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Tearing Down the House
Realizing that there was a flaw in the sofa (plastering) of the house, with obvious voids and cracks, Jonathan inquired with several people how this could be: with the mason himself, with the “clerk of the works,” another master mason, the building yard owner, and a few nosey neighbors. Some suggested that insufficient asvesti (a goopy lime/gypsum mixture that is added to the slurry) was the problem; others suggested that sofa was applied over a painted surface, or that sea-sand rather than builders sand caused a problem of adhesion; or that it was too hot when it was applied; or that the sub-surface was not kept moist during the drying/curing. There is no clear answer and no offer of responsibility.
Whatever the case, something needed to be fixed but there was a bad case of “passing the euro.” In the end Jonathan made an executive decision, in consultation with the Albanian mason: tear down all four exterior walls and start over. It was a drastic decision, one that resulted in a cacophony of hissing and the clicking of tongues by a small circle of observers—but the decision was final.
This morning the master and his two Albanian laborers attacked the four walls with sledgehammers--which was far more effective than an alarm clock in stirring a slumbering daughter. By noon the old walls were gone and a new concrete sub-surface was applied. Tomorrow the final plastering will occur. And then a few days later the painting can commence...and, finally, the veranda roof can be built by Dimitri the carpenter.
The Village Panagiri
Today—12 July—was Finikounda’s panagiri, the village’s primary social-religious celebration. The main village church houses a special icon that hailed from the ancient monastic center of Mount Athos (Αγιον Ωρον or the Holy Mountain) in northern Greece. The icon of the Virgin and Christ Child is said to be miracle-working, and so the panagiri draws clergy, hierarchs, and pilgrims from throughout Greece. Also included are the Pylos town band, the Greek Special Forces (festooned in fatigues and toting assault rifles), the regional police, the local village dance troupe, a sprinkling of firefighters, and a curious throng of foreigners.
Following the Divine Liturgy, the bishop of Kalamata spoke on the church steps, followed by the bishop of Komotini, and then a procession circled the entire village, with many hundreds following the clergy—the icon is carried on a bier by smartly dressed town fathers and sundry dignitaries.
As with most panagiris the procession ends where it started, on the church steps, and a pickup truck appears with (not one but two!) whole roasted pigs, with heads on, a cleaver-wielding butcher surfaces, and kindly old ladies with large vats of wine offer their fare as sun is just rising. Everyone is in good spirits at 10 a.m., wishing one another Χρόνια Πολλα (Chronia Polla, “Many happy returns!”). It is a beautiful event that joins the village and its many visitors and foreign residents.
Jonathan and Lucia gather
themselves at their spitaki before
heading down the mountain for an evening in Finikounda. A few nights earlier they joined
a mixed group of Greeks and foreigners watching the quarterfinals of the FIFA
football championship. Germany annihilated hometown favorite Brazil in short
order. After the fourth goal was scored in just six minutes, the bar owner
proceded to place a black X through Brazil’s scoreboard—with 75 minutes of play
still on the clock.
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They have just passed the halfway
point of their time in Greece and a quiet dread—the thought of leaving their
Mediterranean home at the height of summer—lurks on the periphery. One month
passed too quickly and they fear that the next three weeks may well pass in a
blink of the eye. There are a multitude of house tasks to complete, friends to
visit, and a rich world of Messinia to explore.For Jonathan, there is a house to finish. And so they live in the today, or
at least that is the aspiration.
A few mornings ago, while Lucia slept
in the “princess loft,” Jonathan traveled to nearby Methoni (medieval Methon,
site of an enormous castle—and a rather decent super market) for sundry
supplies: construction materials, hardware, foodstuffs, etc. Stopping back at
the Finikounda building supply yard, he encountered another bit of the standard
Messinian hospitality: “Would you have a glass of wine with me? the yard owner
asked, at 9:45 a.m., as his Pakistani worker left a pan of frying potatoes to
load bags of cement into Jonathan’s beleaguered and diminuitive Fiat Panda,
which sank to new lows under the weight. A similar showing of local hospitality
happened just a half hour earlier in the village proper, when a group of
fisherman called him over to examine their morning catch—including a monstrous
fish of about 25 kilos that was hanging on a hook, flapping helplessly over the
cafeneion table, blood and scales falling on those below. They inquired about daughter/father, the work on the house,
their plans for the future. Coffee and cookies were a nice preface to a glass
of wine (respectfully deferred) and a helping of fried potatoes. All before 10
a.m.
Jonathan mentioned the recent
hurricane that clipped eastern Maine, causing much havoc and destruction to
trees and garden. One of the fisherman asked quissically: “Why do you Americans
insist on building houses of wood?
Haven’t you learned enough lessons from all those storms and floods and fires? Don’t
they have cement in your country?” A fair answer, for sure, and there was no
reasonable or ready answer.
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The heats builds as mid-July
approaches. Any physical activity (on the order of mixing cement or digging
holes for tree plantings) must, by necessity, occur well before noon lest heat
stroke strike one down. Staying hydrated—preferably with water rather than
morning beer, wine, or the industrial-strength floor cleaner called tsipoura—is essential.
A swim in the ocean provides an
instant, glorious antidote for the heat. After 2 p.m. it is impossible to walk
more than a few steps on the beach sand without sandals. Forays away from the
surf while barefoot can be dangerous affairs.
With the rising heat, the
cacophony of cicadas becomes almost deafening. With all of this summer heat,
the afternoon siesta is an essential part of life, the only way to survive well
into the evening. An hour or two in the afternoon supplements the two or three hours at night.
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The medieval name for the village
of Akritohori is Grizi, a name given
by the Venetians who occupied this peninsula. During the Middle Ages, nearby
Methoni was a stopover point for the Crusaders heading east toward the Holy
Lands. It survived in Venetian (and then Turkish, and then Venetian, and then
Greek) hands until its final, catastrophic sacking in the late Middle Ages. The
men were executed, the women and children sold into slavery. The usual routine,
with not much room for pleasantries.
A man from Grizi is known as a Grizaios, a woman is a Grizaia.
Jonathan and Lucia are—in the
first-person plural sense—Grizaia. And
proud of it!
Walk Softly, Carry a Big Stick
As Lucia and Jonathan enjoyed
some beverages on the waterfront, an “emergency” call was received by a friend
of a friend of a cousin—who then called Jonathan at the sweet shop on the waterfront. The warning: There are four
gypsies in a pickup truck parked behind your little house, stealthy folk who
accessed a hidden spot through a nieghbors olive orchard. With about 1,000
euros worth of recently delivered lumber stacked behind the house, the object
of this visit seemed fairly clear. People are people everywhere—good and bad,
honest and dishonest. The gypsies in Greece, particularly those in the vicinity
of Kalamata, have a reputation for being seasoned opportunists—often absconding
with building materials, particularly steel of any kind that might be left
unattended. Thievery is a way of life, a cultural institution for many--but certainly, not all--Roma. There a the local equivalent in Downeast Maine.
Jonathan turned down the kind offers of
help from an entire table of friends—Greek, Dutch, and British—choosing to
fight his own battles. Perhaps the inspiration was borne of a re-reading of
Homer’s Odyssey, truly the “greatest
story ever told,” which seemed to have lodged into his subconscious these last
few weeks. As he raced up the mountain in his rented Fiat, he uttered the great
hero Odysseus’s clever words as he faced down the Cyclops in the monster’s cave:
“My name is Nobody.” The reference provided just that modicum of reckless courage.
Conveniently, an olive wood pick ax handle was lying in the back seat--but not sharpened to a point, as was the Homeric hero's weapon.
His
sudden presence, with a plume of dust and exiting the car with the heavy wooden club
in hand, had the desired effect. “Is there something you need here?” he asked
rhetorically in Greek. The visitors shook their heads in unison and beat a
hasty retreat.
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Rave on the Beach
Last night there was a “rave” on
the isolated beach called Marathi. Is is accessible only by boat or by
four-wheel-drive vehicle. Jonathan and Lucia considered attending but chose
instead to stay in the village, which was just as well. Their friends said the
event drew over two thousand party-goers and it lasted until dawn’s first
light.
The Koumbaroi Are Coming!
A koumbaros (pl. koumbaroi)
is the man or woman (or both) who either marries a couple or baptizes their
child. Jonathan and Ann have very special and dear friends who are their koumbaroi, having married them on the
island of Spetses in 1992. One’s koumbaroi
are spiritual brethren in Greek culture, linked by such religious ceremonies.
Their koumbaroi, who will join them for a week in Messinia, have a
daughter who is Lucia’s age. Jonathan explained that in Greek culture there is
a spiritual linkage—she and her friend are spiritual “sisters” owing to this
special connection among the parents.
They are excited to share their
special life with them during their visit.
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