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12 March 2009
Thursday

The rain began again shortly after midnight, heavy downpours punctuated with rumbles of thunder that shook the hillsides. Our decision to head to modern Pylos yesterday, on a stellar and cloudless day, was obviously the right one.

We took the 7 a.m. bus with all the sleepy gynmasio and lyceio (high school) students, heading west through the hills, stopping at various villages to take on additional students and elderly folk on shopping journeys to the larger towns—Methoni, Pylos, and Kalamata. From the heights of the village of Finikes, we could clearly see the distant range of Taygetos, ruggedly snowclad mountains above Sparta that are every bit as imposing as Colorado’s Front Range, 40 or 50 kilometers distant. The bus dropped us off at Pylos’ tidy town square, which was bustling with activity by 8 a.m.—fish mongers, fruit shops, gypsies hawking wares.

Our first stop was at the bakery/sweet shop for a bit of nourishment. As in most places, the proprietor asked us who we were, where we were from, and the names of the children. In addition to the purchased items—spanakopitas and tyropitas (spinach and cheese pies), koulouria (sesame biscuits), and one very sugary donut for Manny—we were sent off with a small collection of “gifts”: sweetbreads, cookies, and the like. The generosity and kindness of local people can seem boundless at times.

From the town harbor, looking up the coast to the northwest on a cloudless day, one sees the sharp ridges of Sapienza island that form the harbor—Navarino Bay, the largest natural harbor in the Peloponnese and the site of two epic sea battles, one in antiquity (in 425 bce, during the Peloponnesian War, between the Athenians and the the Spartans) and the other on 20 October 1827.

In the latter engagement, the Great Powers of Britain, France, and Russia—who were nominally assisting the Greek insurgents against Ottoman rule and attempting to impose an armistice—opened fire on a combined Turkish/Egyptian fleet consisting of 89 warships and 16,000 men. In a vicious firefight in the enclosed harbor, 53 of the Turkish ships were sunk or destroyed. The harbor remains a mecca for scuba divers, as the sunken fleet lies largely intact in the relatively shallow, aquamarine water.

On the hill above us, we could see the ramparts of Niokastro (New Castle), built by the Turks in 1573, two years after their defeat at the naval battle of Naupaktos (Lepanto).


It is an imposing fortress intended to control the southern entrance of Navarino Bay. Its name distinguishes it from Palio Navarino (Old Castle), the Frankish castle on the peninsula of Koryphasion (also within view), which once controlled the opposite (northern) entrance to the bay. We plan to visit the latter castle in a few weeks. The ancient acropolis at Palio Kastro figures in Homeric history—Nestor’s Cave, an enormous and deep cave on the edge of the acropolis, is mentioned in the Odyssey as the place in which Nestor and Neleus kept their cows, and in which Hermes hid Apollo’s cattle. Archaeologists have identified this end of Navarino Bay as the Mycenean-era harbor of King Nestor.

The Police Station at Pylos

Our primary mission was to find the police station, which serves as the local Aliens Bureau, and to begin the arduous process of obtaining an extended residency permit. As non-Europeans, we are permitted a 90-day stay in Greece—having passed our 30-day mark and planning to stay until 15 June (roughly 45 days beyond our allowable stay), obtaining such a permit is essential. In the “old days” (late 1970s and early 1980s, when Jonathan lived in Greece) an “extension” could be achieved by leaving the country for several days and then returning with a new stamp: a convenient excuse to take the ferry to Italy, or the bus to Yugoslavia or Turkey. In recent years, however, the Greek bureacracy has caught up with this loophole. And the consequences for overstaying a visa are, at least theoretically, quite severe: jail time and/or heavy fines.

Ever the dutiful foreigners, we approached the police station—with our passports and a veritable dossier of documents in hand: birth certificates, letters from the Maine police (verifying that we are not convicted felons), letters from our doctors (that we are not carrying the plague), letters from the Maine Department of Education (permission to home-school our children, which is apparently illegal in Greece), proof of income and assets (i.e., to prove that we are “economically non-indigent”), Jonathan’s grandfather’s birth certificate (from 1892), and a host of lesser documents. All in all, an impressive collection of neatly organized documentation. Each document included, at some expense to us, an international apostille stamp.

The Greek Consulate in Boston assured us that we would have “no problem whatsoever” in obtaining our permit. If only that official could have been a fly on the police station wall—actually, in short order it would have been an asphyxiated fly.

The police station is located on the second floor of a building in the central square, above the Atlantic Supermarket, up a winding a narrow, unlit, marble staircase. The signage began on the first floor—apoyorevete to kapnisma (smoking is not allowed!)—and shortly we entered an impossibly tight, unventilated room with three desks, five chairs, and a television set. A fog horn would not have been out of order. Five police officers in uniform and a woman in pajamas were chain-smoking and watching a Bulgarian sit-com (with Greek subtitles) on television. The man with the most bars on his uniform scowled at us before we ever spoke. Jonathan began to ramble a Greek homily he had prepared mentally during the bus ride.

“Good morning, we are American citizens of Greek heritage, presently living in Finikounda, where my children are learning Greek. We arrived 30 days ago and look forward to staying until June 15, which is 45 days beyond our allowable time on a tourist visa. In the meantime I [Jonathan] am in the process of obtaining Greek dual citizenship on the basis of my grandfather’s birth, which the Greek Consulate in Boston assures me is possible. They have also assured me that you will be able to provide us with a minimal extension on our visa allowing to us gather the necessary papers, and…”

The captain stood up and lit another cigarette from the one still burning, exhaled a long stream of blue smoke at the ceiling fan, and said: “What the hell do you think you’re doing in Greece for so long!” The others looked at the captain then turned toward Jonathan, quizzical expressions written across their over-cafenated faces. For a brief moment, they turned their glances toward the TV set—it was now a commercial for the Greek lottery, which was temporarily more interesting than a family of five Americans. It gave Jonathan time to reload for his second homily:

“My grandfather left Greece as a child for America, where he made a new life. He raised 9 children and more than a dozen grandchildren. I learned Greek, I made my own family, and now we’re back—to learn about our heritage, to teach the children Greek. It is a lifelong dream of mine. I’m telling you, we’re not here for any other reason.”

His answer, compared to Jonathan’s homily, was short and vitriolic: “Well that’s impossible!” He turned and pretended to spit. It seemed like the walls of the room had begun to close in. Jonathan reached for his document dossier and extracted Exhibit A: a letter in Greek from our lawyer-friend Akis, which stated what Jonathan had just articulated in Greek. It was on Akis’ legal letterhead and was notarized. Jonathan handed it to the captain as if it were an original copy of the Magna Carta; the captain glanced at it for all of two seconds, and then threw it on the desk where the woman wearing pajamas sat. Jonathan reached for Exhibit B, his grandfather’s birth certificate. “I’m not trying pull a quick one on you sir, here is my grandfathers’ pistipoietiko.” The captain threw it on top of the other document, unread. Jonathan then threw the entire document file on the desk and said, “it took a long time to assemble this” and did a verbal quick inventory of the contents. “It includes documents from our local police force verifying that my wife and I have not killed anyone. At least not within the last five years.” The lady in pajamas rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.

The captain picked up the phone and dialed a number in Kalamata. He shouted: “I have this American here who wants to extend his visa.” There was shouting from the other end. He scribbled some notes. He made a second call and then a third. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Jonathan thought. Ann and the girls had left the room for the relative safety of the unlit staircase. Manny was pinned against the inside of the door, alternatively looking at his father and the Bulgarian sit-com. His eyebrows were twitching like his father had never seen before.

The captain slammed the telephone down so hard that the ashtray jumped off the desk. Jonathan was quietly impressed that every spent cigarette butt landed back in the ashtray, and wondered if he had practiced this routine for most of his professional career.

“Here’s the situtation,” he shouted. “You need to pay 300 euros per person. You need to go to the Kalamata hospital and have blood taken. They need to verify that you’re healthy. And in the end you still may not get the permit.”

Certain in advance of this sequence of events, Jonathan feigned disbelief and anger: “Three hundred euros! Even for a six year old? Are these people crazy or are they thieves?” Everyone (except the captain) laughed. He got on the phone again and called another number. He spoke very quickly but Jonathan was able to piece together most of the conversation—he was now asking another office about the process of dual citizenship. Again he slammed down the phone. “Do you have a Greek tavtotita (identity card)? You can’t get a passport without a Greek identity card.” Now we were clearly going in circles. “If I had a Greek identity card, then I would already be a Greek citizen. If I was already a Greek citizen, then I wouldn’t be here asking for a visa extension.” The others nodded in cautious approval. The captain scowled.

“And have you served in the Greek military?” Jonathan made a quick decision and replied: “Another one of my dreams is become a Greek commando. Or an air force pilot. Am I going to have that opportunity, Sir?” Everyone laughed, including the captain. “Come with me,” he said. Jonathan had fleeting visions of a crewcut and a very tight green wool uniform—and wondered, momentarily, if he should have referenced the navy instead. Twenty months in blue cotton would be more comfortable than sixteen months in green wool.

We entered what appeared to be the captain’s private office, a place with many overflowing ashtrays and several glasses of long-dried frappes. Beyond the view of his colleagues, his disposition became transformed. “We have a problem here. They say you need a tavtotita in order to obtain a passport, but if you had a tavotita then you would already be a citizen.” Jonathan pretended that the captain himself had had this epiphany. “I think you are precisely correct, Sir, this is an amazing state of affairs. It is apistevto (unbelieveable).” Apisteveto was a word that Jonathan had looked up in the dictionary just that morning—anticipating a need for such vocabulary. “Exactly,” said the captain. “Apistevto!”

Now that the two had commiserated through the common emotion of outrage, they became fast friends—well, sort of. Captain Yiorgios (he seemed unwilling to give Jonathan his last name) made a note of our mobile number and promised to make several more calls and promised to be in touch.

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The five of us walked down the narrow winding street, Ann and the children eager to learn what had transpired in the captain’s office. Ann said: “Well, did you get some kind of paper? You said yesterday that you wouldn’t take no for an answer.” The flag of permanent defeat (to quote Ernest Hemingway) was written across Jonathan’s face. “Let’s go get double-espressos.”

The lady at the cafeneion asked about us and we told her about our experience at the police station, just across the town square. “Oh, yeah, Yiorgios is a friend of mine. He’s a great guy. Do you want me to call him and tell him to take care of you?”

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The Fortress of Pylos

Located at the highest point in the modern town of Pylos, the frouyio (fortress) provided our family with hours of wonderful exploration under a spotless blue sky. By 10 a.m. we had shed our sweaters and were wishing that we had worn shorts.

As mentioned, the main structure of the Niokastro was built by the Turks in 1573; during the Venetian occupation of Pylos (1686–1715) the perimeter was reinforced and a central citadel was constructed.



The architectural features from the Venetian period include seven bastions, a large moat, and a series of archways.

The Turkish mosque was converted into a Christian basilica—only to revert to a Muslim mosque after the recapture by the Turks.



The entire castle was surrendered to the Greeks in 1821; and was then besieged in 1825 by the Turks under the Egyptian vizier Ibrahim Pasha, whose forces were devastating the Peloponnese in a brutal campaign of rape and pillage and unthinkable carnage.


The aforementioned Battle of Navarino effectively ended Ottoman occupation of the Peloponnese. The modern Greek state was declared several years later, a Bavarian prince was imposed on Greece (the royal family was exiled in 1967, following a coup d’etat), and conflict with the Ottoman Empire (and later modern Turkey) gradually expanded Greece’s borders to its present lines of demarcation. Jonathan’s grandfather Andonis did his part, returning to Greece to fight the Turks in the first Balkan War (1912), where his twin brother was decapitated in battle. Now his grandson had returned in 2009 to be decapitated by the Greek bureaucracy—or so it seemed.

A selection of images from the Niokastro follow.

Horseback Riding (Ipassia) in Methoni

We took the 2:30 bus that heads to Finikounda via Methoni, having made an arrangement for Lucia to take her first of several planned riding lessons with Alexandros at his school on the outskirts of Methoni. None of us (especially Lucia) was disapppointed by this plan.

Alex’s two Albanian stable workers (a father and his young daughter) saddled up a gorgeous nine-year-old mare; and Alex’s wife Dionysia (nicknamed Soula) readied Lucia with boots, chaps, helmet, and a riding vest. Like Jonathan, Soula has family roots in Hania, Crete. Such connections are important in Greece.

Alex assured Jonathan of Lucia’s personal safety: “the vest can withstand 200 kilos of impact and it protects the neck completely.” Lucia was mentored by Soula while Alex watched from the edge of the riding ring, smoking cigarettes and drinking a frappe. Lucia’s two years of riding experience became apparent to both Alex and Soula, although she was riding English style (as opposed to Western) for the very first time. In short order she was galloping around the entire perimeter, with both Soula and Alex shouting advice on “posting” and technique in holding the reins.

We were very proud of her skill and confidence in the ring—and she was especially encouraged by the prospect of riding on the Methoni beach, in the shadow of the castle, whenever the Alex and Soula become convinced that her riding skills are up to the task.

We shopped for groceries in Methoni and then found a cab driver to take us to Finikounda, about 10 kilometers distant on the coastal road. Lucia and Jonathan set off for a short run to Dimitri’s house; we had learned of the birth of a foal earlier in the morning. Indeed, it was a beautiful chestnut creature on wobbly legs.

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The Visa Saga…Continues

The phone rang in quick succession—first while Jonathan and Lucia were walking at sunset to see Dimitri’s new foal, and then just after we returned home. The first call was from our friend Akis, who had spoken both with Yiorgios, the police captain we met in Pylos, and with our contact at the Boston Consulate. It was bad news on both fronts: Yiorgios told Akis that there was nothing he could do to help us with the visa process; and the lady at the Greek Consulate in Boston told him that we needed to have started the visa application process from abroad—something we had been told by our friends Tom and Kim a year ago, but precisely the opposite of what the offical had told us back in November.

A few moments later Jonathan received a call from Yiorgios, the police captain. He was genuinely sorry that he was unable to help us. He mentioned having recently spoken to Akis and suggested that we ought to pursue the dual citizenship as our only best option for extending our stay. Jonathan asked him what would be the consequences of overstaying our visa—and he referenced several Romanians who are serving five years in a Greek jail for the same offense.

Akis’ suggestion made the most sense to Jonathan: upon receiving the additional papers from his sister, he travel alone to Athens. Once there, Akis will take Jonathan to the appropriate ministry office with whatever papers he has in hand in attempt to “register” his deceased father and himself as Greek citizens.

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