As I walked down Fremont Ave last August, I was only looking for an interview. The last thing I expected was to get hired on the spot. Nina, the manager at Costas Opa, a large Greek restaurant that has been standing on the corner of Fremont and 34th for 25 years, seemed to appreciate my name, Sophia Isabel. She said that Sophia was her sister and Isabel her niece, asked me whether I could smile and work weekends as a hostess, and told me to come back that night. I hurried home to find something black to wear by 6:00 pm.

Since then, I have spent Monday, Friday, and Saturday nights collecting tzatiki stains on my clothes, witnessing boisterous Greek baptisms and weddings, and breathing onions and garlic. While my friends cheered at Homecoming, I learned the difference between taramosalata and melitzanosalata, and can now light flaming saganaki cheese and yell “OPA!” with the best of them.

On the floor, the dark-haired waitresses taking orders in accented English and bouzouki music playing overhead exude Greekness, but a walk into the kitchen quickly changes that perception. Spanish-language radio fills the air—this is the Salvadorans’ domain. Nearly all of the cooks, bussers, and dishwashers emigrated from Central America, and I use my basic high school Spanish every night.

One afternoon, I showed up for work to find only Nina and Costa, the owners of the restaurant, and a single dishwasher. Everyone else had left. I asked Costa and Nina if they were angry that their employees had not come to work—they’d all gone downtown to protest new legislation against immigrants—and they, immigrants themselves, replied that there was nothing they could do. Everyone returned to work the next day, and Costa never said anything about it.

Greeks eat pita and Salvadorians eat tortillas, but everyone who works at Costas is sacrificing to make it in the United States. I am often the only person who doesn’t work two jobs, like Juan, who works days at the Shell station on Phinney and then nights at Costas, or lives apart from their family, like Gloria, who hasn’t seen her ten-year-old son for eight years because she cannot bring him to the Unites States.

I don’t really need to be working as many hours as I do. In fact, some time off would greatly benefit my social life, but I keep coming back. I have become part of a family, Sophula to the Greeks and Sophita to the Salvadorans. It’s a collision with a different reality that I savor as much as a piping hot gyro sandwich.


This essay was written by Sophie DePillis, Garfield High School Class of 2007, Colorado College Class of 2011.