“Let’s go, Mom!” I call, excited, opening the doors and windows.
The children begin entering one by one, blessing the year with their presence. We let them pass through the corridor and go upstairs to our home while we offer prayers for a good year.
The first visit of each year must bring luck, so everyone makes sure children are the first to cross the thresholds of our homes and businesses.
They don’t do it for free, of course. No one leaves empty-handed. We offer sweets and a few coins. For them, it’s almost a game—who can collect the most treats during the journey.
A boy stretches out his hand so I can give him the pomegranate, then offers it solemnly to my mother. They leave the shop still playing, and I join the group, dancing and singing with them.
“Hard, Rosa!” the children shout enthusiastically.
My mother throws the pomegranate against the doorstep. The fruit bursts into pieces as it hits the ground.
Cheers, laughter, and congratulations erupt around us. My mother crouches so we can count how many seeds spill from the peel. The saying goes: the more seeds, the more luck.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two…” the children join in when my mother starts counting the last ones out loud. “Thirty-three, thirty-four!”
More cheers, laughter, and singing. We all celebrate and thank them for the visit before the children move on to the next house.
My mother and I stay on the sidewalk until they’re out of sight, then we close the doors and head out to make our own visits.
We stop door by door, leaving one small stone and one large one on each neighbor’s doorstep or windowsill.
“One small, so problems stay insignificant; one large, to attract wealth and prosperity,” I recite the little prayer at each stop until we run out of stones.
We walk down the streets watching everyone do the same—children everywhere, playing, collecting sweets, blessing homes; adults distributing stones and wishes on thresholds and stairways.
“Rosa! Here!” one of my mother’s friends calls when we reach the square.
Every year, a large tent is set up near the water. We spend the afternoon playing cards and dominoes, winning beans and coins, sharing time with the entire community.
My mother hands out thevassilopittasto her friends, and I decide to walk over to the market. The lights are still off, but I like looking at the stalls and decorations before it gets crowded.
From December 25th to December 31st, it’s impossible to stroll through Khione’s central streets without being pushed, stepped on, or tripping through the small Christmas market—set up more to display lights than anything else.
On January first, though, everyone is in the square, and the small avenue turns into a playground for those who know how to enjoy it.
I take pictures, touch everything I can, and choose a few trinkets before getting tired.
When I return to the square, I find my mother, who’s already won thirty-two beans and fourteen corn kernels. In ancient times, that would’ve meant gold and plenty of silver.
“I’m rich, Nina! Look!” she says, showing her next hand to the dismay of her opponents.
I kiss her cheek and am immediately accused.
“She’s cheating! Nina saw my cards and whispered them to you. That doesn’t count!”
“Don’t be indecent, Rosario. Learn how to lose, woman of God. It’s the first day of the year and you’re already trying to take advantage of your elders.”
“It’s theft, that’s what it is,” Rosario insists.
My mother dismisses her words and collects the beans she just won, making a point of picking up—one by one—the corn kernels her friend lost as well.
Rosario laments, and the market lights turn on, announcing the light show over the water and the most anticipated moment of the night: time to break thevassilopittas.
Every living soul stops what they’re doing.
The little jars my mother and I brought and distributed reappear on our table. On the tables around us, families uncover large trays of the cake, and we all cut pieces, searching for the lucky coin.
