Finding Things–A Memory

Last week’s post (you can read about it here), where I found an envelope of photos, made me think of a time I found a purse in my hometown.

The Purse

I was on a trip with my sister, her husband, and their children. We were in our hometown — the town my parents were born in — Sidirokastro, Greece. Our evening outing was just beginning. David took the kids to a “we supply everything” newsstand for snacks. I sat on a small concrete wall in front of City Hall, waiting with my sister.

Beside me was a purse.

It wasn’t mine.

I looked around, thinking the person who left it behind would be on their way back — but there was no one on the street except us. Shrugging to no one, as if no one had given me permission, I picked up the purse and opened it.

“Uh… what are you doing?” I could hear the nervousness in my sister’s voice.

“Investigating?” I shrugged again.

“Okaaaay…” She dragged out the last vowel.

I took out all the contents. There was a wallet, a pack of matches, a couple of pretty rocks, a small bow, a seashell, lipstick, and a pack of purse-sized tissues. I opened the wallet to check the ID.

The name on the Greek Identification Card, printed in official font, had my name spelled out — exactly. My. Name.

I don’t have a poker face, so my sister immediately asked, “What’s up?”

I turned the ID card toward her.

“What the hell. That’s your name.”

I should add: I do not have the Greek version of a Smith or Jones. My surname is not common. My first name isn’t unheard of, but it’s not popular either.

“I know!” I did some quick math. “But this me is a little older.”

For a split second, I wondered if this was one of those glitch-in-the-matrix situations.

Dave and the kids approached. My niece and nephew were bouncy with happiness, holding fistfuls of treats. I stood up. Dave asked where I was going.

“The police station is upstairs in this building. I found a purse, so I’m going to turn it in. I’ll be really quick.”

As I walked away, I heard my sister tell David that the person the purse belonged to had the exact same name as me. Exact. His reaction mirrored ours — authentic surprise.

Upstairs at the police station, I knocked and entered. A policeman sat at a desk. I told him I found the purse outside in front of the building. He asked me to stay while he created an itemized list of the contents.

He asked my name.

I answered.

“No, no, Miss. Not the name in the wallet — your name.”

I laughed. “I know it seems weird, but I have the same name.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“You have an accent. Where are you from?”

“Canada. Originally here — but Canada my whole life.”

“Interesting,” he said, turning the paper I had signed toward himself.

I thanked him. He thanked me.

My family and I went on with our evening. We laughed about the circumstance and the coincidence while we munched on souvlaki and Greek salad. On our walk home, I popped back into the station to see if anyone had come to pick up the purse. The policeman said no one had.

At that very moment, the other Ms. Counios walked in. Another coincidence! I can’t make this up!

“I lost my purse. I don’t suppose someone turned it in?”

He pointed at me.

“Oh! Thank you!”

I put out my hand and introduced myself.

She pulled her hand back. I could see she was a little weirded out. “Sorry?”

“We have the same name. Isn’t that odd?”

“Really? Are you from Vamvakofito?”

“Nope. I’m from Canada.” She looked at the officer. He confirmed it was all true.

We had a laugh. She got her purse. I got a story. I believe we are often placed in moments where we get to choose. I hope we always make the right choice — the honest and good one.

As always, thank you for reading, Lovelies