27–29 March 2009
Friday–Sunday

Today is yiayia’s (the kids’ Greek-American grandmother) birthday. We feel a bit remiss and very sorry not to be there to give her five individualized hugs. Na exastostiseis, yiayia! (“may you be one hundred”)—the usual wish, regardless of one’s age.

Goin’ Mobile

We “hired a car” (or in Americanese: “rented a car”) for the next month, a bright red Fiat Punto hatchback, which is large enough to accommodate two adults and three sardelles (sardines). Our little buggy will allow us to explore many of the small mountain villages, among other sites, which are beyond the reach of bicycle, bus, or running path.

In the afternoon, following the Evangelismos celebration at the village church, we tried out our new wheels by driving to the nearby hillside village of Evangelismos, which was an appropriate choice given the holiday of the same name. We parked and walked some back streets and met an elderly gentleman and asked him how we could find the only cafeneion. “My name is Thanasi. Let me take you there.” We had enough time for a few cool drinks and to engage the owner, a young man named Fotis, in some lively conversation. The weather is one of those universal topics, so we complained about all the rain. “In my forty-five years in this village, I have never seen so much rain. Last winter it rained five times. Last summer, we had no water in the village for several days. We are all farmers here, so the rain is a wonderful thing for us.”

We had the requisite conversation about who we are and why we’re here. Fotis introduced himself in Greek to the children, asked their names and their ages—and the parents were gratified that their offspring could reply in understandable Greek. Like everyone else we have met, he was pleased that the children are learning Greek. When it was time to pay he refused our money. “This is your first visit to our village, so it is our chance to treat you.” We thanked him for his hospitality and promised to return again.

Just after returning to Finikounda, we joined our landlady and her family for lunch upstairs. It was the traditional Lenten lunch for Wednesdays: fried bakalarios (cod fish) with skordalia (garlic dip), taramosalata (fish roe dip) boiled potatoes and squash, tomato and lettuce salad, local olives (from their groves) and cheese, and crusty village bread—and a modest taste of the local wine. Our landlady Irini, her husband, Yiorgo, and their late-twenties children, Panayioti and Panayiota (the former nicknamed Takis—in order to avoid the obvious confusion) are the human faces of traditional village kindness, generosity, and filoxenia (“friends of foreigners”). We had a chance to tell them more about our lives and dreams—for Jonathan, a minor obsession that includes fixing an old stone house in Greece, possibly in his patrida (Crete) or even in this area, which we have come to call home. “Yiota, be sure to show him the land near Loutsa beach.” Yiorgo’s instruction was titillating, to say the least.

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After Thursday morning at their respective desks, Jonathan and Manny set off in the Fiat for points unknown: a map in hand and thirty liters of gas in the tank. The two took a winding road from Finikounda to nearby Grizókambos, a collection of houses and agricultural plots tucked into a fold of mountains; then climbed a narrow switchback mountain road scattered with rock debris to the village of Kaplani, where they were told one could find an abandoned monastery, several hundred years old, located off a beaten track. An old women tending to a flock of goats offered uncertain directions (something like: “when you get to the fork in the road, take it”).

They found a beaten track alright—but it was clearly the wrong beaten track. It did, nevertheless, lead to a chapel, literally in the middle of nowhere, a crumbling structure dedicated to the Koimisis (Falling Asleep) of the Virgin Mary. It was not our goal, but it would do. The door was open so the two intrepid seekers went inside for a few minutes.

Manny offered his father instructions on how to drive on steep mountain roads with hairpin turns that lack guardrails—only a thirteen-year-old boy could be this well informed. The two could not help but notice a plethora of those little shrines that mark “close calls” in driving history—or worse: ones established by the surviving relatives of car wrecks. Before passing again through Kaplani, two birds caught their attention. Jonathan pulled over and stopped the car, and the two emerged with cameras in hand. As best as they could determine, these were curious variations on Downeast Maine woodcocks, far off course, and a bit unique: with white patches on their wings and large crested plumes on their heads—extraordinarily beautiful creatures unwilling to be photographed from any distance.

Father and son set off in pursuit of these shy birds through an overgrown olive grove awash in springtime color. Jonathan was especially intrigued by several mortarless stone structures, obvious outbuildings for livestock. This “remote” region was a mere twenty minutes from our doorstep, and according to the map there are hundreds of such villages in either direction.

We are relishing the prospect of further exploration in the days and weeks to come.

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This morning Jonathan was able to fax relevant documents to our lawyer-friend Akis in Athens. He is expecting to receive a call from the woman at the Greek Consulate in Boston, with whom Jonathan spoke, on Tuesday. They will discuss the next step our family can take to extend our visa. Our fingers are crossed!

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Palaio Kastro (Pylos), Voïdhokalia, and Nestor’s Cave

Finikounda’s demotiko school is vying for the “best view” of any school—at least that’s our opinion. We picked up the girls from school at noon, a bright blue day with barely any wind, and the five of us set off in the little red Fiat for Pylos, about 20 km west of Finikounda. Nearly a month has passed since our last visit there—our ill-fated excursion to the police station. Our plan was to enjoy a quick lunch and then set off for a hike at the Paliao (Old) Castle just beyond Pylos.



Located on the northern rim of Navarino Bay—site of two famous naval engagements, one in antiquity (during the Peloponnesian War, between Athens and Sparta) and the other in 1827, during the Greek War of Independence—this is a protected area of sand dunes that features one of the world’s largest natural harbors, called Voïdhokalia, and the adjoining lagoon. This conservation area was designated part of Europe’s NATURA 2000, an area especially worthy of preservation, the home of an endangered cameleon and one of Europe’s only nesting grounds for the loggerhead turtle.

It is a vast expanse of cliffs, caves, sand dunes, with an enormous citadel atop the acropolis—and the five of us had the entire area to ourselves. We did not see another soul, just a few cows (and several large bulls, alarmingly untethered) and a variety of bird life: snowy white cranes, skittering sea birds, insect life…and those invisible snakes and scorpions—the latter entirely present in Jonathan’s mind.



After a false start that led us toward Voïdhokalia rather than toward Nestor’s Cave (hardly an unpleasant diversion but a source of short-lived sibling dissention: “Go this way!” “No, go that way!”) we took the more traveled south path to the summit of the citadel, known as the Old Castle. The “new castle,” which we visited several weeks earlier in Pylos, was constructed in 1572. “Old” and “new” are relative terms in Greece.

Pylos’ northern castle and ancient acropolis stands on a long, steep, cliffside ridge, with a terrific panoramic view of the coast in both directions. Rising along a steep path from the south, and with Lucia in the lead, the castle appeared high overhead—a forbidding presence for any would-be conquerors. Or for a family of five at 4 p.m. present-day Crusaders. Mother and father were especially cognizant of the distance we would be covering, the receding daylight, and the potential for mutiny at any moment.



Lucia was the first through the arched gate; Manny and Jonathan were in hot pursuit; Ann and Nia were gasping at the view straight down, the cobalt waves crashing into the cliffsides and the plumes of white spray.

The magnitude of the ancient castle was placed into a strange poetic relief by the plethora of tiny, colorful wildflowers. The juxtaposition of enormity and steely magnitude with microscopic detail and panoramic color is difficult to describe. The following photos show the approach to the acropolis and our hike through the maze of undergrowth within.

Halfway through the castle and looking back, whence we had come, reminded us of several mountain hikes back home in Maine’s forever-wild Baxter State Park—the sense of perspective, of distances traveled, and what lay ahead.

We shredded our bare legs on overgrown nettles and thorns and worked our way to the north end of the acropolis. Imaginary (and not so imaginary) snakes slithered across the barely visible path. In a fleeting moment of clarity Jonathan recalled the way down as Voïdhokalia, the large natural harbor, came into view. He triangulated the general direction of the cave.

According to most learned authorities, this was the harbor that served King Nestor’s ancient “sandy Pylos,” about which Homer wrote. The ancient Mycenaean city is located some 8 kilometers north of the modern town. It did not take a harbormaster to realize the stategic and practical value of this safe anchorage.



We began a difficult descent, the sun now below the oceanside ramparts, hoping that we would find Nestor’s Cave, which we had missed in our original ascent from the north. No one, especially not the children, was disappointed.


After several hundred meters descending the rock face—a slippery and at times trecherous path, owing to our fatigue and the dying light—the large opening of the cave came into view. There was a collective gasp from the children. Manny, who only a few hours before, assumed that this cave would be “puny,” was in mild disbelief. Without the benefit of a flashlight (we brought one specifically for this purpose but had managed to leave it in the car—now a bug-sized red dot below the cliff) we entered the cave far enough until all natural light was extinguished. “Hey, my cell phone has a flash light!” Manny chirped. We proceeded a few more yards until father’s comments about bats frightened the girls into an early retreat.

We returned to the car at dusk, spending a few moments on the beach watching the cranes and sea birds, and then drove back toward Pylos in the dying light, stopping for groceries and snacks before heading back to Finikounda.

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Trip to Koroni

The third of the three great Venetian citadels is in Koroni, lying east over the mountain from Finikounda. It was our Saturday excursion.

The castle at Koroni has been described as “domestic” when compared to its counterparts in Methoni and Pylos. It is one of the few ancient citadels in Greece in which townsfolk still live within its walls. Most of Koroni town lies outside the castle, however, and we started our day along the waterfront, where the view east across the Messenian Gulf to the Peloponnese’s middle peninsula—a harsh, bare place known as the Mani—is made most spectacular by the imposing, snow-covered range of Mount Taygetos, beyond which lies modern and ancient Sparta, and the Byzantine city of Mistras. These will be visited in another excursion.

We snacked on some fresh bakery items and watched a fisherman beat octopus against the breakwater—a process that tenderizes this delicacy, which is best consumed (grilled, minced, and served cold with olive oil and vinegar) following one’s afternoon siesta, with the benefit of a glass of ouzo.

Jonathan asked the man how many times he throws it against the rocks. “Eighty or one hundred times, depending.” “Depending on what?” Jonathan asked earnestly. “Depending on how tired I am.” It seemed a most reasonable answer.

We walked through the narrow back streets of Koroni and passed through the arched entrance of the Venetian castle.

A sign announced that the European Union had earmarked 600,000 euros for restoration of the castle, and the presence of scaffolding confirmed the proclamation.

We entered the first of three gates of an Orthodox Christian nunnery. To the right is a third-century Christian chapel with bapistry, built on the site of an ancient, pre-Christian sanctuary.

The nunnery is called Timíou Prodhrómou—and it is not just any monastery, but one run by the Old Calendarists or Palaio Metroloyites. Without belaboring (or misrepresenting) the “schism” within Orthodoxy, let us simply say that the Old Calendarists in Greece (who follow the Gregorian Calendar, as do the Russians and other Slavic Orthodox churches) have been persecuted, overtly in the 1920s and 1950s, and more subtlely in recent years, by the “official church” (the so-called New Calendarists) who have the power of the state behind them. Each considers the other “heretics” and the split remains highly contentious to this day. This brief background is necessary to understand the nearly one-hundred-year history of Timíou Prodhrómou.

The nunnery is under the tutelage of an Old Calendar monastery located near Kalamata, and on this day several young monks were present—there to assist the nuns in the day-to-day operation of the nunnery, maintaining the flower-strewn interior, the gardens, and assist with tours. The nunnery, as such, has been reduced to no more than five or six elderly sisters.

We met Pater (Father) Athanasios, a young Toronto-born Greek with parents from Kalamata. Athanasios gave us a first-rate tour of the monastery—and a minor lecture on the persectution of Old Calendarists generally and this order specifically in the modern era. Brother Athanasios was kind, gracious, and more than willing to answer our questions.

The monastery was founded in the early twentieth century by Father Theodoris, a monk from nearby Kalamata whose relics (skull and bones and vestments) are displayed in a small box, where they are venerated in the katholikon (central chapel). (We entered the chapel and, following the lead of our guide, crossed ourselves and kissed the skull—Lucia looked slightly faint and her father suggested that she kiss the wood box top.) The persecution of Father Theodoris and his followers occurred from the outset and was (according to Brother Athanasios) particularly brutal.

The police would cut off the beards of the brothers, shave their heads, beat them, and throw them in jail. As a result the monastery, a citadel within a citadel, developed a series of underground secret passageways—from Theodoris’ cell, a matchbox-sized closet, to the krufa skoleio (secret school) to the back of the altar—from which he and his followers could elude the police and other authorities during their periodic raids.

Brother Theodoris told us several stories of Theodoris’s close escapes. Once, in the early 1930s, a detachment of police officers came from Kalamata, led by their chief. The monks, who were forewarned, locked the gates and the officer ordered his men to scale the walls. The men refused. In a show of bravado the police chief reportedly said, “then I will do it myself.” According to Athanasios, as he scaled the walls, nearly reaching the top of the bastion, an invisible hand reached from behind and threw him to the ground. Quite shaken, he gathered his men and refused to return ever again.

More recently, the Greek state has threatened the nuns with closure and seizure of their property. For many years, the nunnery displayed several ancient column capitals, which was a source of consternation for the authorities—two years ago, the antiquities department arrived with armed guards and tore them away from their displays, and ferried the antiquities off to a distant museum—where they would be “safe.”

During the Second World War, Koroni was occupied by German forces and the local population, their fields, crops, and livestock were ravished by the occupiers. The local population were constantly on the brink of starvation. According to several sources, the nuns fed more than half the city—baking bread late at night, and then crawling through the maze of secret tunnels to deliver it to the neediest families before sunrise, right under the noses of the Nazis. The mother superior and sisters were said to have gone for weeks without eating so as to save the people of Koroni.

The nuns’ cells—and that of Theodoris (located in the first compound), preserved in its original state—are impossibly tiny closets with three-foot-high doors.



Athanasios told us that the short doorways served two purposes: to remind monastics that “the ‘way’ was narrow” and to help them remain “forever humble.” Athanasios added: “And if you bonked your head, it reminded you that you perhaps you had forgotten about humility.”

The old Ottoman Turkish–era powder room and tower are the highest structure within the third walled compound. A narrow winding staircase leads to the top, a dizzing column of stone rising more than two-hundred-feet above the acropolis. Jonathan had warned Ann and the children about the inherent danger from memories of his trip here in 2007. “There are no rails, so please, no horsing around kids!” Brother Athanasios led us to the edge of a dizzying abyss and commented: “And for those monks who refused to pay attention, they got thrown off the edge.” The adults were certain that he was joking—the girls looked on (and then carefully over the edge) with less certainty.

The “secret schoolroom,” located in a small grotto under the monastery, was entered through a hobbit-sized door: entering the room required squatting and then turning sideways, a slightly acrobatic shuffle. Inside there was a row of wooden benches, a bookshelf, and a human skeleton hanging from a hook, holding a placard. In monasteries, generally, death is displayed to remind monastics of the fleeting nature of this life. In Greek, the deceased monk’s admonition said (a poor paraphrase): “I am no longer with you, but I continue to teach you with my presence. Someday you too will be like me—a rack of bones.” Each end of the room had a narrow hidden passageway behind a false wall: one led under the entire length of the monastery grounds, and the other out of the acropolis; and still another led to Father Theodoris’ matchbox-size cell. These were the escape hatches when the authorities would make their periodic raids. Athanasios added: “Many of the passageways have been closed because they are unsafe, but most are still passable—you just need to hold a candle and watch out for snakes and scorpions.”

Athanasios led us past three bells. “And here’s something interesting. During the occupation [c. 1942] an Italian ship ran aground near here. The people of Koroni rowed out to the foundering ship and stripped anything of value from it. The captain rowed to shore with one of the ship’s bells and met the mother superior on the beach. He asked: “Can you use this in your nunnery?” The bell has the name “Giovanni” (i.e., John) stamped clearly on it. The monastery is dedicated to Saint John the Baptist (Prodhomos)—which the mother superior viewed as no mere coincidence. The bell hangs in the church’s belfry today. (Note: Our Manny’s middle name is “Giovanni”!)

Athanasios took us back to the monastery’s small gift shop. One of the sisters is a masterful icon painter: “but we can never say so in front of her or she will stop painting. Hers is a gift from God and she is a very humble woman.” Her work, indeed, is inspired. She and the other nuns, all quite elderly, treated us to loukoumia (soft, chewy candies) and sent us on our way with a bag of gifts—books, pamphlets, crosses, komboskoinoi (knotted wool, made from the nunnery’s wool, and used in prayer like silent rosary beads), and other handmade items. Brother Athanasios invited us to visit his monastery in Kalamata.

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We continued our circuit from the acropolis above Koroni, visiting a nineteenth-century church called Panayia Elestrias, which houses a miraculous icon that was unearthed from a cave (located below the foundation walls of church, which was built to house it) with the assistance of a local woman, who discovered it after having a vision. This is a much-venerated icon in this part of Messenia.

One story tells of an attempt to steal the icon. The pirates who perpetrated this would-be theft did not escape—their ship was turned into stone and the wayward icon floated back safely to Koroni. In fact, there is an island far offshore, south of Schiza—only days before Jonathan spotted it with binoculars from the beach in Finikounda. He asked Ann: “I can’t tell if that is ship or or not. It doesn’t seem to be moving.” It was a very strange irony to have been told this story just a day later.

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We concluded our walk through Koroni town with a stop at the gelata shop—ice cream for everyone was a fitting conclusion to a special day. The blue Mediterrean spread before us, the snow-capped mountains of Taygetos beyond the next shoreline.



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On Saturday night, after the girls had gone to sleep, Jonathan and Ann slipped out for an evening at Elena’s restaurant, located on the knoll above the fishing harbor in Finikounda. We had been told that we might hear some local musicians playing. Manny promised to check in with momma and baba should there be a sibling crisis at home—and off we set at 11:30 p.m. for our first night alone in six weeks. The music was excellent, if slightly overamplified, and we enjoyed a fish meze (appetizer) by the taverna woodstove—shrimp, kalamari, and filets of white fish, along with some local elixir.

We returned by 1 a.m. to find Manny awake and fully in charge of the situation.

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Our Sunday Drive

The time changed (daylight savings time) on Saturday night, so the tolling of the church bells interrupted an already short night of sleep. We had told the children in no uncertain terms the night before that we would be attending the liturgy on Sunday, and we kept our word.

At 10 a.m. we set off in the “Lamborghini” (our Fiat Punto) for a tour of some more distant mountain villages. Our first stop was at an abandoned nunnery located a few miles off the main road (which isn’t very “main”), called Iera Moni Ayia Theodoron. Down a bumpy red gravel track and tucked into a fold of mountains, very far from any houses, we stumbled on this beautful abandoned monastery.

The place was so peaceful, a setting where time had clearly stopped--one of those hackneyed phrases that fits this place. Jonathan marveled at what it must have felt like, in such a remote location, being the among the last nuns, the order about to vanish. There were beehives all around the monastery grounds, some huge carob trees, and an overgrown olive orchard—all signs of a mortal wealth now vanished.



From the monastery we headed further northeast to two villages: the first called Harakopio, where we were unable to find a much-needed cafeneion, the second called Mistraki, a smaller jewel of stone houses, many of them of being restored by Germans—one of the ironies of the southern Peloponnese. Jonathan, ever the cynic at heart, mused at the prospect of Americans building vacation homes in Baghdad.

By the time we returned to Finikounda, we were ready for naps. But Nia was pining for a swim (although the water, according to a local fisherman, is barely 10 degrees Celsius) and Manny and Lucia wanted to visit the Internet café.

So we compromised: Jonathan napped while everyone else set off for the village center.



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