My Ikaria: How the People From a Small Mediterranean Island Inspired Me to Live a Happier, Healthier and Longer Life

By Spiri Tsintziras

Three years ago, Spiri Tsintziras found herself mentally, physically and spiritually depleted. She was stretched thin – raising kids, running a household and managing a business. She ate too much in order to keep going and then slumped in front of the telly at night, exhausted, asking herself ‘What is it all for?’

Spiri’s quest for a healthier, more nourishing life took her from her suburban home in Melbourne to her family’s homeland of Greece, and to the small Greek island of Ikaria. The people of Ikaria – part of the famous ‘Blue Zones’ – live happy, healthy and long lives. Inspired by their example, Spiri made some simple lifestyle changes and as a result lost weight, gained energy and deepened the connection to those closest to her. Best of all, she didn’t have to give up bread or wine!

Spiri’s heartwarming memoir, which includes delicious family recipes, will console and entertain anyone bogged down in the daily grind – encouraging you to put your health and happiness first.

‘My Ikaria is a kindly wake-up call to live a more mindful, meaningful and generous life – a joy to read.’ —Alice Pung

‘I applaud Spiri for sharing her fascinating and insightful journey to better health through My Ikaria. As our lives become increasingly busy and fast-paced, we can all learn valuable lessons from the Ikarians, who show us it’s not about striving to live longer but to live better.’ —Jerril Rechter, VicHealth CEO

‘Tsintziras gives an engaging account of her Ikarian journey, practically and philosophically, saying “they’ve reached across the seas and inspired me to live better”. This charming memoir may inspire you to live better too.’ —SAWeekend

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Inc. Books
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781743820292

Spiri Tsintziras

Spiri Tsintziras has been writing about food, family and connection for over 30 years. Her mother has inspired many stories-most recently on SBS online. Spiri is the author of the memoirs My Ikaria: How the People From a Small Mediterranean Island Inspired Me to Live a Happier, Healthier and Longer Life (Nero 2018) and Afternoons in Ithaka (ABC Books 2014). She co-authored, with Myfanwy Jones, the award-winning and internationally acclaimed Parlour Games for Modern Families (Scribe 2008). Her stories and articles have been published in anthologies, newspapers, and online. Spiri trained as a social worker and freelance journalist. She has worked in publications and communications roles in public health for over twenty years while running her own communications business. For nearly a decade, she has taught professional writing at Swinburne University. She lives with her family in Melbourne.

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My Ikaria

Beginning

Some three years ago now, I found myself feeling constantly tired. It wasn’t just mental and physical fatigue, but spiritual depletion too. I was stretched thin, constantly trying to find a balance between raising two kids, being a partner, running a household and managing a freelance writing business. My days were full of activity, but I felt like I was running on empty. I was eating too much in order to give myself the energy to keep going – a girl deserves a bit of comfort, doesn’t she? – then slumping in front of the telly or lying in my bed each night, totally exhausted. I kept telling myself I had a good life and should be grateful for how fortunate I was. But there was a quiet little voice inside me asking, ‘What is it all for?’

We are bombarded with so many contradictory messages about how to keep healthy – eat a miracle superfood, take various vitamins and supplements, use a whizz-bang exercise gadget, or sign up for an experience that will transform our lives. Generally, these ‘solutions’ involve buying something, giving up something, or stepping out of our lives for hours, days or even weeks. For those of us who are overweight or obese (at last count, nearly two-thirds of Australians), there are many seductive, ‘easy’ solutions to weight loss – pre-packaged meals delivered to our door, diets galore, and low-fat products on every supermarket shelf. But despite this, Australians are gaining weight at an alarming rate.

Many of the latest fads to improve our health or transform our diets end up being temporary, expensive and token. I started looking for solutions that would fit in with my life, cost little and, most importantly, be ongoing.

My quest to lose a little weight, gain energy and have greater fulfilment in life took me from my suburban home in Melbourne to a small Greek island called Ikaria. Having learnt that the inhabitants of the island, particularly its elderly members, outlive people in many developed countries by around ten years, I wanted to know their secret. Why did they seem to live such simple, satisfying and healthy lives? What was it that the Ikarians were doing? And how could I incorporate elements of their lifestyle, diet and outlook into my own existence?

This book is about the lessons I learnt from those rambunctious islanders, and how I adapted them to suit me and my family. It’s about how, inspired by the Ikarians, I started doing more of the things that gave me joy and increased my physical and mental energy. What I learnt enabled me to be a better person both in myself and in relation to the people I love.

After travelling across the seas in my search for greater wellbeing, I eventually realised that many of the answers to what I was seeking were quite simple – and very close to home.

Spiri Tsintziras

Awakening

She swishes confidently and efficiently towards the consultation room in her dark tights and tan ankle boots. Her gleaming black hair and the swing of her hips in a short black skirt is incongruous with the nondescript sterility of my local medical practice.

My regular doctor isn’t available. I’ve never seen this doctor before. I’ve just come to collect the results of a blood test, carried out after I complained about feeling chronically tired.

The doctor sits me down and pulls up my details. She doesn’t waste time. Iron is a bit low. Vitamin D is also under the normal levels – have I been spending any time in the sun? She suggests some supplements.

She scrolls down the screen on her computer. ‘Your blood sugar level is borderline. If it goes up too much more, you’ll be at risk of getting type 2 diabetes.’

‘Really?’ I say defensively. ‘I don’t eat that many sweets.’

‘It’s not just about sweets. What about bread?’

‘I have a bit of toast in the mornings, sometimes sandwiches for lunch . . .’

‘You need to cut down. I only eat bread when I go out,’ she says, her brown eyes warm but firm. She is not going to let me escape with just a script in my hand.

She notes my age, eyes me up and down. At 83 kilograms, I am the heaviest I have ever been. The kilos have crept up, slowly, insidiously, year after year, and they’re not looking to stop. I am just a whisker off being obese for my height. As the doctor talks me through more dietary advice (cut down on alcohol, avoid excessive carbs, don’t eat after 8 pm . . .), I see myself through her eyes – a middle-aged, overweight mother of two who is barely keeping on top of her health.

I fantasise about telling her that if she was ferrying two teenage kids around and managing a small business and trying to find time to stay on top of endless household chores and, by some miracle, also seeing the inside of a gym occasionally, she too might opt for a generously buttered piece of toast in the mornings as consolation.

If truth be told, I’m just envious. The glossy hair. The slim waist. The best years of her professional and personal life still ahead of her. I’m keenly aware of her youth and vitality, both of which I seem to have misplaced somewhere. I’ve only forty-four, but my body and spirit feel much older.

Before I slink out of her office, I promise to cut down on bread, get out into the sunshine and eat more red meat. But what I really want to tell her is that once upon a time, not all that long ago, I too could rock a short black skirt.

Back home at my studio office, I lean into the heater and turn towards my to-do list on the whiteboard. Edit website copy. Follow up on next week’s writers’ workshop. Finish doing tax. I read through my emails – a client needs me to make changes to a report I wrote for them last week. I need to pay for a school excursion and more bills. Not on the list are mopping the floor and cleaning the toilet, both well overdue. The minutiae of what needs to be done each day seems endless. Is any of this stuff really important? I wonder. I procrastinate by mentally rearranging my work into paying and non-paying projects by due date. The latter list is much longer. Perhaps a snack will help before I get started?

I think about the doctor’s words and wander towards the house from my studio to make myself some black tea instead. The winter garden looks as bereft as I feel. The mud-covered lawn is strewn with mottled brown leaves. A ragged line of dandelions lines the path. There are storm clouds looming. I am going to have to pick up the kids from school again today. I feel guilty about making them walk in this weather.

A cup of tea doesn’t make my to-do list feel any more manageable. After many months of operating at top speed writing a memoir and balancing several other projects, I’m having trouble focusing on the more mundane tasks of running a sole-operated business as a copywriter – generating new work, reviewing my finances, doing some filing. I give myself one of my many little pep talks: the one that says every job I have ever done has included at least some tedious tasks; how lucky I am to have such a varied, family-friendly job doing what I love – writing. But still, it’s no fun doing the tedious tasks alone, without the banter of others at nearby desks or someone to complain to. I suddenly hanker for spontaneous corridor discussions with co-workers. Not for the first time, my workplace feels lonely.

Outside, the rain begins to come down hard. I crank up the heater and begin sorting through papers.

In bed later that night, I fossick around in my bedside table for a notepad with the intention of making a list – what I will cut out of my diet, how I can schedule in more gym classes. The blood sugar result has irked me. I am used to the idea of being slightly overweight, but am perturbed by the thought of being obese. I’ve always had a healthy appetite – and a forgiving metabolism. But my blood results and expanding waistline are tell-tale signs that it’s time to act. A list is always a good start.

My hand lands on a journal that has robins, antique maps and stamps adorning the cover. It’s hardbound and has a leather strap wound around it. It’s a little bit too fancy for a list, but it’s the only paper in my bedside drawer so it will have to do.

I stop short at the inscription on the front page, which reads, Happy birthday Spiri! I hope you have many fun stories to capture in these pages. Remember to massage monthly and keep the writers’ pains under control to help you sustain the prolific writing you desire to be doing. Katerina, May 2011.

My closest friend, Katerina, passed away not that long after she penned these words. Apprehensively, I turn to the first entry, which I wrote to Katerina a month after she died.

Darling heart,

I still don’t really believe you are gone. Every time I walk past the photos of you and us on the sideboard, my breath stops for a split second – could it be that you are no longer here? I know you have been preparing for so long. I know that you have been preparing us too – but still, it’s hard to wrap my head around it.

The past few weeks I have felt as if I have been one step away from myself, going through the motions of my life – washing, cleaning, getting the kids ready for school. I feel a void, a lack of purpose and direction, and a sense of ‘wishing something to happen’. God knows a lot has happened in the past months, but now, perhaps so I don’t have to think, I want something ‘exciting’ to happen . . .

I close the diary and try to curb the tears that flow. But they refuse to be held back. I sob for my friend, for the fact that her life was so unfairly cut short, but I cry for myself too. I realise that I still feel a bit lost, two years after I wrote this entry.

There is something missing. I look around the cosy confines of the bedroom I share with my husband, the hallway table beyond with its bright vase of flowers, hear the television from the lounge room, and I can’t for the life of me think what it might be.

Resisting

The next day, I’m at my desk working when Mum calls.

‘How are the kids? George? I’ve missed you. When are you coming over?’

I realise it’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her and do a quick mental inventory of what I need to do for work. I realise it can probably wait and tell her I’ll be over the day after tomorrow.

Mum lives a few suburbs away with my older brother, Dennis. After Dad died some ten years ago, it felt like a blessing that Dennis was living with Mum. It meant that she wouldn’t be alone. When it comes to domestic harmony, my brother and mother co-exist happily: splitting the chores, communicating loudly, and keeping each other and the many people that drop in most days company.

When I arrive for lunch two days later, Mum is frying zucchinis on her outdoor stove at the back porch. The aroma makes my mouth water as I walk up the path into the backyard. This is not the time to tell her that I’m trying to watch what I eat. And all that oil. But I know what she’ll say: ‘You can be careful when you’re at home. Here, you eat.’

Together, we set the zucchini, bread, cheese and some wild greens on the table in the bungalow that overlooks her garden. Outside, the citrus trees are in full bloom, their branches heavy with oranges, lemons, pomelos. Dennis gets the cutlery and plates. I bring the water.

Mum fusses. Is there enough food? What else do I want to eat? I get a little irritable, not for the first time. ‘Mum, it’s enough. Just sit down.’

While we’re eating Mum’s delicious food, she asks about the kids. I tell her things seem to be getting busy at school for Dolores, who is only in Year 9 but studies diligently each night. Mum is pleased to hear she received an achievement certificate. Emmanuel, who has just started high school, seems to be settling in and is doing well at soccer.

Mum says, ‘They’re growing up. May they always do this well. Ppt. Ppt. Ppt.’ She makes a little spitting motion to ward off any chance that her blessings will attract the evil eye.

I smile and take another serving of zucchini, then ask about her sisters, who she speaks to daily. ‘Ach, the same aches and pains, the same problems.’ She looks at me as if to say nothing’s changed.

‘Who else have you seen? Tell me some gossip,’ I say. Mum’s house is always busy, her back bungalow a central meeting point. Neighbours drop in, the phone rings constantly, the kettle is always on. It was the same when we were children. And while it sometimes felt exhausting when I was living at home and craved personal space, now it seems like a happy contrast to my own quiet studio at home.

She fills me in. Her neighbour down the road came by: she is unwell with cancer, has complications with her heart. Another neighbour, who my brother once dubbed ‘the witch’ because of her long hair and dark eyes, has been diagnosed with dementia, and moved into a residential care home. Mum asks if I heard about the woman with Alzheimer’s who got hit by a tram while wandering away from her home in the early hours of the morning? She was a local woman known to several widows who congregate in Mum’s bungalow.

Mum shudders. ‘I would prefer to die quickly, rather than have dementia. Or a stroke. That would be the worst. Not to be able to look after myself, to be bedridden. I would rather die in my bed in the middle of the night.’

The thought of her passing away makes me teary. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘You’re only seventy-five. And you’re very healthy. Don’t say things like that.’

When Mum’s sisters complain of their ailments, she listens patiently but has no contribution of her own to make. She walks several kilometres each day and keeps a large garden. She isn’t on any medication. She socialises. Goes to church. She cooks in bulk, regularly sending us stews and tubs of meatballs as if she was feeding an army, not a family of four. Even though I know that illness and death can strike unexpectedly, I can’t imagine anything happening to her anytime soon.

She looks wistful. ‘We’re getting old, Spiridoula mou. Remember when we moved to this house? You were only in high school. I was your age then. Now, many of the people we knew in the neighbourhood have died.

‘All that running around when we were younger. Working too hard. Worrying about things. Always looking ahead, when really the best times were happening then and there.

‘Remember when we would get together with your aunties, uncles and cousins – eating, dancing, laughing most weekends? Time passes so quickly.’ She raises her hand in the air, the trajectory of her life swept into less than a second.

When her hand comes to rest, I notice it is covered in sunspots and dry bits of skin that resist the heavy-duty hand creams I bring her.

‘Don’t work too hard,’ she continues. ‘Enjoy your beautiful kids. And bring them over more.’

As I take one last zucchini, I think about the doctor and the swish, swish of her skirt. My stomach is now overfull. Again.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll come over soon,’ I assure her. ‘But I’ve got to go now.’ I feel guilty, but I must get back to chipping away at my list.

‘Your visits are never long enough.’ She gets up. ‘Oh well. Hold on a second. I’ve got some food for you to take home.’

On Friday night, we have fish and chips as we watch a movie on television – a semi-regular ritual at the end of the working and school week. George and I also share a bottle of wine. Despite the doctor’s words, I’ve once again acquiesced to the children’s request to get takeaway; I’m too tired to cook. Dolores and Emmanuel bicker in front of the television – as usual, we can’t agree on which movie to watch. We finally decide, and eat with our eyes glued to the set.

After the movie, I stay up late, flicking through Facebook. My friends share photos of fancy restaurant meals, post about birthdays and anniversaries and share memories from a year ago. There are so many people sharing happy snaps of their holidays in warmer climes. How can people afford to go away so often? I wonder.

Before I know it, it’s midnight. I have indigestion and my book, which I’d been looking forward to reading, lies unopened.

In the morning I lie in bed for as long as possible before the kids are awake. I know that once I get up, the day will begin and I won’t allow myself to stop.

When I hear the children stir, I force myself out of bed, and start to tidy the kitchen like an automaton – wipe down the bench, rinse the wine glasses and dishes we left in the sink last night, put a load of washing on. I eye the crumbs on the floor – they can wait until after my first cup of coffee.

My body aches, and I feel heavy with fatigue. It’s a tiredness that seems to seep into my bones, threatening to overwhelm me. I can feel my belly push up against my diaphragm as I drink my coffee, willing it to work its magic so I can get on with my day. I regret having so many chips, that extra glass of wine. I’m reminded yet again that my body no longer forgives me trespasses like it did when I was in my teens and twenties. It now takes a few days to shake the sluggishness that comes from my weekend excesses. I can feel a migraine brewing. I stare it down as if it’s a recalcitrant toddler, refused lollies in a supermarket and threatening to throw a full-blown tantrum.

As the kids join me at the table, I grumble that they need to do their Saturday chores – empty the dishwasher, the bins and the newspaper pile – before they can flop around on their devices. They look unhappy with my early morning harangue, and I can see Emmanuel squaring his shoulders, readying for an argument. I cast him a don’t-mess-with-me-this-morning look. He backs down.

I ask Dolores and Emmanuel if they have homework to do, reminding them we’re visiting Nana and Nanou tomorrow so it’s best if they get it out of the way today.

Even before they’ve had their breakfast, I’ve bombarded them with other things they need to do. I immediately regret it. Just because I’m tired, I don’t need to project onto them. I take another sip of coffee and watch them slink off to their rooms. I’d be slinking away from me too if I was them.

I’m sick of feeling perpetually fatigued and ever-so-slightly angry. It’s not as if I don’t know what to do to avoid this feeling. Don’t stay up so late. Don’t try and stuff so much into each day. Don’t have more than one glass of wine in one sitting. Don’t eat so much rich food. Don’t waste time on social media.

So many ‘don’ts’. I can feel myself arc up already, railing against all this deprivation, even before I’ve deprived myself of a single thing. The minute I tell myself not to do something, I want to do it even more.

I hop into the shower. As the hot water runs over my head and down my back, I think about the things that give me pleasure – wine, hot salty chips, cheesy ’80s dance movies. But I’m beginning to realise that all this good stuff, indulged in too often, makes me feel sick. Pleasure feels more like a compulsion, a guilty, adolescent addiction. Something I should have grown out of as an adult.

It’s all too much to think about first thing in the morning. I make my way to our bedroom and force myself to make the bed so I don’t feel tempted to get back into it. The day has started and there’s lots to be done. Who’s got time for fatigue when there are crumbs to be swept up off the floor?

The next day, we visit my in-laws. They have lived in the same house since they came to Australia from Malta in the mid-’60s. It’s on a block that was once market gardens and grassy fields. Over the years, the affordable housing in this outer suburb has attracted new migrants, and my in-laws have seen many waves of different groups settle here and then move on. The rental properties either side of their home are rundown, but their home looks as clean and tidy as the day it was built.

We step into the hall and don slippers on the way to the kitchen. There, the laminate table is groaning with mid-afternoon treats: white bread sandwiches with sliced cheese, fruit cake, chocolate biscuits and pastizzi (ricotta-filled Maltese flaky pastries). My mother-in-law has laid out cups for tea, and busies herself in the tiny space. We sit, and the kids quickly help themselves to the food.

At eighty-one, my in-laws are still very independent, despite a growing list of ailments. My mother-in-law looks even more stooped than when we saw her a few weeks ago. She complains of back pain, but still cleans her kitchen floor on hands and knees.

As always, they are glad to see us. After we share the happenings of our week, my father-in-law regales us with stories of his childhood. He describes being a perpetually hungry kid riding his bike around the dusty streets of his suburb, Hamrun. His voice still sad after all this time, he talks about his mother dying when he was a very young boy. And his father marrying a woman