Pig in a Pick-Up

Morning Run

I have been threatening to wake early, drive to the A.’s house, and run the loop through the valley, which is a bit remote but thankfully flat. Also, a large ridge to the east blocks the sun in the early morning, offering a modicum of relief from the morning sun.

Morning run through the valley

App;roaching the end of the valley

Fields of grape vineyard and olive orchards

Sweating it out in the bee yard

Going to bed at 2:30 or 3:00 a.m. isn’t so bad if I can sleep to 7:00 or so. And then having a short siesta in the late afternoon is the ticket to higher conciousness. But this morning, on the otherwise quiet main road that passes our house, there was a terrible mechanical racket at 6 a.m. A young woman heading down the mountain to Finikounda—obviously to some job or another—stopped in front of our house. Her vintage mixhanaki (scooter) had died precisely in front of our field, and she was turning over the kick start repeatedly. Like most, she coasts down the mountain to save petrol, but she engaged the transmission to slow her descent and likely ruined the transmission. I couldn’t endure much more of it, so I went outside. She was nearly in tears: “My father will kill me,” she predicted. Sometimes in rural Greece such pronouncements can be more than merely metaphorical. I tried to help her for a short while, offered my driveway as a place to park her bike. “No, I’m waiting here for my father.” I retreated back to the loft and attempted some more sleep. In the meantime, the father came. He yelled at her continuously for twenty minutes and then the two left. The bike still sits there, on the edge of the road.

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I drove to our friends’ house, parked my car, and set off for a twelve-kilometer run through the depths of the valley, with extra loops tagged on. On the return loop, I passed the tiny chapel called Aghio Yianni Rigani (St. John of the Oregano) and noticed that they were preparing for the annual panayiri. A panayiri (there is nearly one every day in some nearby village) is a celebration connected with a patron saint or an icon connected to a chapel or church, sometimes remote and inaccessible like this one. This particular chapel is opened once a year for the celebration. Knowing what I might miss, I dashed home, showered, and changed into halfway decent clothes.

The Pig in a Pickup---the Celebration of Saint John of the Oregano

I beat it back to the chapel, driving my long-suffering rental car over some desperately unmaintained gravel roads to the depths of the valley. A this point, the springs and shocks are reaching their useable life.

There are nothing but olive trees, grape vineyards, and enormous hawks patroling with their penetrating screetches. The service had just finished (I lit a candle inside as everyone pouring out of the claustrophic space) and the food and drink arrived: a whole roasted pig in a pickup truck; sanctified bread from the altar; a few plates of cut tomatoes and cucumbers; an old lady distributing beers; and an old man distributing wine. The entire celebration is paid for by the dimos (municipality), as are all of the panayiria, and there is no cost for the celebrants.

Porks, beer, and wine—at 8:30 a.m. Everyone offers the same greeting—chronia polla—“a long life!”

Another valley chapel, name unknown

Pig in a pick-up

St. John Rigani

Most folks remembered our family from 2009 and again in 2012. They know, too, that we are renovating an older, humble stone-brick house. Many folks inquire about Ann, Manny, Lucia, and Evyenia.

There is one woman in particular who is magical. I remember her from the Finikounda church in 2009, and she has not changed one iota. She exudes a kind of grace and beauty that one often finds among widows in a rural village. The truth is, I am just a little bit in love with her. She must be about 80 years old, but the extraordinary beauty of a twenty-year-old lies just beneath the surface. I don’t even know her name, nor does she know mine. As I was leaving she said, in broken English, which surprised me: “Please bring your wife and children next summer. They are special to you but we need them to celebrate with us.” I was felt so moved by this comment—after three hours of sleep and 12 kilometers of running, and several glasses of Kosta’s wine: “it is the best of all in Finikounda, without chemicals”—that I felt an enormous wave of emotion wash over me. “Yes, I promise you, next year they will be here.”

On the way home, I stopped at the building supply yard, which also serves as an olive oil factory. The storage vats hold thousands of liters of oil and look like a petroleum refinery.

Enormous olive oil storage tanks

Building supply and olive oil factory under one roof

 Before I could pay old Yianni, he said: “What can I treat you to? Please have a glass of wine with me. It is the best in Finikounda.” (The competition is fierce!) By now, it was 10:00 a.m. and the summer sun had risen over the ridge. The heat is punishing, the evening hum of cicadas has risen to a chorus of incessant, defeaning chirping.

Now it is 10:00 a.m. and I’m ready for a nap.