A taste treat?

Morning run, before the worst of the heat

Curious about our lives in America, one of the old men at the cafeneion asked me, "Does it ever rain in your village [in the US] in the summer?" I laughed to myself and then replied, with a justifiable dose of exaggeration: "It rains all the time."

He nodded with what appeared to be some satisfaction, written across a chiseled, dried face. He asked, "Is the ocean warm enough for swimming in June, like here?" I could not contain my delight. "For some of us," I said.

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My friend Niko the poet, the intellectual, the honorary cultural beacon of this little village, recited one of his recent works over dinner. It is part of an unpublished collection on animals. This particular poem is about hedgehogs (σκαντζόχοιρος - skanzohiros), one of the "wild foods" that delighted him as a child--a special treat.

He and his father would walk to the almond groves at dusk and find these harmless creatures feasting on their favorite food. Father and son would swiftly gather a few hedgehogs, stuff them into a grain bag, and take them home for supper, preparing them as the gypsies do--killing, gutting, and then placing the hairy carcass into the kazani (a wood-fired furnace that heats the water in traditional homes). The hair would burn off. Only then could this delicacy be properly skinned and cooked.

"It is the best meat you've ever eaten," he proclaimed with total confidence.

It made me recall old Dick the trapper back home in Downeast Maine, who once told me and my wife, when he was in his early 90s: "I really have a hankering for some porcupine." One doesn't easily forget these kinds of comments. "It is the best meal from the Maine forest."

The gypsies know the hedgehog by its Roma name, a katzoura.

It remains one of those delicacies, like porcupine, that I never aspire to know in cooked form. They are far too cute.

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It's warming up

The car thermometer, when I reached the beach, read 40 degrees Celsius. I had to look up the conversion on the Internet. That converts to 104 degrees Fahrenheit--which is hot for 1130 in the morning.

The temperature differential between shore and surf is astounding, an utterly inviting and temporary relief from the intensity of the Aegean sun.

Bad case of the DTs

Our Cretan-American family has a proud and distinguished history of fighting fascism in all its forms.

When mainland Greece fell to the advancing German blitzkrieg in 1941, the people of the island of Crete, aided by the retreating remnants of ANZAC troops (Australia, New Zealand, and the Commonweath Countries, particularly England) fought one of the greatest defensive battles in the history of modern warfare. This underwhelming allied force nearly repelled a vastly superior German force, which had all of the obvious advantages--larger numbers, mechanized forces, a naval fleet, and the fearsome Luftwaffe in the air. The Battle of Crete marked a turning point in the war, in that the Germans never again attempted an airborne or glider attack during the Second World War. The cream of the German command (the Bavarian paratroopers) were decimated by defenders holding single-shot rifles, birding guns, and pitchforks. Priests, nuns, children--everyone took part in defending the patrida.

Once Crete fell, the reprisals against the civilian population was legendary in its brutality.

In one night in 1942, six members of the Aretakis family (my great uncles and a few of their sons) were summarily executed, in the mountain village of Kamboi, in the mountains above the medieval city of Hania. They were shot in the town square, against the little chapel that still stands. A plaque marks this atrocity. There crime was helping the resistance fighters then living on the snowy peaks of Mount Pachnes (elev. 8200 feet). This incident is briefly mentioned The Cretan Runner by George Psychoundakis, who was the "runner" for Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor, the legencary British sabateur/resistance leader.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, my father and his five brothers--five combat Marines in the Pacific, one infantryman in Patton's army in Europe--played their own role in defending democracy. In fact, we are told that the five brothers in the Pacific represent a US Marine Corps distinction that is unsurpassed--five brothers serving in combat theater simultaneously. All of them survived, including my Uncle Aristomenes (Artie), who turned 17 during the epic battle of Iwo Jima.

I honor the courage, the sacrifice, and the fortitude of my father on the eve of Father's Day. I honor all those who have served their country with dignity. At the same time, for those who didn't or haven't served--particularly in more recent conflicts, like the war in Vietnam--and then bizarrely (if not hypocritally) go out of their way to denigrate and degrade those who have served...these people (or rather, this particular draft-dogdger) receives nothing but my deepest enmity and spite. There is indeed a "special place in hell" forhim/them. To quote a certain presidential candidate who won the popular vote in 2016.

History does indeed have a way of repeating itself. And history tells us that the victims rarely see what's coming, which in hindsight can seem so obvious.

Fast forward almost 80 years. There is an undeniable march of fascism (perhaps it goes by another name: nationalism) today. Sadly, those ignorant of history, or those who are locked in complacency and politically motivated denial, don't see it coming: here in Europe and particularly in the United States. To quote a certain non-leader: It is so sad.

So in 2019 I have a bad case of the DTs, but true to my family's legacy I am poised to do my part to fight fascism, which has been bred and fostered shamelessly since 2016.

Our democracy and the sacrifices of my family are too important to turn away in fear.

See you at the polls in 2020. May those DTs vanish forever.

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From one bit of pontification to another...

The Other

All peoples the world over have a propensity for stereotyping "the Other"--people of different race, culture, language, religion, cultural heritage, sexual orientation.

Historically, in America, such unfortunates have been (for the most part) African Americans and Mexicans, although in recent years the Other has come to include Central Americans, people of color, gays and lesbians, and Muslims. Am I missing anyone?

Here in Greece, the Other are the Albanians--the descendants of the classical world's Illyrians, a fierce knife-wielding people of the North.

But like all stereotypes, this one too is deeply flawed, specious, and plain wrong. Add to this complaint is the nuanced fact that many of the Albanians are actually ethnically Greek, Greek-speaking, Orthodox Christian, or some combination of all of this. (There are also Muslim Albanians, clearly not Greek, some of them blue-eyed and blonde-haired; and also non-religious Albanians.)

Some Greeks pity the Albanians for their poverty; others are quite harsh in their opinions. Albanians, like the Greeks, were the victims of a 400-year Turkokratia (Ottoman rule) and so they share this common history. Or they are themselves Greek, the descendants of those taken by the thousands as hostages to Albania, then a Stalinist regime, by the defeated communists at the end of the Greek Civil War (1945-1949).

The Albanians are often blamed for many of Greece's woes--crime (mostly theft), assault, drug-dealing, prostitution rings. As economic migrants they "take away jobs from Greeks" (jobs Greeks don't want anyway). So the analogy with America's Mexican population is not so far-fetched.

Like stereotypes everywhere ("Jews have all the money"; "gypsies abduct babies") the reality is much different. Attitudes can often be unfair, or outright racist.

Over the past 40 years I have known many fine and decent people of Albanian heritage. Many have lived in Greece for generations--they look Greek, they sound Greek, they act Greek, some groups have been here since the early Middle Ages (compare the Mexicans of California) and are surely undeserving of such a broad paint brush. "Some of my best friends are Albanians" reeks of a patronizing and pandering tone--but what can I say? It's true, at least here in Messenia.

The Albanians are, by and large, the carriers of the ancient stone masonry tradition. Their work is masterful (and comes cheap)...like a Mexican gardener in America? Albanians, for the most part, restored my old house and have helped me in untold ways since 2009, when I first found this very special corner of the Peloponnese.

I am grateful for the friendships I have made with a wide range of people--Greeks, Europeans, and Albanians.

Climate change the world over

I saw my neighbor Yioryio this morning working his small vineyard, which is immediately adjacent to my driveway. I'm always a bit surprised that everyone in this village remembers my name, even after a year's absence. I make a special point of remembering their names too. Keeping a written directory of names is helpful in jogging my faulty memory each year. (Last names and mobile numbers come later.) The process usually begins with a written note on my go-every note pad: "Yioryio with the green Fiat tractor and the large moustache."

People everywhere talk about the weather and Messenia is no different. Only a very small handful of people--mostly living in Washington, DC, and enabled by the petroleum industry--are eager to defy the clear and overwhelming scientific evidence of climate change consensus. The world IS warming, you knuckleheads!

Yioryio told me: "I remember as a child growing up in the village when high temperatures in June were around 30 degrees [84 Fahrenheit] during the day and 18 degrees at night. Now we pass 38 degrees [100 degrees F.] during the day and it is insufferably hot at night. The olive trees, which sustain most people and are their livelihood, suffer from drought, disease, and pests. We are constantly spraying [not me] and watering. And then the fires start, because of someone's stupidity, and they are catastrophic."

Big, big, big snakes

In June the snakes are on the move and are often crushed by cars on the roadways. Yioyio and I examined a dead δεντρόγελλος (tree snake) on the road between our properties. Yioryio straightened it out with his bare hands--I nearly fainted--and produced a metric tape measure from his pocket. "About 2.3 meters [nearly 7 feet], maybe average size," he offered. It was as big around as my bicep, which doesn't say a whole lot.

Sensing my fear and loathing, he reassured me, "they're not poisonous, they eat mice and raid birds' nests for eggs. But watch out for the oχιά [vipers], they are very aggressive and can kill you." He looked down at my sandals. "And please wear boots when you walk in your field."

I am tempted to where boots on the beach now.

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Nightlife and wildlife

Last night, as I drove down the mountain to Finikounda at 7 p.m. (it is light until 10 p.m.), a jackal ran in front of my car. The African jackal, once nearly extinct in southeastern Europe, is now resurgent.

Our eyes met. He sauntered across the word, none too scared, heading to the edge of the road. but was clearly in no hurry to flee from humankind. He climbed a rock ledge and perched on the edge looking down at me from above. He only moved when I revved my car's little engine.

Like Washington County (Maine), my other home, southern Messenia is a mecca for wildlife, some of it endangered or quite rare: jackals, wild boar, pole cat, badger, eagles, several species of owl. There are also enormous toads, large terrapins, and the endangered loggerhead sea turtle (up to four feet long). This is also a birders' paradise, with migrating flocks from North Africa and the Russian Steppe.

The beach at 2 p.m.

I dash from my sunshade to the ocean's edge, like the just-hatched loggerhead turtles. I fear not the seagulls or the foxes--rather, I fear scorching my feet. It can happen in about 15 seconds.

I have already added swimming/beach shoes to my packing list for next year.