In London, Australians historically congregate in Earl's Court. It's a thing. Every city has enclaves that attract migrants of particular parts of the world. In Brisbane, the Italian immigrants went to New Farm, the Chinese to Sunnybank and the Greeks to my part of the world, around West End. In fact, the home we now own was once owned by a Greek Orthodox Priest. We still get his mail on occasions even though he's several owners ago. Most people who live around here love the contribution the Greek community has made to the area. When I say "most people" that doesn't exactly include my neighbour Margaret. She's a stubborn old thing with a very long memory. Her "problem" with the local Greek community seems to stem to a couple of things, the first of which happened just after Father Dimitri and his family moved in as her neighbour. As Margaret tells it, she asked her new neighbour what she should call him. He suggested "Father" to which she replied "I've only ever had one father and it's not you". Relationship seriously damaged. The damage was set in concrete, literally. Our property used to have a pretty garden. Margaret was friends with the women who painstakingly established it. When the concrete trucks arrived, a bit of a thing Australian Greeks are famous for, Margaret's ire was sealed. And she never moved from that position blaming not just one family who happened to be Greek but by extension all Greeks. So needless to say Margaret's not one of the many thousands of Brisbane residents who storm the gates of Musgrave Park every year for the annual Paniyiri Greek Festival. Her loss, I say. My family, however, walked down the hill and got our Greek on.
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