Temenos: Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

If I stay it will be trouble, if I go it will be double.

--The Clash

Sunset from the Tsapi beach turnoff, 1 km above our home

Comparing apples and oranges—the trade-offs

It is hardly a choice between southern Greece and eastern Maine—both places are dear to my heart for the same and for different reasons. A few comparisons spring to mind. But this is clearly not Greece versus Maine.

Wild garlic beyond the castle bastion--the last defense

--Excruciatingly hot and dry (at least July through September)—…or, often (but not always) cold and wet.

--Scorpions, venomous snakes, unidentifiable creppy-crawly creatures—…or, mosquitoes and black flies, deer flies and moose flies, deer ticks

--Delicious food at every cornier—…or someone’s idea of food (not mine), unless you make it yourself.

--320 days of sunshine—please, let’s not go there on this point.

--Great friends—and great friends

--Wonderfully varied, region-specific music and dance, always evolving but grounded in a long and rich heritage—…largely derivative Anglo-Irish offerings (with three big exceptions: American jazz, rock, and blues). And dance at your own peril.

--Pristine ocean for swimming, fishing, and sailing—…or, pristine ocean for looking at, or sailing in fog…for 6 weeks a year, 8 weeks...maybe?

--A wide range of fresh fruits and vegetables in all seasons--…or apples, blueberries, wild raspberries and blackberries and whatever you can grow.

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Far away but closer than you think

My old friend Dimitri, who I first met in 2007, is a rugged man who has a penchant for waxing poetic, like a lot of people around here. He is hardly a “softy”: his family fought the Ottoman Turks and the Nazis with knives and swords, throwing themselves against the occupiers with wreckless abandon. It is fine petigree. Given the opportunity, I am certain he would do the same today.

I bumped into Dimitri in the village last night.

Methoni castle--the walkway to the Bourzi for execution...or wedding

“I haven’t seen you!” he said with a combination of faux anger and regret. “What, have you lost your mind? We should spend some time together at the cafeneion before you head back to America? Shouldn’t we?”

We agreed to meet up tonight, have a coffee together on the waterfront, and talk about our families. One’s children are a special point of departure in all conversations, maybe the world over.

Then he added, ominously: “I saw something today that made me so upset.” I made one of those classic Greek body language expressions that says, “what’s up?”

He started to speak and then began crying. A big, tough man with little tears on his cheeks. His otherwise resonant and booming voice cracked slightly.

“That father and daughter washed up on the shores of the Rio Grande, locked in an embrace, drowned.” I let out a long breath and shook my head.

“I know, I saw the picture, too.”

Then he added a few words of an undeniable truth.

“Your president is not just crazy. He is not just a fascist. He is an evil human being. A devil.”

I could hardly disagree about his opinion of this century’s first moral monstrosity.

Our own evil and viscious Turk. Friends with head-chopping, paleolithic child molesters (Saudi Arabia). Enemies with oldest friends. Go figure.

Where's the truth here? What exactly is he hiding? Who is he serving, if he's not serving the American people?

Nicknames

The word for “nickname” in Greek is παρατστούκλη (parstoukli), which has a funny ring to it. Everyone has been given one or more nicknames here, both locals and foreigners. Tall people are called “Tiny”; clean-shaven people are called “the bearded one.” This sort of thing.

My own parastoukli has various iterations. Sometimes I am o Amerikanos (the American—in fact, the only one in my village, so it works well), or Tzon (no letter J in Greek, so it gets diphthonged), or by my actual Greek name: Yianni (Υιάννης).

There is a man who has “resided”—the right word, because he is always there, every day—on the middle beach, a seventy-something Austrian in the buff who a few of us have named the Madagascar Man for the depth of his all-over tan. A friendly gentleman, he is beyond brown, beyond bronze, but not quite black. He sets up his own camp at noon and doesn’t leave until 5 o’clock or even later—which in the heat of summer is a demonstration of excessive resilience. Every other sensible soul stumbles off the beach by 3 p.m (perhaps returning after 7 o’clock for the post-siesta splash). He is long-lived, stalwart, and quickly becoming a legend for his darkness.

And he has a nickname.

More work, less play

This morning my English friend P. stopped over to help me repair the roof. We mixed up some strong cement, climbed up on the roof, being careful not to break the overlapping ceramic tiles, and filled in a few gaps here and there that had welcomed some of the winter rains.

Then we shortened my neighbor’s illegal, unmetered water line that runs through my little olive/citrus grove and which the tractor keeps snagging and breaking. It is buried deeper and should survive the next tilling.

Finally, after siesta time, I got out the roller and painted two of the lower walls of the house. It looks terrific.