26 February 2009
Thursday

Summer arrived all at once this morning—or so it seems for a bunch of ebullient Mainers—though perhaps it is but a short-term visitor rearing its glorious head. Nevertheless, it is a welcomed one: respected and deserving of the utmost cultivation. Summer is an old but transitory friend who only visits the 45th parallel for a few weeks each year.

Jonathan set off for a walk, while the others slept, to the highest knoll in Finikounda, where a slight glimpse of Messenia’s Mount Ithone was visible. In antiquity, mountains were a frequent setting for the worship of Zeus, and Ithone is said to be one of a handful of places with local or regional shrines to the god of the sky—like Arcadia’s Lykaion and Attica’s Hymettus. None, however, is more famous than the venerable sanctuary in Dodona in northwestern Greece, said to be the oldest in Greece. In Dodona, Zeus communicated his responses from his sacred oak tree, through the rustling of its leaves when the wind blew, a message interpreted by the priestess.

Zeus is the supreme Olympian god of the Greek pantheon and the ruler of the heavens and, as such, has a long lineage. Scholars relate Zeus to the Hittite sky-god as well as to Dyaus Pitar, his Vedic manifestation. His symbolic attribute is the thunderbolt and he is associated with the life-giving rain. Notably, for us, he is strongly associated with the eagle. The five of us live in “eagle country” in eastern Maine, where not a day passes without several sightings of these massive, regal, soaring creatures. And so we feel, perhaps, a tenuous connection with Zeus himself.

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For those Philhellenes who care, an “errata” sheet from yesterday’s translation of the Methoni’s monumental phrase--Thelei aretē kai tolmē e eleftheria--is in order. The word tolmē (poorly translated by Jonathan as “self-sacrifice”) should be, rather, something like “boldness” or “daring.” Freedom requires virtue and daring. Jonathan stands corrected!

And freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…

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Given Jonathan’s earlier experience with things electrical, the presence of the DEH (Greece’s electricity monopoly) truck at the adjacent work site alarmed him sufficiently to unplug his laptop and stroll to town in search of a safer venue. On the beach, under the shade of an unpruned palm tree, he fact-checked a lengthy bibliography on Greek didactic poetry. With the wind turning from the north, rendering this office idyll untenable, he packed up and stopped in at the butcher shop. The butcher shop, at least in this village, is the place for conversation.

In short order, we have made good friends with the butcher Dimitri, his wife Yiorgia, and their strikingly beautiful daughter, Vaso, a teacher at the local demotiko. (Jonathan had earlier warned Manny not to stare too much at a woman whose father earns his daily bread from the soft end of a cleaver.) At twenty-two, Vaso speaks several languages fluently—in addition to English, she speaks very passable Spanish, Italian, German, and French. In America, polyglots are the exception to rule; in Greece, particularly for young people with ambition, being multilingual is an economic and cultural necessity.

Dimitri was away, helping a friend burn his olive-tree prunings. Small puffs of smoke can be seen in the distance, from every direction except seaward, a reflection of this universal rite of spring. It reminds us of a similar activity back home, the burning of our blueberry barrens in alternate spring or fall.

Yiorgia and Jonathan discussed our family’s problems with obtaining a residency permit. “Don’t lose hope,” she advised in Greek. “In Greece you need to find the right person to fix your problems with the bureacracy. Such a person exists, but they are one in a thousand. But don’t overstay your visa without an adeia (permit) or you might be fined heavily or worse.” This is the opposite of Ilias’ suggestion last night: “To hell with them. What are they going to do—throw you in jail? When the policeman harasses you at the airport, just tell him he is an idiot and a keratos (cuckhold), and to watch out for your Sfakioti [knife-wielding Cretan] relatives.” We might be better served by seeking a middle ground—contrite, pleasant, accommodating, but determined.

Yiorgia offered to discuss with Vaso the possibility of private Greek lessons for Ann and the kids. Coincidentally, when Ann returned from a walk with the kids, she mentioned that they had stopped at the village school, where they bumped into Vaso. Another teacher at the school asked her, “why not enroll the children in our school?” It is a prospect we are now actively considering.

Let the Children Speak!

Now our children have their say, which is long overdue. Here are their entries, reflections on our brief time here in Greece—and with anticipation of the times ahead. A caveat: Manny, Lucia, and Nia are now fully disguised in their emerging Greek alter-egos:


A few words from Manoli Giovanni



Today was our 10th day in Finikounda and we decided to get up at 6:30 and go to Methoni. Methoni is a town of about 1,900 people and the site of a huge Venetian castle that once held 25,000 people who fought against the Ottoman Turks. The twin Venetian castles, one in Methoni and one in Koroni, were held for almost 400 years by the Venetians, until the final siege when the Ottman Turks captured the castle and then held it for 200 years until the Greeks took it over in the late 1820s.
So we got up early and caught the bus; the fancy Mercedes bus just happened to be the high school bus, so we went the long way to Methoni, through the mountains, to all the small villages to pick up middle school and high school kids. If I went to school here, I’d be in high school. The ride was scary and beautiful, but 15 minutes longer than the more direct coastal road. We finally got off the bus in Methoni and followed the kids up to the school to get an idea of what the school is like. The school wasn’t all that nice.
We went out to get a snack at the bakery. Moving on, we came to a town office to try to get our extended visa, which is going to be more difficult than we thought.
We made our way toward the castle, and I was changing my batteries as soon as I saw it. It was huge. You don’t have to buy tickets, it’s free but usually there’s a guard on duty, but there was no one around except a group of Greek archaeologist who arrived in fancy cars but they left shortly. So we had the whole place to ourselves.
We were doing all the stuff your not supposed to do and going to all the places that your not supposed to go, like inside the crumbling buildings and into all the underground places and tunnels. We started by going down to the far end near the water where there’s the prison and execution tower, which we climbed. This part of the structure is not part of the surrounding structure of the castle. It’s attached to the castle by a long cobblestone bridge which connects to the prison. The prison really doesn’t consist of much, it’s a big tower with one room, but it used to have four levels. It has a big circular balcony that wraps around the whole tower, but the only way to get up there is to climb a ladder, but there wasn’t one to climb.
After leaving the prison we walked back into the main part of the castle, taking photos along the way. Till we finally got to the mostly empty part of the castle, most of the buildings are gone—remember, there used to be some 25,000 people living there, and now the only real intact building a church, which we went into, after opening the locking bolt. Once inside my dad figured out right away that it was a Catholic church. I think they still might do a service every once in a while. Once we left the church Lucia proudly showed me her definition of a tunnel, and it’s very different from mine. It was a set of steps that just happen to go down. You’re really not allowed to go down there but we did anyway. Down there I found my definition of a tunnel, a long round black hole underground that you have to crawl through. I didn’t go in it because if I had punched the ceiling it would have caved in. After a little longer of poking around and taking pictures we had to go and catch the bus.
I am having a really good time here, at least its warm and there’s no snow and all the people are really nice. There are lots of animals and unfortunately lots of construction going on; it’s kind of noisy but not nearly as bad as Athens. I can’t wait to go to Crete.
I be sending and posting pictures,
Take care all,
--Manny


A few words from Loukia Zoe: The Methoni riding school



Hello everyone! I’m having a great time here in Greece. I went to a horseback riding school in Methoni. I will tell you all about it today.

The riding school is in a beautiful area and it is near the beach. When we walked up to it, I saw a man riding a beautiful brown horse in a outdoor riding ring.

We walked up the driveway to the gate of the ring where the man waited on his horse for us. I later found out that he was the riding school owner. His name was Alexandros. He said that the horse he was riding, a five-year-old thoroughbred, used to be the fastest horse in Greece, but it had been retired from racing.

My father and I started asking questions about the riding school, the horses, and what the lessons were about. Alex said that the riding lessons started by cleaning the horse then putting the saddle on. Then you would go out to the ring and have your riding lesson. He asked me if I rode English or Western style. I said Western and he said English was better—because if you rode English you can do anything, including jumping.

I then asked if we could pet the horses and Alex took us behind the ring, where I found eight beautiful horses. I pet each and every one of them to see which one I liked best. My favorites were a dark choclate colored mare and a light brown gelding. I hope when I go back, I can ride one of my favorites. One of the stable men opened one of the stall doors and let me pet the dark chocolate-colored horse’s neck.

My father said that we would go back for a couple lessons. I can’t wait to tell you all about it!


A few words from Evyenia Xena….coming soon!

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