 |
| Looking west from the mountain |
The morning run
Somehow I managed to rouse myself
early enough to run before the rising sun cleared the mountain in whose shadow
this little house sits—until about 8 a.m. I followed the switchbacks up-up-up,
past “our” village and all the way to Yameia, a vibrant village a few
kilometers above Akritohori.
The guardian bee
The concept of the “guardian bee”
is a creation of my American friends T. and K., who have observed, quite
rightly, that a large thumb-sized bee finds the beachgoer when he or she is set
up on Finikounda’s long beach, a 1.5 kilometer stretch of sand that goes by various names—the middle section,
called Anemomilos, has a special quality that I won’t belabor. Needless to say,
at first this aerial gymnast is cause for alarm for the uninitiated. Soon you
learn, this flying machine is your best friend.
 |
| Setting up camp |
Before you can set up a sunshade
and towel, this acrobat appears and spends the entire day (or as long as you're set up) flying in circles around your beach encampment, defending the
beachgoer from the smaller but more aggressive flying insects, chasing them
away with its superior flying skills and size. It is both remarkable and a bit
unnerving to have this mighty creature ensure your safe residence on the beach. It
takes some getting used to, but this special service is provided gratis and is
much appreciated.
 |
| Burned toes |
Other thoughts
Today marks my departed parents’
sixty-eighth wedding anniversary. The date is duly noted. They would surely be
astounded and perplexed to know that their youngest child--110 years removed from their own
parents’ immigration to the United States from the destitude of Greece--has
come full circle and returned to the patrida
(fatherland).
It’s something about the light
For thousands of years, writers
and travelers have commented about the quality of the light in the eastern
Mediterranean. It is a fact that words cannot easily describe, yet it is
glorious and life-affirming. The Aegean comes alive with the magnitude of
colors and shapes, and the vibrancy they bring.
Last night I joinged T. and K.
and our Swedish friend for The First Supper in the village, at a restaurant
called To Kyma (the wave). We ate an enormous Greek village salad, with hunks
of feta cheese, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion, and green pepers,
swimming in extra virgin olive oil; baked red peppers stuffed with goat cheese;
kontosouvli (pieces of pork
slow-cooked on a spit); moussaka
(eggplant casserole); tsoutoukaki (pork/beef
meatballs cooked in savory tomato sauce, with a hint of cinnamon; beer, wine,
and lemonade (my drink of choice), and thick slices of village bread, grilled
on a charcoal fire with olive oil and herbs. Cost: 10 euros ($12) each with
tip. We ate and (the others) drank for three hours.
The beach encampment
My beach encampment is no more
than thirty feet from the ocean’s edge. And yet, it takes a serious dash to the
water to keep from burning your feet.
The beach yields piles of dried bamboo (kalami), which is washed up from the winter storms. It makes ideal building material. If you look down the expanse of white ribboned sand, you see any variety of temporary structures. Naturally the Germans build the most serious structures--the Americans not so much.
The beach yields piles of dried bamboo (kalami), which is washed up from the winter storms. It makes ideal building material. If you look down the expanse of white ribboned sand, you see any variety of temporary structures. Naturally the Germans build the most serious structures--the Americans not so much.
By 11 a.m. shade is a real
necessity. By 1 p.m. you could expire on this southern beach without sufficient
water or shade. Sandals are essential for any strolling outside of the water’s
edge.
The beach is backed by a zone of
sand dunes and a spectrum of unusual flora, including rare wildflowers and mounds of wild
oregano. This is part of the European Union’s Natura 2000 designation, a protected area that is the egg-laying
area for the endangered loggerhead turtle. If you visit the beach at night—this
very month—you can see the large turtles (three or four feet long) plying the
surf, lumbering up the beach, and disappearing into the dunes. They bury their
eggs, many of which are plundered by the foxes. Sixty days later the surviving
clusters of buried eggs hatch and hundreds of baby turtles dash (even by turtle
standards) for the surf. Now with the moon rising, this remarkable act of
nature can be witnessed from afar.
 |
| Tsapi beach--rated G, hence the photo |
During the day, this is the PG-13
beach (some adult supervision is required). There are some “very fine people on
both sides” of the middle beach, no doubt, but this section is
exceptional—frequented by the northern Europeans and the smattering of
Americans (exactly three of us). Again, elapsed time on the beach is determined by shade
and fresh water. If you lack either, you will last only an hour or so. Or you
will look like a pitted prune by 2 p.m.
Don’t say “yes” and don’t say “no”
The problem with knowing a
foreign language, especially Greek at a fairly high conversational level, has
its many rewards. Nevertheless, it is really important to avoid getting drawn
into a conversation with a local and mindlessly answer “yes” or
“no” when the thread is lost or is a bit tenuous in translation. You might say
“yes” and end up on the receiving of an unidentifiable cooked creature; you
might say “no” and worse things happen: strange foods, strange commitments. It
is o.k. to say, “I’m sorry—I don’t understand that word.” A lifelong learner, I
carry a small notebook and pen wherever I go, including the beach.
Drinking and driving
A good English friend told me
about receiving her first-ever OUI while driving in Kalamata, the prefecture’s
main city. She was caught in a random road check by the police. They asked:
“Have you been drinking.” She replied by saying that she had lunch with her son
and they shared a kilo of wine. She failed the sobriety test and was told that
if she failed it again in ten minutes she would be summoned. And fail she did.
The police officer ordered her to follow him in her own vehicle back to
the police station, where she paid a hefty 250 euro fine and was then allowed
to drive home.
What’s in a name
Although my all-important
baptismal name is Yiannis (Ioannis, after the Baptist) my American name is
Jonathan. Here in the village I am known by several names. Infrequently it is
Yianni. More often it is Tzonatan. But more and more people called me
“Yanko”—which sounds like “Yankee” but really is a bizarre almagation of all
the other options. Yanko is fast becoming my local name—at least among the
Greeks.
Bureacracy on steroids
Nothing, absolutely nothing, is
possible in official Greece without a long queue, a multitude of
paperwork—stamped, signed, and always in triplicate—and that excruciating sense
of wonder that anything ever gets accomplished on the state level.
So it was with no small sense of
joy and relief that today’s visit to the National Bank of Greece was mercifully
efficient.
In true Greek fashion, I wiggled
my way to the front of the queue, landing at the head teller’s desk. In short
order this kindly man provided with the “roses.” These were once the
rose-colored receipts proving money transferred from abroad upon which one’s
residency is determined. The “roses” are actually now white, but no matter—they
will forever be referred to as the rose papers.
My children will someday inherit
this Herculian task if they want to keep this house on the
Mediterranean—learning to navigate the bureacracy in this country is
imperative. The flaming hoops through which they will one day leap (should they
choose to) involves obtaining tax numbers, bank accounts, and the fortitude to
endure a bureacracy that is positively Byzantine by any measure. It will be a
very small price to pay to keep this sanctuary long after I’ve been pushed out
to sea in the long boat.
Their “education” will include
the art of cutting lines (queues), sweet talking government officials, feigning
ignorance when necessary (this being a critical skill), and the various proven
methodologies for beating “the system.” Beating the system is a national sport
and I have learned, after many years, how to make the victory podium, one
bureaucrat at a time.
Some rudimentary knowledge of
Modern Greek is the first step. Alpha, beta, gamma…it’s as easy as ενα, δυο, τρια (one, two, three).
Eating as an art form
A few nights ago I had dinner
with my friends T and K at their house, with the broad view of the big beach—an
expanse of ocean, bordered by a ribbon of white, that is indescribably
gorgeous, all illuminated by a rising moon, the folds of olive groves that wind
down to the sea, the warm of breezes of North Africa caressing a bugless night.
Meals are the ultimate art form:
they begin late (summers meals are never served before 9 or 10 p.m.) and seem to
go on forever. As resident ex-pats, we strive to do as the locals. Eat until
you drop. And then eat some more.
Downeast and further east
I live—or aspire to live—in two
of the most lovely places on earth: Downeast Maine and southernmost Greece.
Each has its own special qualities (and problems, for sure). I would not change
my supremely good fortune for anything in the world.
On insight and enlightment
I am taken by a syncretism of
Buddhism and Christianity, which makes me a heretic by any definition.
“We have to be truly alive. This
is not a matter of devotion. It is a matter of practice. The Kingdom of God is
available here and now…it is said that there are 84,000 Dharma doors, doors of
teaching. If you are lucky enough to find a door, it would not be very Buddhist
to say that yours is the only door. We should not be afraid of more Dharma
doors—if anything, we should be afraid that no more will be opened.”
Thich Nhat Hanh, Living Buddha, Living Christ
So what do you do there?
When I moved to rural, eastern
Maine more than 30 years ago, my friends in New York City asked nervously,
“what do you do there?” There was
usually some unspoken current of superiority, however unintended, to the
question, as if there was nothing “to do” in Maine, and as if there was
something so very special to do in NYC that made life elsewhere pale in
comparison.
Curiously, some of my dear
friends in Maine ask the same question about rural Greece. What do you do there? It is an irksome question,
rife with an implication—that the doing
is vastly more important than the being.
 |
| Finikounda from above |
No comments:
Post a Comment