13–19 April 2009
Mon.-Sunday.
H Megali Evdomatha—Holy Week
This week marks the culmination of the Orthodox Lenten season, a period that recalls Christ’s Passion, Crucification, and Resurrection. The Easter season is a special time in Greece, a country that is—at least in theory—98 percent Orthodox.
The author writes “theory” because Orthodoxy, at least as an institution, has fallen on hard times in Greece. The irony is that Orthodox Christianity has grown or seen a resurgence worldwide, but here in Greece it has witnessed a decline: not simply in church attendance, but in respect. The monk we met last month at the nunnery in Koroni told us that it is the foreigners (residents and tourists) who most often visit their monastery, who demonstrate the proper decorum and respect owed a two-thousand-year-old sacred institution.
This observation aside, our family had planned long ago to make the most of our time in Greece by exploring our historical, cultural, linguistic—and religious—hertitage to its fullest. The latter has entailed regular attendence at Sunday liturgy, developing a personal relationship with Papa Yiorgi (the village priest), and visits to several historic monasteries and churches. Living a mere fifty meters from the church belltower, it is difficult not to know when services are being held. The four massive bells, when ringing, rattle the window panes of our house.
Manny and Jonathan drove up the mountain to the village of Lahanada at sunset on Monday. Papa Yiorgi had told the Finikounda congregation on Sunday that he would be holding Monday’s (aka Holy Tuesday) nymphios service there. A village of a mere one hundred souls, Lahanada clings to the hillside with a broad southwestern view of the open ocean, and the clear sillouhettes of Schiza and Sapienza islands in the purple light of dusk was extraordinary.
The village church, St. George (the same as our home parish in Bangor, Maine), is an ancient structure sited beside the village school—the latter now closed owing to the near total absence of village children. Lahanada, unlike many other depopulated villages, at least has the pleasure of an occasional visit by the neighboring town’s priest.
Despite St. George’s diminuitive stature, the spirit was large—and the church was full. There were three cantors and a multitude of beeswax candles blazed. After the service we were greeted individually by nearly every member of the parish, who seemed to know all about us. “So you’re the Cretan Americans whose daughters attend the demotiko school in Finikounda. Do you know that Lahanada is a “Cretan village”—founded in 1830s by our great-great grandparents, who fled Ottoman-occupied Crete for the sanctuary of the newly born Greek Republic?” Everyone in Messenia speaks of the region’s history as if it was the recent past. “And as Cretans, you are one of us—and are always welcome in our village.” Several of the village elders spoke of a “field trip” that they all took to Crete last year. One of the men joked: “We thought, after 170 years, it was time for us to go home for a visit! We all found our long-lost families in the village of Spili, near Hania. And since then, our people have come to visit us here.” For Jonathan and Manny it was an important lesson—about knowing who you are and whence you came.
-------------------
Jonathan attended several other of the week’s services. On Tuesday evening, after the service ended, Papa Yiorgi made a determined statement of principal. Owing to the reckless use of pyrotechnics (varelota)so near to the church—we now learn fireworks are a common tradition during Lent, and they reach their culmination on Saturday night’s Anastasi service—Papa Yiorgi threatened to leave Finikounda and do the balance of Holy Week services in Lahanada. There was a collective groan from the mostly elderly parishioners. “Either the villages or the police do something, or there will be no services in Finikounda. This has become dangerous for people trying to enter the church.” He walked behind the iconostatis and returned with Exhibit A, the charred remains of a large firecracker. “These will end Holy Week in Finikounda!”
-------------------
A Family Emergency—and an Early Departure
All plans are subject to change without notice.
Last week we learned that Jonathan’s mother, who complained of back pain soon after our departure in early February and was subsequently hospitalized with a disc fracture, has now been diagnosed with bone cancer. We are all very sad and very concerned. Yiayia, who has always prided herself on a spirit of personal independence and giving a helping hand to others, now needs a caregiver—or a series of caregivers. Jonathan’s siblings have gone the extra mile in helping their mother. And so has Ann’s mother. Now our turn is at hand.
Although we had planned to stay in Greece for upwards of six months, we will soon leave for America, after just three months. While we are disappointed, we know that it is the right thing to do—and we are not flinching.
Now we need to make the most of the next few weeks.
---------------
Tsapí
On Thursday afternoon we drove halfway toward Koroni and then turned toward the ocean and followed a five-kilometer asphalt lane that descended a series of hairpin turns to the small cove called Tsapí. Little more than a settlement, consisting of five houses and two tavernas, nestled in an isolated cove, Tsapí is another of the those jewels in the rough one finds in the southern Peloponnese—an isolated beach on a protected cove, a perfect place for an afternoon picnic and swim. 
Mon.-Sunday.
H Megali Evdomatha—Holy Week
This week marks the culmination of the Orthodox Lenten season, a period that recalls Christ’s Passion, Crucification, and Resurrection. The Easter season is a special time in Greece, a country that is—at least in theory—98 percent Orthodox.
The author writes “theory” because Orthodoxy, at least as an institution, has fallen on hard times in Greece. The irony is that Orthodox Christianity has grown or seen a resurgence worldwide, but here in Greece it has witnessed a decline: not simply in church attendance, but in respect. The monk we met last month at the nunnery in Koroni told us that it is the foreigners (residents and tourists) who most often visit their monastery, who demonstrate the proper decorum and respect owed a two-thousand-year-old sacred institution.
This observation aside, our family had planned long ago to make the most of our time in Greece by exploring our historical, cultural, linguistic—and religious—hertitage to its fullest. The latter has entailed regular attendence at Sunday liturgy, developing a personal relationship with Papa Yiorgi (the village priest), and visits to several historic monasteries and churches. Living a mere fifty meters from the church belltower, it is difficult not to know when services are being held. The four massive bells, when ringing, rattle the window panes of our house.
Manny and Jonathan drove up the mountain to the village of Lahanada at sunset on Monday. Papa Yiorgi had told the Finikounda congregation on Sunday that he would be holding Monday’s (aka Holy Tuesday) nymphios service there. A village of a mere one hundred souls, Lahanada clings to the hillside with a broad southwestern view of the open ocean, and the clear sillouhettes of Schiza and Sapienza islands in the purple light of dusk was extraordinary.
The village church, St. George (the same as our home parish in Bangor, Maine), is an ancient structure sited beside the village school—the latter now closed owing to the near total absence of village children. Lahanada, unlike many other depopulated villages, at least has the pleasure of an occasional visit by the neighboring town’s priest.
Despite St. George’s diminuitive stature, the spirit was large—and the church was full. There were three cantors and a multitude of beeswax candles blazed. After the service we were greeted individually by nearly every member of the parish, who seemed to know all about us. “So you’re the Cretan Americans whose daughters attend the demotiko school in Finikounda. Do you know that Lahanada is a “Cretan village”—founded in 1830s by our great-great grandparents, who fled Ottoman-occupied Crete for the sanctuary of the newly born Greek Republic?” Everyone in Messenia speaks of the region’s history as if it was the recent past. “And as Cretans, you are one of us—and are always welcome in our village.” Several of the village elders spoke of a “field trip” that they all took to Crete last year. One of the men joked: “We thought, after 170 years, it was time for us to go home for a visit! We all found our long-lost families in the village of Spili, near Hania. And since then, our people have come to visit us here.” For Jonathan and Manny it was an important lesson—about knowing who you are and whence you came.
-------------------
Jonathan attended several other of the week’s services. On Tuesday evening, after the service ended, Papa Yiorgi made a determined statement of principal. Owing to the reckless use of pyrotechnics (varelota)so near to the church—we now learn fireworks are a common tradition during Lent, and they reach their culmination on Saturday night’s Anastasi service—Papa Yiorgi threatened to leave Finikounda and do the balance of Holy Week services in Lahanada. There was a collective groan from the mostly elderly parishioners. “Either the villages or the police do something, or there will be no services in Finikounda. This has become dangerous for people trying to enter the church.” He walked behind the iconostatis and returned with Exhibit A, the charred remains of a large firecracker. “These will end Holy Week in Finikounda!”
-------------------
A Family Emergency—and an Early Departure
All plans are subject to change without notice.
Last week we learned that Jonathan’s mother, who complained of back pain soon after our departure in early February and was subsequently hospitalized with a disc fracture, has now been diagnosed with bone cancer. We are all very sad and very concerned. Yiayia, who has always prided herself on a spirit of personal independence and giving a helping hand to others, now needs a caregiver—or a series of caregivers. Jonathan’s siblings have gone the extra mile in helping their mother. And so has Ann’s mother. Now our turn is at hand.
Although we had planned to stay in Greece for upwards of six months, we will soon leave for America, after just three months. While we are disappointed, we know that it is the right thing to do—and we are not flinching.
Now we need to make the most of the next few weeks.
---------------
Tsapí
On Thursday afternoon we drove halfway toward Koroni and then turned toward the ocean and followed a five-kilometer asphalt lane that descended a series of hairpin turns to the small cove called Tsapí. Little more than a settlement, consisting of five houses and two tavernas, nestled in an isolated cove, Tsapí is another of the those jewels in the rough one finds in the southern Peloponnese—an isolated beach on a protected cove, a perfect place for an afternoon picnic and swim. 
Good Friday—H Megali Paraskevi
The church bells began tolling at 9 a.m. and shortly after two young girls appeared across the road from our house, holding baskets. They were staring at our patio with plaintive stares that young village girls can conjure with ease. After a few minutes Jonathan realized it was Veronica and Poppy, friends of our daughters from the demotiko school.
“Are you girls looking for Lucia and Evyenia?”
“We’re collecting flowers for the Epitaphios. Can they come with us?” The Epitaphios is the tomb of Christ, which is decorated with flowers and holds the symbolic body of the Crucified Christ. In the evening it will be carried through the village, followed by the priest, altar boys, and parishioners—those willing to dodge the gauntlet of firecrackers being thrown at them.
Lucia and Evyenia quickly dressed and joined their friends.
--------------------------
We were joined on Friday by our good friends from Athens: Thanasi and Koula and their daughter Dionysia (like Lucia, age 11); and later in the day by Aki and Mania and their daughter Lydia (age 1). Jonathan has known Thanasi and Aki since 1979, when he was a student in Athens, and both joined us for our wedding on the island of Spetses in 1992. Thanasi is our koumbaros—our best man. We are lucky to have such friends here in Greece.
The girls took Dionysia for a swim at Anemomilos beach, while her parents watched in total disbelief—most people in Greece wouldn’t think of swimming in the ocean before late June. 
We went our separate ways for a few hours of siesta time and then all of us (including Akis, Mania, and Lydia) met for a fish dinner at Elena’s restaurant above the village harbor. We sat outside and oriented our visiting friends to “our village”—pointing out the different villages on the hillsides, our favorite beaches and hikes, the homes of various friends—without even standing up from the table. The quality and color of the light at dusk in Greece, even in April, is unsurpassed: soft purples, pinks, and gentle blues. The swallows pirouetted around the harbor and darted in and out of the alleyways.
Epitaphios in Koroni
While Akis, Mania, and Lydia retired to their hotel, the others set off caravan style over the mountain for Koroni. Evyenia in particular was frightened by the random pyrotechnic displays in Finikounda, and our friend Dimitri the hasapiko (butcher) suggested that Koroni would be less anarchic and with fewer explosions during the Epitaphios services, known in English as the Lamentations—ancient hymns sung by the Orthodox faithful on Good Friday, which tells the story of Christ’s cruxification and death and foretells his resurrection.
The Epitaphios itself is a flower-strewn bier that contains a woven image of the crucified Christ—literally a tomb that is everywhere carried through the cities, towns, and villages of Greece, and is followed by parishioners, who carry yellow, beeswax candles. (On Saturday, during the Anastasi (Resurrection) service the candles are white and are lit in a darkend church by a single candle that emerges from the altar—the new light passed from person to person in a highly symbolic moment of solidarity and of victory of life over death.)
Crossing the mountains in the dark is extremely tricky business. Sections of the road are washed out and there are multiple hairpin turns that lack guardrails or even reflectors, and the drops are several hundred feet—and decidedly vertical. We managed to arrived unscathed in Koroni in total darkness. Within moments of arriving we heard loud explosions from nearly every direction. Evyenia clung to her mother: “Dimitri said that there would be no fireworks” she protested increduously.
We wound our way through the maze of Koroni’s cobbled streets to the main church by the waterfront. We could see the overflow crowd through the open doors of the church. Perhaps two hundred fifty people milled in the square in front of the church holding their beeswax candles. Jonathan and Thanasi attempted to muscle their way into the church in order to purchase candles for the children, only to be muscled to the margins by a small army of old women in black. We were clearly outnumbered and begged our retreat to the town square—where the service was booming from an array of hair-raising loudspeakers.
We asked some elderly gentlemen about our options. “Are there other, quieter churches in town?” Jonathan asked. The old men replied. “It is really wonderful. The three churches will each carry their Epitaphios, pass through the center of the castle, and then descend on Elestria Church. It will be like World War II all over again!” They were very excited by the prospects of ceaseless, ear-splitting explosions.
“What did they say, Baba?” Nia asked, a vision of innocence pasted on her face.
“They said it will be quieter up in the castle, honey.”
The eight of us set off in the half-lit village, climbing the narrow streets toward the Frankish castle, where we had visited the Old Calendar monastery just a few weeks before. It was eerily quiet in the castle, and the nunnery was a paragon of serenity amid the the explosions and deafening loudspeakers below. We entered the small chapel and greeted the nuns. Their Epitaphios had just returned to the sanctity of the monastery a short while earlier. The children lit candles and sat quietly inside this beautiful santuary while the adults planned their next move.
We set off just ahead of the three approaching Epitaphios biers, which were all due to arrive from different directions, led by priests, cantors, altar boys, hundreds of parishioners, and teams of explosives provocateurs with large satchels of incendiary devices. We walked through the cemetary in near total darkness, the stars overhead ablaze, the ocean crashing against the castle walls one hundred feet below us. We descended a steep set of winding stone stairs, and arrived at Elestria church moments before the first Epitaphios arrived—preceded by an endless barrage of explosions and a thick cloud of black smoke. A few police stood about smoking cigarettes nervously, looking off toward the ocean, their faces false visions of oblivion.
The safest place seemed to be inside the confines of the solid edifice of Elestrias church, so we retreated there with Evyenia. The other children, as well as the adults, were drawn to the approaching excitement, and poked their heads outside periodically to see the progress of the first Epitaphios.
We made a quick retreat after the arrival of the first Epitaphios, found our parked cars, and set off back across the mountain for Finikounda. We were safely in our house by 1 a.m., an early night.
Methoni—coffee in shadow of the castle
On Saturday morning we all met in Methoni, the larger town west of Finikounda, where Jonathan and Manny showed Thanasis and Akis
the castle ramparts, the bourtzi (pictured here) and our favorite cafeneion—with a tremendous view of the castle and Sapienza island. The women and girls met us for a leisurely cup of coffee.The Resurrection (Anastasi)…from a safe distance
We enjoyed our final Lenten meal—kalamari, salads, and other Lenten foods—before heading to the Anastasi service at the Finikounda church, located just a few meters from our house.
The children carried their Anastasi candles waiting until midnight to take the altar light as it was passed from parishioner to parishioner. We realized at 11:00 p.m. that we dare not run the gauntlet of fireworks and myriad incendiary devices being hurled at the church. So we celebrated the Resurrection, along with a hundred or so kindred souls, from a safe distance.
The sheer volume of explosions, with many rockets targeted at the bell tower, was nothing short of astounding. We could not imagine the agony of being inside this concrete and stone edifice. Literally thousands of large explosives ricocheted off every conceivable corner of the building—and all the while the magnified voices of the priest and cantors held their own.
And at midnight, the flame reached our candles, and we sang: Christos Anesti ek nekro…” Christ is Risen from the Dead, trampling death…”
Pascha—a celebration on the beach
We spent Easter day on the beach, invited by our friends Takis and Despina and Yianni, who run the “Thines” (literally: sand dune) campground. There were many guests: old and young, Greek and foreigner, new tourists and old transplants to Messenia. And, of course, our dear friends visiting from Athens. A whole goat and a whole lamb were cooked on spits, as was kokoretsi, an amalgamation of the entrails of goat/lamb—a culinary delight strictly forbidden under European Union (EU) law. Like so many laws that defy tradition—tradition always wins.
Jonathan played guitar, flute, and even even bouzouki with several musicians. There were copious amounts of wine, dancing, and several swims in the ocean. 
It was the ultimate celebration--a time for good cheer and well-wishing.
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