22–25 March 2009
Sunday--Wednesday

The Gods Must Be Angry

The weather takes two steps forward, one step backward—not unlike springtime in Maine. For the past three days it has rained relentlessly. Not just rain, but horrific downpours with frequent—and seemingly close—strikes of lightning.

Adding to the misery of the steady downpour is the Finikounda public works department. Now at the dawn of the busy season, they have chosen to tear up the entire waterfront street, the hub and heart of the village. Each day a small army of jackhammers, dump trucks, back hoes, and tractors carve away the asphalt. The ultimate aim is clear from the opposite end of town: a crew of masterful Albanian stone masons is laying cobblestone, and they have made incredible progress in a short time. We pass their ongoing work each morning as we walk the girls to school at 8 o’clock—each day they complete fifty to seventy-five feet of handlaid stone, fitted to perfection: two men mix cement, one man cuts and shapes stone by hand, two men fit stone, and last of all a woman in a headscarf does the grout work…and, of course, the clean up.

But the forces of deconstruction (always one to reckon with in Greece) have gotten much too far ahead of the stone layers. And the result is a hopeless mire of muck. Made only worse by the rain.

The constant rumble of dump trucks has cracked our marble patio deck. Additional fissures may have been a result, too, of last Monday’s earthquake, which was centered just east of Kalamata. One of the largest seismic faults in the eastern Mediterranean runs through this part of the Pelopponnese and under the nearby island of Kithera. Shaking and rumbles are not uncommon. Kalamata, 48 kilometers away by twisty road, was the epicenter of a severe earthquake in 1986, in which several dozen people died, hundreds were injured, and 12,000 left homeless. On the day of our arrival in the village, more than a month ago, we had a “family earthquake awareness” meeting.

Meeting New Friends

The folks from whom we rented mountain bikes are a British couple who manage one of the beachfront campgrounds and several holiday homes. Their story is not unlike that of several other foreigners we have meet during our stay here. A dozen or so years ago they sold their home, bought a motorhome, sold most of their possessions in the U.K., and set off across Europe. They found their new “home”—a patch of beachfront to park their motorhome—and have lived here ever since.

Manny and Jonathan (his travel guitar slung over his back) biked to the motorhome during a lull in the rain. The couple were gracious and welcoming and invited us inside for coffee and conversation, and a little music. (He has a half dozen acoustic guitars scattered about the motorhome, and told us he once owned a recording studio in Los Angeles, next to Elvis Presley’s former studio). It is fun to hear everyone’s story—how they left their old lives behind and made new lives for themselves in Greece. We agreed to meet again soon for an evening music session in one of the rental houses that they manage in the hills. They also offered to inquire about a long-term car rental for us.

Last night we made a repeat performance at Treis Chordes, the taverna in the village of Mesohori, on the way to Pylos. It was our British friend Chris’s suggestion (Kosta is away in Athens) and the excursion provided an opportunity for him to introduce two British couples who have been living here for many years but have never met. Chris “borrowed” Ilias’s car (the key is always in the ignition) and took Ann and the girls; Jonathan and Manny traveled in a rickety Lada, a Soviet-era all-terrain vehicle that was on it’s last leg. We were a convoy of three vehicles in all, with Chris in the lead.

It was easy enough to find Mesohori, the village; somewhat more of a challenge to find Treis Chordes in the maze of village streets. We drove in circles for ten minutes, covering every street in the village several times, finally locating the taverna more by accident than by design.

Our five British friends know a smattering of Greek among them (Chris more than the others) so much of the translation was left to Jonathan. Although we had met only once, the owner, Panayioti, greeted all of us by first name. This time we had an opportunity to examine the reconstruction of this three-hundred-year-old stone house more closely. It belonged to Panayiotis’ grandfather, and he had fond memories of his childhood there: “This is where my bed was.” He pointed to a wide stone staircase, an obvious addition to the old house.

The ten of us filled a long table on the second floor. Just as we sat a crack of lightning struck and five minutes of heavy hail ensued. We were glad to be inside. Jonathan resolved not to visit the olive orchard this night, and paced himself carefully. Chris remarked: “You’re not in charge of pouring the wine tonight.”

We made new friends and received nice comments on the behavior of our children. Chris said: “Your children are a pleasure to be with at taverna.” It was the ultimate compliment.

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We returned home just after 1 a.m., moments ahead of a horrific lightning storm and a rainfall of biblical proportions. None of us slept particularly well. We missed the Sunday morning liturgy, our first absence in the month that we have been here in the village. We were waiting for Papa Giorgi to come find us. It was a slow start for all of us, especially for Manny—who promised to join Chris for part III of a tiling “class.” Chris is renovating a taverna on the waterfront and Manny, to whom he has taken a shining, has become his sidekick on the tile cutting machine. In exchange, Manny has gotten a collection of tile pieces with which he has created some impressive mosaics—one of which will become a part of the taverna wall. He will leave a bit of his presence to find again during our next visit.

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Home Restorations

Yesterday (Sunday) Manny and Jonathan took advantage of a break in the weather and cycled up to Lahanada, a hillside village that commands the heights above Finikounda. We had been invited by our friend Chris, who has become Manny’s mosaic “mentor,” to look at the house he has restored.

The most notable moment in our journey straight uphill to Lahanada—aside from distant flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder—was a very large hawk that the two cyclists scared up from the side of the road. The bird flew up from the roadside thicket and missed Jonathan’s head by a matter of inches, its enormous talons dangling threateningly behind. From his vantage point several meters behind his father, Manny was convinced that the bird was prepared to circle around for the final kill, take his father back as food for the raptor’s youngsters. The two stopped, breathless, and nearly speechless.

The trip to Lahanada takes all of ten minutes, rising steeply on a narrow winding road. We arrived in a peaceful, idyllic village with a broad expansive view of the coastline, from the headlands near Koroni to the distant roll of hills that lead to Methoni. Neatly manicured vineyards and olive orchards stretch in every direction, punctuated by a smattering of second homes.

We found Chris’s motorbike among the maze of houses that are entirely or partially connected to one another, but were uncertain which house was his. A few minutes later, having heard our quiet banter, he emerged on an overhead patio and invited us inside for the fifty-cent tour.

The restoration work is masterful: from a crumbling shell he has recreated the feel and aura of long-lost centuries and the structural integrity that any sensible homeowner would desire. Exposed olive wood lintels, carefully pointed masonry walls, exposed stone and mosaic, a cathedral ceiling with exposed rough-sawn beams. A veritable work of art but entirely unpretentious and in perfect keeping with the traditions of the village. A testimony to good taste and an eye to perfection.

Chris led us across the way to the home of the British couple with whom we had dined the night before, retired educators from the U.K. who arrived in southern Messenia—like so many others—in a camper van a dozen or so years earlier. Their house had once belonged to the village priest, his wife, and four children. It was much larger than Chris’s house and the layout was different, but the end result was the same: a masterful restoration of the old Greece.

Both houses may otherwise have crumbled into the rubble of a dying village. Instead, the results are humble museum-pieces, respectful of the character of this place.

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Trip to Kalamata

Ann and Manny set off for Kalamata, the central city of Messenia, at 8 o’clock with the British couple who live in Lahanada. Jonathan walked the girls to the demotiko and for the first time had the entire house to himself—and no excuses not to work industriously on an editing project.

Jonathan checked with Manny by mobile phone (each of them has one) and learned that the old Lada found a new home in a Kalamata mechanic’s shop and that they would be returning home on the 1:00 bus—with everyone else. But not before shopping for a new chainsaw. Our British friends own a dozen small trees between them. For those of us who cut up ten cord of firewood per year, it didn’t seem like a practical necessity. But to each his own.

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The Visa Saga—part V (or was it VI? or VII?)

Our dear friends Thanasi and Koula are our koumbaroi—which for some people (like us) is a bond as close as that of a blood relative. They “married” us on the island of Spetses (the birthplace of Jonathan’s maternal grandmother) in 1992. Although we are separated by the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, we have managed to keep in regular touch and occasional visits. Our daughters, Lucia and Dionysia, are the same age—and are slowly becoming friends, in spite of the language barrier that is slowly vanishing.

Jonathan and Thanasi have been friends since 1979, when the two shaggy, aspiring revolutionaries met in Athens. Co-opted by “the system” (Thanasi is a banker; Jonathan an editor—and the revolution has not progressed much past the cafeneion stage), the two remain awash in peaceful ideals.

Our Greek friends have known for years about our plans to spend an extended period in Greece. And now they are a part of our saga to overcome the seemingly insurmountable bureaucracy that does not want us to stay here more than ninety days. If only we were Pakistanis selling pirated DVDs in front of the Pylos police station—then we would be safe.

Koula offered to visit the police headquarters in Pireaeus that handles tourist visas. She called earlier this evening.

“I have news for you, and it is isn’t good.” This is never a promising start. “The police said that in order to extend your stay you need to appear at the police station five days before your visa expires—and pay 480 euros per person. No exceptions for children.” For people subsisting (in theory, at least) on crusts of village bread and fresh vegetables, the prospect of paying 2,400 euros (or more than $3000) for an extra forty-five days is…well, let’s say, prohibitive.

The most exasperating thing is: the cost of the visa from the consulate in Boston would have been $125 each (“but you can apply for it in Pylos, don’t worry be xhappy”); the Pylos police chief quoted us a price of 300 euros each (“and you still might not get the paper!”; and the U.S. Embassy said that the fine for overstaying our visa would be 450 euros each (“and they do collect it”). Our conclusion, in the final analysis, is that the visa itself costs more than the fine for not having a visa! Only in Greece.

Our only hope is the consulate lady in Boston who offered a slim chance of helping us—by way of the dual citizenship process. To say that we are skeptical is an understatement. We are light on paperwork, heavy on ambition.

And if we overstay our visa and are fined at the airport and claim poverty, then what happens? we wonder. If we say, “come on kids, empty your pockets on Kerie Kleftopoulos’s desk…oops, not enough? Sorry kerie. Would you take a couple of sheep, and perhaps a fifty euro note in your vest pocket?” To be continued…

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Fear Not…the Visa Solution: Part I

Hercules was said to have performed twelve labors in order to achieve immortality—among them, killing the Erymanthian boar and the Stymphalian birds, cleaning the Augean stables, and capturing the Ceryneian deer. These were relatively easy tasks. Lucky for him, he did not have to receive an extended visa in modern Greece.

We are feeling exceptionally mortal on account of the thirteenth labor.

So, reflecting on Hercules—and several Amstels later—Jonathan had a revelation on the visa issue: We will all dress as gypsies before we go to the airport. (Greeks seems to be frightened of these nomadic peoples who have lived in their midst for hundreds of years.) We will wrap the girls in bandages from head to toe and tell the authorities that they lost their limbs in a terrible accident on the Metro. (And we will also demand money from them! That is sure to fix them.) We will say that we didn’t think it would be fair to subject the girls, after such a horrific accident, to an international flight without just a few days of recovery—hence we overstayed our visa by 34 days. “And, by the way, did we mention that we want some money in our jar?”

Or better yet, Ann can threaten the authorities with a magic potion from the little bag around her neck, or cast the evil eye on the Customs man, while hissing an incantation.

Solution: Part II

Or maybe we can all carry armloads of pirated DVDs and say we are Pakistanis leaving Greece for America. (The authorities might welcome the chance at voluntary deportation of a small handful of the many thousand South Asians living illegally in their midst.) Or perhaps we could do the same, disguised as Bulgarians, Albanians, Poles, Russians, or any of the other non-EU members flaunting the visa requirements under the noses of the Tourist Police.

Solution: Part III

Alexandros, the man who runs the stable and riding school in Methoni, has a lovely Saint Bernard, and she is very pregnant. Manny has taken a shining to the dog, which Alexandros instantly recognized. “The Great” offered one of the puppies to Manny, which, of course, would present a logistical nightmare.

Or a solution? In order to bring an animal on an international flight, there is a mandatory 90-day quarantine period. Alas, the puppy is the answer! “But, kurie, we were only obeying the law in quarantining our dog and awaiting the 90-day period to pass in its entirety. Surely you can’t fine us for obeying your laws?”

The Final Analysis

The first problem is we are of Greek heritage, speak Greek, raised our children as Orthodox Christians, and spend our own money in Greece. The second problem is that we are attempting to obey the law: first by traveling 400 miles to the Boston Consulate; second by trying to register at the Pylos police station; third, by being stupid enough to consider paying 2500 euros for the privilege of doing our part to support the Greek tourist economy for another 36 days.

Maybe Nikos is right: Greece is the most Islamic country in Europe!

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The Bird Man of Kalamata

The truck’s loudspeaker caught our attention this morning: “I’ve got ducks and geese and chickens, including roosters, all healthy and ready for your yard.” Jonathan grabbed Manny by the shirt-collar and dragged him to the porch: “get your camera.”

The truck snaked through the village, a small plume of feathers trailing behind it, a visual advertisement of the product. Manny was disappointed that we did not make any purchases from the bird man of Kalamata.

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Solo Run to Akritohori

Jonathan set off for a solo run to the village of Akritohori above Finikounda. Running always manages to clear his head and help put life in perspective. He ran first to the village to walk the lot that Yiota showed us last week. He stopped his watch long enough to take a rest in the family’s imaginary house, and enjoyed the long views of the mountain to the north called Mavrovouno.



Setting off for the return to Finikounda, he remembered his friend Tom’s comments about a dirt road that led to the vigli. Jonathan followed a confusing selection of red dirt roads that led off into the hills—access roads to various olive orchards on the hillside. It was a beautiful and lonely stretch of hillside.

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Nikos, our friend who is a poet, called in the early evening to say that our papers, sent by Jonathan’s sister, had arrived in the afternoon mail. Jonathan and Manny rushed over to Nikos’s house and tore open the package in his saloni. Jonathan was hardly disappointed: the “delayed registration of birth” documents, filed in 1941 before his father’s entry into the U.S. Marine Corps, looked official enough—even for the Greek authorities—and seemed a suitable replacement for the never-filed 1917 documents. Also included in the package was his father’s most recent cancelled passport and his parents’ wedding certificate, in both Greek and English.

It was a heartening moment.

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Greek Independence Day––March 25th

Today is a national and a religious holiday--Greek Independence Day and the Annunciation (Evangelismos) of the Virgin Mary—perhaps the third most important day in Greece after Easter (April 18th this year) and the Dormition (Koimisis) of the Virgin (August 15th).

After a long and bloody struggle, the Greek people ended four hundred years of Ottoman Turkish occupation in 1821—when a bishop declared Greece’s independence in a monastery on the Feast Day of Dormition. With the help of philhellenes from around the worlds (the most notable, Lord Byron, who gave his life for Greece), the people won liberation.

All week there have been nationalistic and historical skits, television shows, and radio broadcasts. In a television drama yesterday, a priest asked a girl in church: “How old are you dear?” She replies, “I am nine, Father.” He then asks: “Have you ever killed anyone before?” She shakes her head innocently. “Well, tomorrow you will kill for our freedom.”

Jonathan translated this episode for Lucia and Evyenia, who have been preparing for weeks to take part in the school’s celebration. They may not have been ready to kill the Turkish hordes, but they were quite prepared to dance, sing, recite Greek poetry, and eat sweets—on the plaza in front of the church, with nearly the entire village in attendance. Here are a few images from today’s events.