Our little mountain village is
called Akritohori, but it also goes by its Turkish name: Grizi. (The Turks
occupied the Peloponnese for hundreds of years, until the late 1820s, when
they were driven out by the Greek Revolutionaries and their Philhellene friends, mostly famously Lord Byron). People who live in “Grizi” are called “Griziotes.” At the
village cafeneion, Jonathan was informed by the old men that he too could call
himself a Grizioti.
Last night, as Jonathan prepared
to leave Finikounda, the fishing village/tourist destination down the mountain by the sea, for what
would have been an early night (i.e., just after midnight) he crossed paths
with a group of Dutch friends, one thing led to another, and he found himself
engaged in lively conversation until 3 a.m. Alas, another night of minimal
sleep. Praise the afternoon siesta!
In order to capture the special
beauty of this place—and remain nominally productive—one needs to wake early,
before the intense summer sun renders humans nearly incapacitated by the
intense and unrelenting heat. So, in that spirit, he was off over the mountain
at 8 a.m., heading toward the market town of Horokopeio in order to complete a
minor mission: find more trees to plant. Unsatisfied with the offerings there,
he headed along the coastal road, in the direction of Kalamata, stopping at the
large plant center in Neo Koroni. It is run by an acquaintance named Taki, a
knowledgeable and helpful green thumb. In short order, Jonathan was following
the winding agricultural roads back to Akritohori with five new trees stuffed into the back seat: two more kalamon (a table olive, known to
Americans as the Kalamata olive), another avocado tree, and several more
stately cypress trees. This is not the time of year to plant anything, but good friends will pick up
with the irrigation after his departure, and like last year's plantings, this year's will soon thrive.
The property now boasts eight olive trees (six varieties, plus two wild olives—slowly tamed to produce
fruit), two lemon and two orange trees, a pomegranate and a fig tree (both with
fruit), a bay tree, and two avocados. In addition, the roadside is now lined
with tall, stately cypress trees, interspersed with white- and crimson-blooming
oleanders, several rose bushes, and an aromatic assortment of ornamentals:
lavender, sage, mint, rosemary, and of course—this being Greece—a host of
unidentifiable wildflowers. On the fringes, still, there is the hopeless tangle of thorny
artichokes and unknown vegetation—mostly confined to far end of the property.Each day, with scythe in hand, the wild is tamed. Jonathan’s assumption is that that is the place where the two-meter-long snakes
live. For this reason, those tall, leather boots from Maine—utterly counterintuitive
in the Greek summer—are welcome footwear!
In short, this little κτήμα (ktima, property) is a microcosmic Eden
of fruit and flowers, with room left for more (a palm tree, a banana tree?) and
a vegetable garden to tend during his dotage.
----
Home by 10 a.m., the sun already
becoming too strong for outside work, he nevertheless managed to dig five holes
for early evening planting. The ground is baked hard and it required
significant effort to wield a long-handled καζμά (kazma,
pick-ax) in order to break the hardpan.
The reward was several hours on
the big beach—tan lines be gone! his skin now resembles a pair of well-worn
workboots in both color and temperament—a simple lunch of pitas, cheese, tzatziki, and tomatoes with kind friends
in Loutsa, the beach nearest the house, and then the glories of an afternoon
siesta.
----
Jonathan wastes no time in
introducing himself to every farmer who tends his nearby fields. Everyone is so
friendly and welcoming, but there is one “liability” and it is part and parcel
of the intense hospitality that still lives in the rural Peloponnese. Shortly after each new introduction, the farmer returns with several liters of olive oil, a
few bottles of wine, a basket of lemons and oranges, or a combination of all of
these. Last year our neighbor Dimitri dropped off two or three enormous
watermelons every day.
Alas, had he a few pints of wild
Maine blueberries, he would reciprocate the generosity in a heartbeat.
----
The Light
For thousands of years, poets
have waxed on the virtue of the Mediterranean light. The light in Greece (until
10 p.m. in June) is indescribably beautiful, particularly in the late afternoon
and early evening, as the pastels of sky, sea, and orchard witness a gradual
transmutation with every passing minute, contrasts that are both seductive and
heart-warming.
This part of Greece, southwestern
Messinia--the southernmost tip of mainland Greece--is said to enjoy 320 days of sunlight every year (roughly the number
of rainy, foggy days in the boreal rainforests of Downeast Maine), and often it
does not rain here at all—not once—from late May until late September. The
ocean reaches its apex of warmth in late October, and even the squimish swim
until early December. Jonathan has several friends who swim every month of the
year—because they are brave, or determined, or—like him—simply can’t stay out
of the translucent sea.
It is no small gift to live in
two of the world’s most beautiful places—the rocky coast of rural Maine, and
the rocky (here sandy) coast of rural Greece. But there are obvious contrasts,
and they are not lost on him.
Here there is a rich, unique, and
dynamic culture: foodways, agricultural rhythms tied to a spiritual life,
traditional dance, music, poetry, theater, storytelling, and an utterly
dizzying ethos of hospitality. In short, “folkways” for which Downeast Maine is
largely (but, surely, not entirely) devoid—this is sad, but true. Friends back home might
disagree with this appraisal, find it unfair, arrogant, or even a bit mean-spirited.
But that is not the intent. It is merely an observation based on close
inspection and years of living in both places. Jonathan would never in a
thousand years wish away his Downeast home—his dear friends there, the
“culture,” the “folkways,” the very real expression of hospitality, even if
these are few and far between.
------
Last night Jonathan and Chris, an
English friend, drove to the nearby mountain village of Chrysokelaria for
dinner at a traditional taverna. “Traditional” is one of those words that gets
thrown around loosely, but this place is the Greece of sixty years ago. There
are no foreign residents but there is the same welcoming spirit that one finds
throughout the rural Peloponnese. The village is especially famous for its own pangiri (celebration) in late August. Chrysokelaria is a maze of narrow, winding streets, loose goats, laughing children, and
church bells.
From the top of the village, the
broad expanse of a vibrant village is evident, and the undulating hills slope
down to the Bay of Messene, beyond which one might be excused a gasp or two at the prominent edific of Mount
Taygetos, which, at over 8,000 elevation and still snow-capped, looks down on Sparta
further to the east.
----
Jonathan’s pathological fear of
snakes was reinforced five minutes ago. He opened a chest of drawers in order
to find a map, and an enormous green lizard jumped out—then jumped back inside,
cowering amid the maps and papers there. How did he find his way into this
confined space? Jonathan ought ot feel very pleased to know that a bug-eating
creature has taken residence in the house, but he recalled the story of an
English friend, John, who opened his dresser early this spring and found a
large, poisonous viper (called an οχιά,
ochia) living amid his pullovers. Now
there is a deep paranoia invading this little house.
Your correspondent calmly carried
the entire, full bookcase outside into the field and opened every drawer. In
short order, Mr. Lizard was off and running—but then, more alarmingly so was a
scorpion. Jonathan had stuck his hand inside that very cabinet a dozen times in
the past week. He might have found himself at the clinic in Pylos with a
swollen arm.
Are there more lizards, geckos, scorpions or--heaven forbit--snake in this little house? There is some satisfaction/security in living in the loft, up a steep ladder. Nevertheless, the pint-sized Volkwagon is looking more like a bedroom!
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