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| Coming home--the last kilometer |
In the last night on the island of Spetses, I joined my uncle Kyriakos, his wife Ritsa, and two of their friends for dinner at
Later in the evening I struck up
a conversation with a young Pakistani man, who works at my cousin’s restaurant.
His Greek was flawless, like that of many of the foreigners who have found
their way to Greek in recent years—Afghanis, Pakistantis, Iraqis, eastern
Europeans, and Africans. Near the hotel there is a clothing store run by a
Chinese couple, whose second language is Greek. There is a bizzare quality to
this: an American conversing in Greek with people from China.
The Pakistani man told me that he
left his homeland with a group of a dozen or so migrants, and the group paid a
guide $5000 and walked to
Greece—through the whole of Iran and Turkey, a journey that took three months.
This man left behind a wife and three young children whom he supports from afar
but has not seen in years. This stoic soul humanizes the refugee crisis that
circles the globe. Just like me, he is a father, who loves his children, a
husband who loves his wife. In short, he is a human being with a story.
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Before boarding the ferry I was
met by another uncle who treated me to a coffee. Sharing a coffee with a friend
or friends in Greece—please, never alone—is a kind of sacred ritual. Ελα να πιουμε ενα καφε (come on,
let’s have a coffee) is an invitation to a kind of deeper humanity, one largely
unfamiliar to North Americans. Obviously, it’s not about the coffe, it is the παρέα (the company) and the joys of
sitting. A coffee is never rushed. You will never ever find a waiter/server who
is poised for you to pay and leave. You can sip that coffee until the goats
come home.
I boarded the ferry, the Katerina Star, another ancient tub
plying the Aegean and billowing diesel exhaust. I remember this vessel from
forty years ago (it was ancient then) and was frankly astounded that it still
floated. Needless to say, she is a marvel of endurance, rust and all. At 2.50
euro passage (fifty cents less than the relic that brought me to Spetses), I could
have done worse—that would be riding on flotsam or jetsom.
Greece, a country of 10 million
souls, has the largest merchant marine fleet in the world. In fact, it is
larger than the next three largest combined. We are a seafaring nation and my
family, hailing from Crete and Spetses, is a part of that 3000-year history.
Somehow they keep these 1950s vintage vessels afloat. It all began with the
Victory ships, built in 1945 to bring surving Jews to Palestine. Greeks bought
these hastily constructed vessels and used them commercially for another 40 or
50 years after World War II. And a dynasty was built…upon rust!
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| The Minnow would be lost--a bargain at 2.50 |
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| Sea taxis cost 10 euros |
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The ride through the Peloponnese
The car ferry belched its way
across the Saronic Gulf, landing in the village of Kosta. I was delighted to
find my car where I had left it. With all four tires.
The eastern Peloponnese, where
the ferry landed, is known as the Argolid, a region made famous by the Bronze
Age (c. 2400 bce to 1200 bce) and Homer’s description of the
great palaces of Mycenae, Tiryns, Gortyns, and others. My apologies to real historians who might dispute my
datings and my narrative. I’m a bit rusty, like the ferry.
The Bronze Age civilization, the
stuff of the Trojan War and its heroes, collapsed with the Dorian invasion of
c. 1200 bce, just after the period
of the great battle of Troy, a history cloaked in mystery and some
archaeological/historical uncertainty. How could these massive places, with
their cyclopean walls (20 feet thick) and state-of-the-art technologies (being
swords, shields, and muscle) have fallen so quickly? Some historians assert it
was a combination of a mulitude from the north; crop failures; earthquakes; or
pure fatigue after 1000+ years of successful pillaging.
Still, 3000 years later, a very
strange Doric dialect is spoken in some areas, and place names themselves are
clearly not Greek. Vocabulary remnants remain.
There is a curious fatalism to
all this. The notions of fate itself (μοιρα) also persist. When the monastery’s abbess and I spoke of the
death of my sister, I uttered a typically Greek phrase: Η ζωη ειναι μικρή (life is short),
to which the abbess responded with the quintessential fate-inspired retort: “We
are lucky for that.”
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The ride through the Argolid,
both breathtaking and terrifying, is ripe with visual and auditory wonders,
like the miles of citrus groves, the medieval castles on impossibly high peaks,
the buzzing of cicadas from the pine forests (that haven’t been devastated by
fire or illegal construction).
The sun shone on my left side for
the entire ride. I drove with the windows down, not being a fan of
air-conditioning. By the time I reached Tripoli, the mid-point in my journey,
it felt like my left arm might burst into flames—today I am sunburned on one
side only. As I approached Kalamata, I could see the peaks of Taygetos (elev.
8000 feet) covered in snow, while the thermometer on my porch, when I arrived,
read 95 degrees in the shade, without a lick of humidity. And it’s not summer
yet.
I drove gingerly, trying not to
compete with the lunatics who are convinced they are Formula One racers. With
gasoline now over $8.00/gallon, steady driving encourages efficiency, which
translates into solvency for a budget traveler.
Frankly, people drive like
idiots—all of them (yes, including me). When someone approaches from behind in
their Audi A5 on the National Highway, cruising at at 90 miles mph, swerving
around my little buggy at the penultimate moment, I have to fight my road rage
instinct. (I couldn’t catch them even if I wanted to, but at least I can issue
the universal greeting from my window.) A fist fight is my go-to response—a sad
commentary on me—and it takes some focus to recall that this driving style is
not directed at me. It is “normal” driving.
Home sweet (tiny) home
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| Big enough for 5 very compatible people |
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| Or sleep outside |
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| The sanctuary |
The long drive from the eastern
Argolid to the southwestern tip of the Peloponnese yields a visual and
olfactory wonder—the wild flowers, the pungent aroma of wild thyme, miles and
miles of olive groves. It is the glory of this great country.
I can see our house from more
than a mile away as I wind the four-wheeled toaster oven down the mountainside.
I choose the most impossible approach because it the most stunning—a view of
dozens of miles out to sea, there is no land between here and Malta. It is just
about as far south as you can get in mainland Europe. An expanse of ocean and
then North Africa: Egypt and Libya.
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A lifetime aspiration was
consummated in 2013 with the purchase of a traditional village house within
walking distance of a non-touristic beach. In the six years since, this broken
hovel has been transformed into a lovely sanctuary tucked into the folds of an
olive grove. No neighbors, no noise, (almost) no property tax. Someday this
will belong to our kids (if they want it), but in the meantime, while I’m still
kicking, it is the Greek Retreat par excellence. But it sure isn’t a villa! It
is our tiny house in the Greek countryside.
My first observation is the
nicely mowed pasture, especially important for discouraging snakes and their
creppy crawly brethren: scorpions, toads, terrapins, bats, hedgehogs…and
jackals, once nearly extinct, now resurgent in recent years. They are close
cousin to the African jackal and they howl like Maine coyotes. It is a kind of
music to my ears. Their cries bring me to the darkness of my porch at night.
Like the coyotes Downeast, there presence is oddly comforting to me.
Still we are without electricity
(by design—my son Manny will help me install a photovoltaic system next summer,
if he’s available) and the keyword is “simplicity.” The trees that my daughter
Lucia and I planted in 2014 are already bearing fruit: lemons, oranges,
mandarins, pomegranate, pear, apricot, avocado, and four varieties of the
quintessential olive tree. I have become an unabashed tree hugger in short
order—on two continents.
The property’s roadside is lined with
cypress trees and oleander, the house itself is encircled with sage, rosemary,
oregano, and roses. It is a sight to behold. I’m still pinching myself. This is
the Maine camp we could never afford to buy—it’s just a bit harder to access on
a long weekend.
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Settled in, checked the house for
snakes and scorpions—just one of my ongoing paranoias—and then hit the beach: a
1.5 kilometers of white sand and perhaps no more than a few dozen people. This
is one of Greece’s best kept secrets…so please don’t tell anyone!
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| Catching a bit of sun in the Aegean |
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| On the bend in the road that no one uses (red roof) |
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