in the deafening silence of our empty home.

I felt so afraid that I'd stay covered with my blanket until my parents returned. Even the slightest sound would give me such a fright that I'd bury my head underneath the covers.

Our financial situation was so tight that in order to get by, they both had to work. There was no-one to stay home and take care of me. They had to take their chances and leave a three-year-old at home, all alone.

Another thing I remember is how strict my father was. I can still hear him saying “don't do that”, “no”, “don't”. He expectedme to conduct myself like a grownup, forgetting that I was just a child who needed to do childish things.

And I knew that if I didn't comply, a good spanking followed by a punishment was in store for me. 

If I dared to ask “why”, the answer was always “because I said so”, an answer I still find frustrating.

My parents never fussed over me. They would never force me to eat, or offer to make me something different when I didn't like what was for dinner. “The child will eat when the child is hungry”, they'd say and I appreciated that, because I never liked to feel pressured.

I don't mean to make it sound like I don't have any pleasant memories of my father, because I do.

Actually, I'm holding a picture that brought back one of those happy memories. In it, I'm sitting underneath the Christmas tree trying to play the accordion. It was that year's gift from Santa Claus.

According to our customs, gifts were exchanged on New Year's Eve.

At  the stroke of midnight, the lights would go off at our place, and when they came back on, Santa would be there holding his big bag full of toys for me. I was sorely disappointed when I found out that “Santa” was none other than my father. Every year he would don his red suit to deliver my presents. It was one of the best days of the year, and I always looked forward to seeing that fat old bearded man in the red suit that brought me presents.

How I wish Santa Claus was still around! Perhaps the world would be a better place. I think for most of us, the end of ourchildhood marks the end of our dreams and hopes. We become serious and we forget to dream. I'm glad that I remain a child at heart. I say that, because no matter what, I still dream on.

My dreams give me courage, energy, purpose. Dreams are the essence of my being. Without them I probably wouldn't have made it, and you probably wouldn't be reading my story. Simply put, had I given up on my dreams, life might have given up on me.

Flying solo

What on earth is a child of only 5 doing on board an aircraft bound to Athens, accompanied by just a flight attendant?

That child is me. It was the day I said goodbye to my parents and headed into unknown territory.

My parents were sending me to Athens, where I would attend a Greek school and live with my maternal grandmother, Vasiliki. She lived with my mother's brother, Niko, and his wife, Maria.

The going was tough and my parents did what they thought was best for me at the time. Whether they made the right decision or not is open to discussion and I still don't have all the answers.

Imagine how I must have felt, leaving my parents and sister behind, not having the slightest idea of what was ahead of me.

I can't even begin to imagine how my parents must have felt that day at Hamburg airport. Especially when they turned me over to the flight attendant.

She came over and put my “Unaccompanied Minor” card around my neck. The truth is that when I saw her, I was star struck. I think it was her uniform and the colors she was wearing that impressed me more than anything.

She wore a blue skirt and a yellow and blue shirt. Resting atop her head was a little hat that looked like a beret. She wore a metal brooch pinned to her shirt. It was the logo of the airline I would be traveling with, Lufthansa. It was my firstand only time as a passenger with that airline, yet they continued to send me a little souvenir each year until I was 10. That's what I call good marketing strategy.

I was hurt to be leaving my parents, but eager to board the big airplane. My parents had spoken to me about it, preparing me so I wouldn't be scared. At the same time, they had sparked my imagination and my curiosity. It would be my very first flight. After saying my goodbyes, I turned to the attendant. She smiled and held out her hand for me.

I remember loving the experience. Not only was I not afraid, I was thoroughly enjoying it!

The flight attendants kept asking me if I wanted anything. Being the youngest passenger, I was that flight's mascot.

They even took me to the cockpit. I was introduced to the pilot and stayed for quite a while, my jaw hanging in awe as I stared at all the buttons and lights and switches. Some of them made a noise, some just lit up.

After I'd worn out the pilot with all my questions, they took me back to my seat. This experience made me want to become a pilot. To this day, I love flying. Whenever I get a chance, I pack a bag and go.

As soon as the plane landed, I was brought back to reality. I was in Greece and my parents weren't with me. It was a pivotal moment in my life, one which led me to separate my childhood in two parts: C.W.P and C.W/O.P (“Childhood With Parents” and “Childhood Without Parents”).

The circumstances of my new life were completely different to what I was used to. My uncle's family was poor and worked all day to make ends meet.

My memories of Athens and the time I lived with grandma aren't the best. No more fun fairs, no more playgrounds, no more Sunday outings.

In the beginning I was looking forward to Sundays, but that anticipation gradually diminished as my uncle spent the day at a football match, or listening to the game on his little portable radio while I played in the empty lot across the street.

As a little side-note, let me add that my uncle is still obsessed with football, and still hopes to become a millionaire every Sunday.

He has invested a vast amount of money on football pools and other types of football-based lotteries. By the way, I don't like football at all. I guess it is inextricably linked to missing my Sunday outings. Who says I have to like it, anyway, because I'm a guy?

I remember my grandmother, with her gray hair and plump cheeks chasing me around with a spoon in her hand, trying to get me to eat. She felt responsible, you see, and didn't want my parents to think she wasn't taking good care of me. Her generation considered plump, rosy cheeks a sign of good health.

I felt such pressure that I frequently ran to my hiding places. But in the end, she always found me and force-fed me. I missed my parents who gave me the freedom to eat what I wanted, when I wanted.

Before we go any further, I would like to mention that my grandmother is a heroine in my eyes. She is 85 years old today, and completely self-sufficient. She's had her share of rainy days, but she's a hardy woman.

She was widowed at 28. My grandfather, whose name and facial features I apparently carry, died of pneumonia when he was just 30 years old.

She was left to fend for herself and her two children in a remote village in the mountains of Karpenisi.

After that, she took in her grandchild. It's no surprise that I am her favourite out of 5 grandchildren. She adores me and, in her own words, everything she did was for my own good. I love you too, grandma!

In the end, it wasn't too difficult to make new friends. As a child, I adjusted to my new reality. I was restless. I couldn't sit still, I always wanted to be outside, on the streets, something my grandmother didn't like. I wanted to meet people and make new friends. I always did strange things to attract attention.

The truth is, grandma had to discipline me many times, since I frequently gave her a hard time.

A specific incident pops into my mind: I didn't return home until 9pm, though my school day had ended at 2pm.

Without informing my grandmother, I went to my friend Yanni's place to play.

My grandmother was in a cold sweat, fearing something had happened to me. She started going around the neighborhood searching for me.

The only home she didn't go to, was the one I was at, since Yannis was a new friend and she didn't know about him. When I got back, she greeted me, slipper in hand. On seeing the slipper, I fled to my “shelter”, underneath my bed.

As always, grandma came in, pulled the bed from above me and gave me a spanking.

I remember missing my parents a whole lot, I wrote them letters and waited impatiently for the mailman to bring me their response. You see, it was the umbilical cord between me, my past and my parents. At school, I choked up whenever I heard the words “mother” or “father”. When my classmates' parents would show up, I always thought: “Why can't I have my mom and dad here in Greece?”.

To be completely honest, my parents didn't neglect me. Every summer I'd be on a flight to Germany, or they would drive down to Greece because of the price of air travel.

The joy I felt each time I spotted the blue Opel Kadett in the driveway is indescribable, my cries of “they're here, they're here, my mommy and daddy are here”, still ring in my ears.

I ran outside like a lunatic and the whole neighborhood knew my parents had arrived.

As soon as they were out of the car, I ran like a sprinter into their arms. The whole world was mine, in that moment.

“I'm the King of the world”, I thought. I am a Leo, so I guess that justifies my train of thought.

The return of my parents

As the years went by, my weight increased (grandma's feedings kicked in).

Unfortunately, it wasn't my scales that brought this to my attention, but my classmates who started picking on me with nicknames other than the usualshorty,stumpyandshrimpwhich never bothered me. These new ones wereporky,fatty,pork-chop,tubby...I didn't like them at all and was quite hurt when I heard them!

Looking at pictures, I can now see what they were talking about; I was indeed a little tubby. I couldn't see it at the time, though. The only way I was going to lose weight was if my parents came back from Germany.

“It's that I'm being forced to eat”, I think and put the photos down because I don't like the way I looked with the extra weight, at all.

Perhaps that is the reason I chose a profession that deals with helping people lose weight and gain a sculpted body.

My parents eventually relocated to Greece, permanently, not so that I could lose weight, but for other reasons. They had already lived abroad for 18 years and were tired of living in a place where my father, as a foreigner, would never be able to start his own business. That was just a pretext, because the real reason was me.

You must be wondering how I managed to get them to move back home, so we could all be together as a real family.

Family, what a magical word! When I was 10 years old, in 5thgrade, the absence of my parents was particularly intense. I had reached a breaking point. I wrote them a letter which, as my father later told me, had them bawling their eyes out.

That letter provided the push they needed to come back. Don't ask me what was in that letter, I can't recall. What difference does it make anyway, didn't I achieve my goal?

The pretext, however, was my father's attempt at getting a taxi license so that he could improve his quality of life.

Germany, at the time, was experiencing a period of great social racism towards foreigners. They were not allowed to own any sort of business. Years later, that changed and foreigners started private ventures.

My father submitted all the necessary paperwork, but the German official told him “Mr. Michael, you cannot own a taxi. You came to Germany as a foreign worker, and you will remain a foreign worker”.

That was the straw that broke the camel's back for my father.

The clerk's words changed everything, since they hit a very sensitive nerve with him.

He ripped up the paperwork in front of the clerk and said, in Greek: “Better at home eating stale bread than in a foreign land with all the riches in the world”.

The German official just stared at him, trying to figure out what he'd just said.

That moment started the countdown to my parents' repatriation.

My father used his savings of 18 years' hard work in Germany to buy a small apartment in Greece, which cost 700,000 drachma at the time, to put a roof over his family's heads. They packed all their belongings and mounted them on a train wagon.

I remember that train, I went to the station with them when it arrived. My parents had driven down beforehand. My father had driven for 12 hours daily and covered the distance between Hamburg and Athens in two days.. He couldn't wait to get back to his motherland.

Three thousand kilometers, that was the distance separating me from the safe haven of my family. It wasn't just the numerical distance, though, it was also the 5 years I spent away from them.

You can appreciate how happy and safe I felt. The day they arrived was the happiest of my life. I still have the sweet taste of joy on my lips.

The day after their arrival, we all went to the station to pick up their dreams. That crammed up train wagon contained every dream my parents had ever made of a better life in our sunny homeland, Greece.

Our new life

We settled into our new home, in which I would be sharing a bedroom with my sister. It wasn't a large place, but it was big enough to keep us together, never to part again! I only cared about one thing, and that was having my family with me. It made me so happy; I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. I was the happiest, most smiley kid on earth.

But let’s get back to reality. My parents were obviously happy themselves, but they had other things to take care of. Our livelihood.

A matter of strict priority, which unfortunately prevented them from enjoying their return to Greece.

They had to think of a way to raise their children. In Germany they were workers, they had a salary. In Greece, however, they didn't want to remain workers. Consequently, they had to do something to secure an income, and they had to do it sooner, rather than later. Our needs were constant and the money they had in the bank was drying up pretty fast.

All my father knew was welding and my mother was a worker and seamstress. So they had to make important decisions about their life. Important and risky.

The idea was to start up a business so that they wouldn't have to work for anyone outside their own family. And so it happened. They found a shop, which we still own today. It wasn't particularly large, but its location was key. Right on a highway intersection, which was a passageway for thousands of cars.

At the time, though, no more than 50 cars would pass by daily. It took a lot of courage to start something new in those times, especially since they had zero experience of their subject: household goods and linens.

One of the reasons my father is my role-model is because he is perceptive and not afraid to take risks. He is business savvy! Things were tough at first. For the store's opening, they stacked empty boxes on the shelves to make them look full because they couldn't afford actual merchandise. My father took up work as a weldor to help get the shop up and running so he could finally leave that tiresome profession behind. Truth be said, lady luck was on our side and gave us a big boost...you'll see what I mean in a bit.

It was a school day and I was doing my homework in my room when I heard my father calling me into his bedroom.

“What's up with him, I haven't done anything. He should be asleep by now”, I thought.

I opened the door and saw my father, with a peculiar expression on his face, holding a raffle ticket in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

“Panagioti, take a look, do the numbers match?” he said to me.

I looked at the newspaper, then at the raffle ticket, and sure enough, the numbers were the same. We had won the lottery! We were thrilled. The whole family huddled together, jumping around like children. Yes, luck was on our side.

Each Greek National Lottery Raffle ticket consists of a row of 4 tickets, marked with the same numbers but separated byperforated lines. The buyer can choose to purchase the whole row of 4, or just a single piece, which is separatedfrom the row. Each piece corresponds to one fourth of the full earnings of the winning row.

Had we been holding the entire raffle ticket, we would have won 1,600,000 drachma, a huge amount of money, in 1978. But we just had one piece, which amounted to 400,000 drachma. Not bad at all.

Do you know why we just had one piece? As I told you, my father worked as a weldor. He was on a job at the island of Salamina with 3 of his co-workers. On their way back, on the boat, a lottery ticket peddler handed my father his last row. My dad didn't have enough cash to buy the whole thing, so he urged his co-workers to share it with him. Incredible, isn't it?

But, wait 'till you hear the rest of the story. In 1967, my father had invested the amount of 400,000 drachma in a German bank scheme that proved to be a scam. The universe works in mysterious ways. It was like it was returning what he had lost. Not even a cent more!

Let’s not be greedy. I remember how that money allowed us to pay back all our debts.

My father was able to quit his job and devote his time exclusively to our shop. More importantly, the shelves were finally filled with actual merchandise, instead of empty boxes. Business was thriving. The earnings fully supported our family and whatever my father has achieved; he owes it to this shop.

I forgot to mention that soon after my parents' return; I managed to shed the pounds I'd gained during “Grandma's Golden Years”. I was normal again and felt good about myself. I was rid of all the teasing from my classmates. My life was balanced and I was happy. Time flew by, leading upto the hard years of puberty. Would this happiness stick around, or was it also a tourist?

ADOLESCENCE

The strict father

My reunion with my parents marked the return of fun Sunday outings and summer vacations.

How I loved going out of Athens! We'd grab every chance to go anywhere, even on weekends we would get in the car and head out, all together. What beautiful times. I like to reminisce about them, sometimes.

We drove to many places, going on tours of the Peloponnese, Astakos, Karpenisi, and Corfu.

My father's sister, Popi and her husband, Stelios from Cyprus always joined us in these outings. Stelios was an elegant man, who grabbed life by the horns. He is the spitting image of a popular Greek actor, Lambros Konstantaras.

Refined, kind, pleasant, generous, he was an optimist with a good sense of humor. He lives his life passionately. The more you speak to him, the more you learn about life. I owe him a lot, he gave me so much when I needed him and he stood by me like a father.

Some summers, we also visited Cyprus. My dad wanted to see his own parents, too. He had left when he was 18, so he essentially grew up without them. This, I believe, explains my father's harsh character. Life hardened him. I found out another reason when I was older, but we'll talk about that further down in the book.

My father was harsh, not mean. There's a difference. Someone who loves deeply can be harsh. And our father loved us deeply.

His love made him overprotective, which in turn made him strict. He wanted us to grow up the way he had dreamt we would. Our own dreams were not as important, as far as he was concerned. He didn't want us to get into any trouble, he wanted all the good things parents want for their children. In his own words, he wanted us to be good people, good citizens, but he wanted ithisway! The manner in which he chose to instill his values in us wasn't the best for our sensitive young souls.

I wasn't an exceptional student. I wasn't one of those students who study for hours on end. To be honest, studying bored me. I remember coming out of my room and hearing my father call out: “Did you finish your homework, Panagioti?”

“Yes, I'm done”, I'd reply. And then came...

“Go do it again”.

I had no choice but to obey. He had no qualms about beating me. So what if I was 13, going on 14? It made no difference to him.

So I wouldreturn to my room and do anything but study. As long as I was cooped up in there, he assumed I was studying. Isn't that comical?

I don't want to dwell on the fact that my sister and I received frequent beatings. I'll just mention one incident which I can't overlook, since the recollection still makes my butt hurt from the “spooning”. You must be wondering what “spooning” is.

In Germany, the weather was always dull. My sister and I were sitting in the kitchen, looking out the window. At some point, I accidentally spilled a glass of juice that was on the table. My father was livid! He grabbed a wooden spoon and started blindly hitting me with it, as if each strike of the spoon would solve one of his problems. Of course, his financial difficulties weren't the only reason he was mad at me. My grandma had made sure to inform him that I hadn't been an angel while I was in Greece without them. She had told him my wrongdoings so that he would discipline me and I'd stop torturing her.

My mother tried to intervene and got slapped with the spoon herself.

By mistake, obviously. Collateral damage. That's how overprotective my mother was. She always got in the middle of our arguments with dad, so that we would get as few spankings as possible. She would frequently get slapped around a little in the process. She always wanted to give us everything, no matter what the cost. She made sure we wanted for nothing. Calm, composed, without emotional outbursts, she was always thinking and acting according to logic.

I've argued that point with her more than a few times. Useful arguments that have helped me make important decisions in my life. A rationalist in every sense of the word, sentiment always took the back seat with her.

My father, on the other hand, is impulsive and always acts according to his feelings. Perhaps that's why they are such a good match. Maybe this contrast balances things out between them.

Not that my mother couldn't be sentimental. I never heard my mother raise her voice; she just didn't like conflict, let alonebeatings as a means of educating children. She was often opposed to my father's ways, but they never argued in my presence. If she had something to say to him, she said it in private. She frequently supported me by diplomatically trying to soften my father's harsh opinions.

To sum up the story, I was pronounced winner of the spoon battle, since it proved weaker than me and broke in two. What was my age? No more than 8 years old, it was a summer that I had visited my parents in Germany, I had missed them horribly. I couldn't sit down for two weeks. My butt was bruised.

Don't think my father wasn't saddened when he realized a few days later what he had done. He was teary-eyed along with my mother for those two weeks.

That was the first time my father ever apologized to me for his behavior. He admitted that he was upset and didn't mean to do it.

It was also the first time I realized how sensitive he really is. His heart was as soft as his outer shell was hard.

As soon as I heard his apology, I ran into his outstretched arms. A simple apology was enough to make the pain go away and all the bad thoughts I had of him, disappeared. Right away I magically forgot what had happened and we made up!

The truth is, my father was run down by life. He had worked hard since he was 12 years old. His first job was in a foundry in Cyprus. Instead of enjoying play time with friends, he was bringing home the bacon. He came to Greece and started from zero, feeling the pressure of survival. Not only for himself, but also for his wife and his two children.

At the same time, he didn't want us to go through what he had endured. He wanted us to have a place in society. He wanted us to study. He had hardly gone to grade school.

Despite the difficulties, he provided everything for us. But he expected something in return. He wanted us to be good students.

I always hated the day we received our report cards. I would delay my return home. I could never know what his reaction would be. More than once, he had ripped up my report card because my grades were bad.

Those times, I felt so humiliated. Of course, it was for my own good. I can't disagree on that, he just had the wrong way of showing it. I don't hold a grudge, but I can't forget it all, either.

His strict manner didn't change when I was a teenager.

On the contrary: The older I got, the more demanding he got. The more demanding he got, the more he would refuse me and forbid me.

As an adolescent, I was always frightened. Not just for myself, but also for my sister. We were always walking on eggshells, afraid he might snap. You never knew how he was going to react. He was always unpredictable.

Going out was forbidden when I was a teenager. My only outing was on Saturdays, on the condition that I'd be back by 8pm, regardless of whether it was winter or summertime.

I felt really bad when the rest of the gang was able to go out many times a week and stay 'till late, while I couldn't do a thing. At the most, I'd stay out for an hour or so later than 8, and then I'd have to face the consequences.

My father was strict because he feared I might start smoking, taking drugs, or hanging out with the wrong crowd. News flash: what we most fear, will infallibly come our way and no amount of strictness or yelling can stop it.

Only if you arm your child with proper values will it escape the lion's mouth unscathed!

In the previous chapter, I described some of the beautiful memories I have of my father.

He was a pleasant man, who loved his wife, his children, his family and his homeland from the bottom of his heart.

He was tender, sensitive, protective and took care of his family in every way.

But he was also harsh. I can't leave that aspect of his character out. We all have negative as well as positive traits.

I know that if he ever reads this chapter, it will sadden him. But I'm not writing it as an accusation. It was just something I experienced during my childhood and adolescence. One way or another, it is something that has affected me. It would be impossible to simply delete a part of my life, in order not to dishearten him. I can't be indifferent to this part of my life, since, to an extent, it contributed to forming my character. The same character that got me through the difficulties that lay ahead.

Perhaps his harshness helped me confront life with the necessary firmness. Don't forget that what I've written so far is viewed through the eyes of a child or a teenager, the way I saw it back then.

In every word I write, there is an effort to remember how I felt and how I experienced things. That is how I saw and how I felt about my father in those times of conflict.

I viewed him as a tyrant and felt angry towards him, sometimes even hateful. All I could think of was growing up so that I could get away from him.

In conclusion, my father was very strict, temperamental, unyielding, rigid and domineering.

Notice my use of the wordwas, instead ofis! No, it's not a typo. Was!  Sometimes, life itself has a way of making us change our attitude and see things differently. Thankfully, life always provides new experiences. How we're going to use those experiences is completely up to us. Some make good use of them, others do not.

Further along this book, you will understand what I mean.

Shorty

The career I wanted for myself demanded very high grades. Unfortunately I was, admittedly, an average student. What was my profession of choice? I wanted to be a pilot.

I was obsessed with it. I studied encyclopedias to learn how airplanes worked, thinking that was the way to become a professional pilot. I didn't actually make it, since I didn't meet the requirements.

In high school, I was called “shorty” and other similar nicknames pertaining to my height. I noticed that everyone around me was growing taller, while I seemed stuck.

I'm only joking, it never bothered me. At least, not until some of the kids started making fun of me and slapping me around. Then, it got under my skin. I was the little weak one! That's why I later started going to the gym, to earn their respect, or even to intimidate them!

Generally speaking, I never had a problem with my height, I'm 1.65m and have taken to mocking myself, just like my father did. After all, I am the tallest in the family, what else could I want?

I always use self derision, turning what could be perceived as a disadvantage into an advantage, and I win people over with my sense of humor. So I've been told.

I don't do it consciously, I'm just being myself. Before that, though, in order to attract attention I misbehaved. I was expelled from school for the first time when I was in seventh grade, and received an expulsion each year after that. Ididn't care. I wassomebodyand I got their attention (even if it was negative).

I have always been rebellious, because I couldn't stand being pressured. My reactions became more intense as I grew older, because I felt the need to claim my personal freedom from my family and the people surrounding me.

In high school, to make myself feel important instead of tiny and weak, I hung out with the worse possible crowd. Nobody could pick on me.

That was when I first tried smoking, which thankfully I didn't enjoy. I felt dizzy and nauseated a horrid feeling. I didn't touch a cigarette again. Now, you may ask, how is it that I'm trying to quit, as I mentioned in the preface, if I never started? I eventually became a smoker when I was 22, even worse. Alright, don't bite my head off...I promised I'm quitting, and I am.

My friends and I formed a team, raiding stores, stealing whatever we could get our hands on. If my father had found out then, you wouldn't be reading about my life today.

God only knows how I managed to get out of it, and I thank Him for that. Perhaps it was the fear I had for my father. Perhaps it was my upbringing. Whatever the reason, the important thing is that I did manage to get out. In later years I heard that one of those guys was in prison for theft, another was a junkie. I imagine luck was on my side, as was God.

Another time I attracted everyone's attention was when I got a stint in a TV advert. I was in 8thgrade and the ad was for an educational board game. I still remember what it was called: “The world has come apart”. It was a puzzle, with maps of countries all over the world. It's not like I was sought out, one of the producers was a friend of my father's. It feltgreat when everyone at school recognized me and said things like “aren't you in that ad?”

I would proudly answer “yes, that's me!”

How easily does someone's head to grow so big, they can't get through the door? Just wondering!

Enter: Athletics

Up until I was in 9thgrade, at the age of 14, I had no interest in sports and athletics. What was it that led me to my current profession?

That summer, I was at a piazza that had a playground in it. The square is just across the street from my parents' shop. It was my hang-out.  My friends and I met up there every afternoon.

That day, we were all sitting on the benches, on the top part meant for people to lean their backs on. Our shoes were where people are supposed to sit.

At some point, this guy walks right by us, dressed in a shirt and flannel trousers. He walked into the playground and sat on a bench. We weren't in the playground, but we could see it from where we were sitting. Things seemed normal, until he got up and moved to the horizontal bar. He grabbed it and started performing these unbelievable moves. We were all in awe. It was like watching a world class gymnast compete on television.

It was the first time I ever saw something like that and I was quite impressed. Needless to say we all moved over to the bench next to the bars where he was and started talking to him and asking all sorts of questions. How old was he, how long had he been doing this and many more similar questions.

The man was open to discussion and humored us by answering all of our questions.

More impressive than his moves, was his age. He told us he was 52 years old. I was flabbergasted.

He was actually a builder and not a professional gymnast as I had imagined. He had taught himself all those impressive moves.

After answering all of our questions, he offered to show us some more exercises.

When he took off his shirt, my jaw dropped and I said to myself:

“That's the kind of body I want”. It was amazing. He looked like an ancient Greek statue that had escaped from a museum. A work of art! He was quite muscular but his body was ripped. Consider his age, 52 years old...looking at that body you'd think it belonged to a 25 year-old.

A tribute to human willpower!

“If he can have a body like that at his age, what's stopping me?” I thought to myself. So I started hanging off the monkey bars just like I did as a toddler in Germany...with urgency to be first!

That man offered to teach me how to do all those exercises, and in a way he became my first “coach”.

On my first training session, I was there from 5pm to 8pm and let me remind you that my body was completely out of shape. That night my muscles were in so much pain I could hardly sleep.

At some point I remember tying the bed sheets tightly around my arms hoping it would ease the pain, but it had no effect.

I got up at 6am and went back to the piazza to work the pain out of those muscles. Makes sense, doesn't it?

It took a week for the pain to go away, but during that week I was at that square all hours of the day doing pull-ups, dips and exercises. I loved the horizontal bar. Everything depended on me. The more I worked at it, the better I got.

That's how I developed a fondness of individual sports, which led me to involve myself in artistic and acrobatic gymnastics.

I would depend on no-one but myself! I was a fast learner, I wasn't afraid and I didn't hesitate to take risks. The exercises were difficult and they were performed without a safety mat. It took a lot of courage to try a new move.

Through this process I came to appreciate my height even more.

A low center of gravity is vital in these sorts of exercises.

Two months later, I was putting on my own show in that piazza. Every afternoon, my friends would gather around and I would perform my routine. It's an amazing feeling when you know none of the others can do what you're doing.  Especially when it's obvious that they are enjoying watching you do it.

Day by day, I watched my body change. My back started to widen, my shoulders grew stronger, my biceps were shaping up and last but not least, I noticed with pleasure that my abdominal muscles were starting to show.

The credit for the speed in which these changes occurred, goes to my manufacturers, my parents. My genes provide fora body that is easily molded, with an even muscular distribution and symmetry.

In a nutshell, I went from being a weak “shorty”, to the guy with the sculpted body, the acrobat, the guy who performs magic on the horizontal bar, the guy with the hot body. How people change!

I should stop talking about my body, I don't want to be branded narcissistic or conceited. There is a reason I mentioned it though, we'll get to it in the next chapter.