25 February 2009
Wednesday

Ann had the uneviable task of waking three sleeping kids at 6 a.m. so that we could ready ourselves for the early bus ride to Methoni. (pictured above). Everyone was anticipating this outing, so the complaints were minimal and at first light we were waiting beside the village church. Buses in Greece are highly reliable and subsidized by the state. The roads, on the other hand, are rarely straight, not particularly wide, and often poorly paved, especially in rural areas.

Rather than taking the direct route to Methoni—a coastal road whose construction began in 1970 and was only recently completed—the driver took the narrow winding road that leads to the village of Lahanada, where school children boarded. In the village center the clearance between buildings was only several inches, but the driver navigated the tight spots with great skill and confidence. After Lahanada, the bus continued through several other small villages: Kamaria, Evangelismos, and Finikes. In each village center, more children boarded, all them heading to the gymnasio (secondary school) in Methoni, which serves the municipality and its outlying villages.

The students all wore a familiar adolescent face, slightly annoyed, taciturn, a vision of sleep interrupted prematurely.

From the heights above Kamaria, the distant range of Mount Taygetos, which once marked the home domain of ancient Sparta, appeared covered in heavy snow. Rising over 8,000 feet above sea level, these peaks provided a natural barrier during antiquity. It proved a stunningly beautiful backdrop to the infinite horizon of olive trees.

Winding through lush, fertile countryside the bus roared past flocks of goats and sheep, along a winding landscape hued in a complete spectrum of spring color.

On their father’s advice, as the bus descended toward Methoni, Nia and Evyenia practiced their plaintive expressions that seemed to say, “please, kind sir, issue us an extended visa.” Upon arriving in tidy, colorful Methoni we sauntered toward the KEP (Kentron Exipereteses Politon) office, located conveniently near the bus stop. At 8 a.m. the office was staffed by a very accommodating young woman from Epirus--a hinterland in northern Greece on the Albanian border--named Yiorgia. Yiorgia chained smoked both beneath and across from large signs that read apoyorevete to kapnisma (“smoking is prohibited”).

Jonathan’s well-conceived plan to overwhelm the imaginary bureacrat with a large collection of residency documentation, with all the requisite stamps and seals, proved absolutely irrelevant. In Greece, the desired response from government workers is based on such factors as 1.) the time of their last coffee; 2.) the number of cigarettes remaining in their pack; 3.) the presence (or lack of) coworkers.

In all fairness, Yiorgia listened patiently to our story: the Greek Consulate in Boston, whom we consulted in person back in November, had assured us that we would have “no problem” obtaining our extended visa in Methoni. The truth is, no bureaucrat is qualified to make a decision without consulting another bureaucrat. In essence, it is an infinite chain of command. There is no one prepared to say, a la Harry Truman: “The euro stops here!” Yiorgia and her superiors were no exception.




Finally, she phoned the ministry in Athens, who, in essence, said apokliete (“it is impossible”). In order to extend our visa for an additional period, we must pay an astounding 350 euros per person (that’s over $2000 U.S. for six weeks), subject ourselves to a battery of medical tests, and jump through several burning carnivale hoops. So Jonathan did the next best thing: name dropping.

Prepared for this eventuality (Greece is said to have the most arcane and obscure residency laws of any nation in Europe) Jonathan referenced the head of the Boston Consulate. “Kuria Markopoulou said, unequivocally, that we would have no problem obtaining our extension here in Methoni.” And these were indeed her very words. Yiorgia proceded to call the ministry again, obtained the direct number to the Boston consulate, and was prepared to call directly on our behalf. We explained that is was 2 a.m. in Boston, which she had some trouble conceptualizing. She called the ministry in Athens once more…to confirm that it really was 2 a.m. in Boston.

We left the KEP office disappointed, frustrated, and slightly depressed—we had planned for this trip for five years, had been given false information by a senior member of the Greek foreign service in the U.S., and now faced the prospect of having to leave Greece two months earlier than we had planned. Yiorgia nevertheless promised to call Boston in the early evening and then contact us on our mobile phone the following day with an answer. Needless to say, we are not hopeful.













As we set off the through back streets in the direction of the Methoni Castle, Ann and Jonathan discussed their options, which appear limited: overstay our 90-day visa and risk severe fines and/or arrest upon departure; or pay an exorbitant sum in order to extend our stay to June 15. Jonathan noted with ill humor that if we were Pakistani, Chinese, Albanian, or African we could stay as long as we wished—but as Americans with Greek heritage we remain outlaws, subject to arrest.

Dual citizenship is the only answer, but this presents another set of obstacles—doable in the U.S. but perhaps insurmountable here in Greece.

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Methoni Castle

The castle at Methoni, built in its final form in the later Middle Ages, has existed in some form since early antiquity. It is a natural citadel with a commanding view of the ocean. In its “final” manifestation it is an imposing Crusader castle with a storied past—along with its “twin” in Koroni (10 km east of Finikounda) said to be Venice’s “eyes on the Mediterranean.” Occupied by the Venetians (c. 1200–1500), by the Ottoman Turks (c. 1500–1650), again by the Venetians (briefly), then again by the Ottomans, and finally by the Greeks themselves following Independence, it was a place of unthinkable bloodshed. It is also a place of incredible beauty, an architectural marvel, a seemingly impregnable and massively bastioned fortress, with the ocean on three sides and separated from the land by an enormous moat.

From the thirteenth to the nineteen centuries it protected a substantial town and served, for much of this period, as a staging area for pilgrims en route to the Holy Lands by way of Crete and Cyprus.



















At the edge of the castle is a small island, accessible by a narrow causeway, upon which stands an octagonal tower, known as the Bourtzi (=fortress; wall, Arabic, burc; medieval Greek, pourtzios) The Bourzi is a fortress within the larger fortress, which was built by the Turks in the sixteenth century to replace an earlier Venetian structure--this was the utimate place of refuge of last resort (should the castle itself be breached), and even more famously a hideous place of execution. When the castle at Methoni finally fell to the Turks, the inhabitants were summarily slaughtered: beheaded to the last man, woman, and child.

Any discussion of the Turkish barbarism is discussed by the locals today as though it had only just occurred. Jonathan’s Cretan grandfather, born in the 1892 as a subject of the Ottoman sultan, instilled a similar sentiment in his children and grandchildren.

Methoni—the modern town

The modern town of Methoni is a lovely place to saunter about, particularly in the off season. The people are friendly and the town features some beautiful architecture, including pieces pilfered from the castle itself—vaulted archways, paving stones, and the like.

Walking through town we came across an elegant marble monument that read:
Thelei aretē kai tolmē e eleftheria. While a literal translation was not too difficult to render (freedom requires virtue and self-sacrifice), Jonathan suspected that a deeper and more complex meaning should be sought, so he stopped a man and asked him to explain. When Jonathan mentioned, in the course of conversation, how his family had all perished while fighting the German occupation during World War II, he said, na to (“that’s it!”)—“the women and the children died protecting their country, bludgeoning the German parachutists as they landed, knowing that they would die for doing so. Theirs was an act of aretē and tolmē. This is what the monument is about.”



Later in the day, we found the man (with Manioti—southeastern Peloponnesian--roots) who runs a horseback riding school just on the edge of the town proper. Lucia was delighted by what she saw and will soon return for an afternoon (or three) of isappia (horeback riding). We arrived as Alex was riding the “fastest horse in Greece,” a five-year-old thoroughbred, in a small ring. He stables eight exceptional horses, including a very special (to Lucia) Lipenzanner that he rides in dressage competitions.

When Alex learned that Jonathan (of Cretan heritage) married Ann (of Sicilian heritage) he opined: “This is the most amazing combination of all the Mediterraean: Cretans and Sicilians are the strongest and most obstinate people in the world. When you combine the two you have something very special. Even more special than a Maniote. I must tell you that we would rank second to a Cretan-Sicilian for toughness, and this is hard for a Maniote to admit.

That is first place for hard-headedness. This is old news.

Yamo tou Koutrouli (Wedding of Koutrouli)

There is an expression that is known throughout Greece with roots in Methoni. A married man named Koutrouli was for many years childless. He traveled to Constantinople and returned with another wife, with whom he eventually had 17 children. The local bishop refused to marry Koutrouli to his new wife, but many years later he was indeed married—the expression, yamo tou Katrouli, apparently signified a forbidden love, a second marriage. This, at least, according to the cab driver who brought us back to Finikounda—on the direct coastal road—in the early afternoon.

The driver, like most others, was interested in “our” story. After a brief explanation, Jonathan introduced the three children, “a boy named Manoli, a girl named Loukia, and another girl named Evyenia.” He corrected me (as did our friend Ilias in Finikounda). “No,” he said, “you must say this in the local way”: “I have one child and two daughters.”

Patriarchy dies hard.

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