In 1981, when I was living and working as a single mother, my dream of the perfect place for me to perform unexpectedly came true. Five minutes from my home, Caliope’s, a new Greek restaurant, opened in Corralitos next to the Five Mile House, a small, local natural foods grocery market. Excited, I stopped in to see if the new restaurant wanted Belly Dancers. There I met the owners, Caliope, a vivacious Greek American woman, and her quiet brother Demetrius. One of Caliope’s teenaged daughters was sitting at a table shelling peas in the sunshine, her long blondish hair hanging down around her shoulders. Caliope’s youngest daughter, probably about five at the time, ran around doing little errands. Caliope’s traditionally Greek immigrant parents came and went, offering advice and support. Caliope was definitely the magnificent force in this venture. Her family members were all welcoming, and I loved the warmth and fire I felt from Caliope. The family atmosphere expanded to include me.
At first, I started dancing there to tapes. But as business picked up, Caliope decided that we needed musicians, so she hired some Greek musicians, including Peter the Greek Musician, and also Solomon and Armando. The atmosphere was perfect. The place was lively and always fun and the food was delicious. Caliope, delightfully in control, decided who else would dance after auditioning them, and I then I added them to the schedule. It was a great arrangement and no one could get mad at me for not letting them perform. We danced twice a week. Most of the Santa Cruz Belly dancers were hired. Again, Ma’Shuqa was the only out of town dancer to perform there regularly. We were all paid the price I originally asked, which was good, and while not part of our agreement, we were often fed. Caliope loved the dance, the dancers, and musicians, and we loved her. She was the spirit of the restaurant.
Although I was still teaching at the YMCA in Watsonville, I started to teach additional classes at Caliope’s during the days. At night, I was the main dancer and in charge of the other dancers. Even the tips were usually good. Everyone was nice and was enjoying life. The restaurant was a real family place and Caliope’s parents and children were often there helping out, and they loved the dancing too.
“I feel as if you are dancing just for me,” her bodybuilder father had commented, his eyes shining. He had a reputation for working with teenaged boys in the gym and helping them turn their lives around. He was a kind man. At Halloween, he helped Elun make a wooden sword for his costume and I brought Elun to trick-or-treat at their home in Watsonville proper. The houses in that neighborhood, unlike our rural ones, were close together, and all the children went trick-or-treating as a laughing, costumed group. Both Caliope’s father and mother, born and raised in Greece, were always welcoming and inclusive with us, and Elun loved their caring acceptance as well as their support with his costumes.
I debuted my candle dance at Caliope’s restaurant, dancing with candles flickering in brass, lotus-flower candle holders, one balanced on my head and the other two in my open, outstretched hands. The three candles honored the presence of the triple Goddess. My body undulated to the music as I fluidly moved my arms, making dramatic patterns with the candles in the semi-darkened room. I felt like an ancient priestess when I danced, drawing on a sacred past life.
Sometimes the people at the bar got rowdy and noisy, but in general we had fun. The restaurant was patronized by the strong Greek community of Watsonville, of which Caliope and her family were active members. When Greeks showed up, which they did frequently, there would often be folk dancing. Bobbi Falco, a musician who with her husband Joe played Romani (Gypsy) and Balkan folk music, led folk dances around the room. The Greek clientele loved it. I always joined in the line dances. They were pretty easy to follow and learn, as I already knew the rhythms.
Brian Steeger was another folkdance enthusiast. He would drink with our rambunctious and talented musician friend from the Mill, Lee Birch, and the two of them would dance very energetic and intense Greek Rebetika dances, sometimes causing havoc in this small restaurant. They balanced glasses of Ouzo on their heads, doing deep squats. Sometimes the full glasses would dramatically crash to the floor. The Ouzo flowed, the dancing was wild.
Occasionally my whole dance troupe would perform at Caliope’s. We did mostly group dances, many choreographed to esoteric rhythms like 9/8, 6/8, 10/8, and 7/8 times. When I performed solo, Caliope’s was a wonderfully convenient and welcoming local venue for my students to see me dance, many of whom became regulars. I even got to dance with my snake there. I carried him inside that giant, vase-shaped basket that he waited in during the show, until, as the music slowed and the melody became plaintive, I reached inside the basket and slowly pulled Julius Squeezer out and let him slither on my sweaty body as I danced –our duet.
One of the cooks, Rebecca, who had grown up with Caliope and studied Greek with Caliope’s mother, was terrified of snakes. Tall and thin with long curly brown hair, she would sneak out the back of the kitchen before I pulled my snake out. On nights when I didn’t bring the snake, she loved to watch me dance. Many years later she told me that on the nights I danced, Caliope would make sure everything was extra prepared, as the place would be packed because of my performance. “Roll more dolmas!” Caliope would command just after breakfast. Immediately her daughters, the waitresses, and she and Rebecca would gather around the large table and begin rolling.
“Before you arrived,” Rebecca again recounted years later, “many men would get there earlier and vie for the honors of helping you bring your dance bag in.” I was a celebrity but didn’t know it. I only knew that I loved my work and felt blessed that these doors had opened so easily. But I missed Freddie and I missed sharing wonderful experiences like this with him.
©2024 Marianna Mejia
Marianna Mejia 