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| Nia's friends visiting our home |
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| Ready to sail--just add water |
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| Eighth-century chapel in Koroni |
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| Dinner in the shadow of Methoni Castle |
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| Another everyday sunset |
I began studying modern Greek in earnest at age 22, when I moved to Athens, two years after completing my Junior Year Abroad. The spark was lit. Although I had a limited vocabulary, most of it learned in yiayia’s kitchen as a little tyke, working in Athens as an editorial apprentice for a small English-language publisher in 1981/1982 accelerated the learning process. The passion for this language, and particularly its rich legacy of poetry and narrative prose, made learning fun and endearing.
Over the years, my “fluency”—the term itself might be an exaggeration in the eyes of real linguists—improved with each visit to Greece. I first came as a summer camper in 1973; in 1974, the year the military junta ended in flames with the catastrophe of Cyprus, I was nearly drafted into the Greek army, which was desperate for recruits to fight an ill-fated war with Turkey. The authorities were especially eager for tall boys who looked older than they actually were. A standoff with the Greek regular army and an intervention by Rasputin-like Orthodox priest inspired further learning.
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| Small is beautiful |
A
Greek girlfriend or three helped the process, too, as did dealing with the government authorities as part of my position with the publisher.
Forty years along, my facility with the language has waxed and waned. In the final analysis, I can get into and out of trouble with ease, but not always with grammatical excellence.
Which leads me to yesterday’s excursion.
Nia and I drove back to Koroni, on the eastern end of this peninsula, past the burned hillsides of Vasilitsi, to sort our water bill with the hapless water district. Afterward, we stepped into a gift shop run by a very nice man.
His curiosity about our family, especially the other children, generated some lively conversation. He had remembered us from years before.
“Are your children still in school? What do they do for work?”
I am here with Nia, our 19-year-old “baby,” and I explained that she is studying art (remotely now) with a school in Fredericton, New Brunswick (Canada). She smiled and nodded her approval.
“And your son?” Well, he is a newly minted engineer, working in rural Vermont, I explained.
The vocabulary poured out—all the right words, a solid vocabulary perfectly understood by our host.
Our middle child lives in southern Maine and works as an athletic trainer. With bold confidence, I blurted out an answer anticipating the question.
“Oh, yes, our other girl is a γυμνήστρια [gymnystria—“gym teacher,” or so I thought] and we are so proud of her accomplishments and her important work helping others achieve superior fitness.”
The shop owner’s eyes grew large. I sensed a poor word choice in the making. The word I sought was γυμνάστρια (yes, just one single letter, slightly off).
With total confidence I had said:
“My daughter is a nudist and we are so proud of her.” Howls of laughter ensued, it followed for several minutes before the owner could catch his breath. (I’m sure he thought: “Yes, the big beach in Finikounda, that’s the place for her!”). In a turn of phrase, I had made Spyros’s day!
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| The view from our village, looking west |
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| Running through Kaplani |
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| Main street in Finikounda |
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| Side street in Finikounda |
Other
expressions to avoid:
“I
was so sad I could cry.” No, that word is fart, by virtue of a single accent. That would be pretty darn sad.
“Please bring us a plate of boiled mosquitoes with bread.” Oops, a single letter off. I meant cauliflower.
And on and on.
Our dear friend, Dr. Bill, a philhellene in his own right, is shaking his erudite head in disbelief. Always put your best leg forward…and be ready to stumble.
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| Beach beauty daughter on the nearest beach |
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| Always seems to set in the west--beyond the veranda |
Between
a rock and a sandy beach
We have the jolly good fortune of living in two of the most beautiful, pristine, and enchanting places on earth: the rocky coast of Downeast Maine and the pearl white, sandy beaches of the southern Peloponnese. How does a lowly freelance book editor have such good luck?
The answer, I think, has been stubborn persistence and a lot of late-night deadlines. And knowing Greek and how to navigate the system is a big help.
The comparisons—eastern Maine and southern Greece—are many and yet the differences are profound. Culturally, aesthetically, and gastronomically. And in terms of the people and their attitudes toward life in general.
The words φιλότιμο (filotimo) and φιλοξενία (filoxenia) are not so easily defined, but both are so indicative of this place. The first means, roughly, “honor, pride, dignity"; the second means “friend of a foreigner” or (imprecisely) “hospitality.” Both terms define rural Greece, which is not to say that these qualities don’t exist in some form in rural Maine, because they often do. But, simply put, these defining characterstics of rural Greece are hardly universal in rural Maine, which can be gruff and occasionally xenophobic. Blame it on the cold, on the short days, if you like. But they are ubiquitious here in Messinia, our prefecture in the southern Peloponnese.
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| Greek Independence Day, 2009 |
There is a sort of continuum that extends back 5,000 years during which these attitudes and ways of life have developed. Beginning with Homer and continuing right through to Dimitri and Yioryia, among our dearest friends in the village. Their daughter, Vaso, was the school teacher of our children back in 2009, when we had the audacity to drop them off one day in Finikounda’s one-room school, which sits on a cliff over the Ionian Sea, not speaking a word of Greek.
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| Back again in 2012 |
The associated attitudes represented by filotimo and filoxenia make this place like no other. People smile and rarely scowl; they greet one another, especially strangers, with the passion of friendship, hospitality, and honor. Folks honor their words with deeds. Doing otherwise would bring shame on your family name, which is a kind of curse worse than death. And this is no exaggeration.
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| Voidokoila--in Homer's "sandy Pylos" |
This
place is steeped in a rich and vibrant—and sometimes, oftentimes, painful—history that extends back eons. The German occupation (1941-1944), the Communist
Revolution (1947-1949), the military junta (1967-1974) occurred just yesterday in the eyes of many. The humiliation and the bitter string of atrocities of the
Turkokratia (Ottoman rule, 1480s-1820s) is equally near at hand. And the
heroes of the Bronze Age—Achilles, Agamemnon, the soldiers who fought the Trojan
War, the apex of the Classical and Hellenistic period, they are all sources of
pride, suffering, and memory. They are the pathos of this storied land.
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Last weekend we said goodbye to Nia’s Czech friend, H., who flew to Vienna on his way home to Prague for the start of university studies. The send-off was in a village taverna, with copious amounts of food, wine, and good cheer.
Our friends come and go, the sadness of departure and the joys of reunion a daily affair.
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| Maine princesses on a Greek beach, 2009 |
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| Finikounda harbor |
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| Chrysokelaria, mountain village above our house |
Some, like us, dream of one day restoring an old, traditional house. (Others, with deeper pockets, construct their five-star dream villas—with verandas and pergulas overlooking the Mediterranean, infinity pools, high walls to keep out whatever threatens their sense of security or privacy.) The concept of privacy is a foreign construct. Here, everyone knows everyone else's business.
In order of population, the resident expats consists of Germans, Dutch, English, French, Italians, Austrians, Swedes, Poles, Czechs…and a small smattering of Americans.
No one nationality “owns” this places—except, perhaps, the local. We are a very large, diverse melting pot of nationalities.
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Jackals
and Wild Boar…oh My
The
jackals, a remnant Afro-European population that has survived since antiquity,
are in their ascendancy. And so too are the wild boar, bane of farmers, whose fields
they root in the evening. These are ferocious mammals of the night, the largest
weighing in at over 200 pounds, the males sporting sharp tusks. They are a
mighty presence and appear to have no natural predators. (The babies get picked
off by the jackals; but more often, the big brutes will kill a jackal with its
tusks.) They roam largely unmolested.
Two nights ago, we saw one standing like a hairy sentry outside our gate. We scared it off, illuminated our pasture in search of its mates, then locked the gate. For the first time since arriving.
The jackals are another matter, because you hear them but rarely see them. Not unlike Maine’s coyotes, their howls, which persist all night, will raise the hair on your neck.
The
Super Rich, the Stupid Rich
The Mediterranean is a clear draw for the jet set from all over the world. Most arrive in super yachts, like the one that was anchored in the bay a few days ago.
If you are interested, dear reader, do a Google or Utube search for “Yacht A,” the largest sailing vessel in the world, constructed at a cost of $600 million by a Russian fertilizer magnate in 2017.
At 587 feet overall, with three 300-foot masts, it is a veritable spacecraft plying the eastern Mediterranean. The American singer, Beyonce, is said to be aboard now as a guest.
With seven state rooms, a bullet-proof glass bottom, a bomb-proof deck, and a crew of 54 sailors, it is a sight to behold. And a rather disgusting example of conspicuous consumption…on steroids.
Three patrol boats circle it 24-7, piloted by a collection of grim-faced goons. Our friend R. approached it in her kayak last week, and the reception was—let us say—not too friendly. She was nearly capsized, intentionally, by the wake of the patrol boats.
Last year Jennifer Lopez performed aboard for two nights at a cost of $2 million dollars. Probably with a decent tip, too.
Yacht A has three swimming pools, a tennis court, two helipads, and amenities that include, among other things, $40,000 faucets (just the faucets!) in the staterooms. The couches are made of stingray hides and are stuffed with eagle feathers. My Native American friends should be sending curses.
We return to our 30-square-meter house, with no electricity, grateful for life’s simplicities.
Down the hill from our house, Lord Owen is constructing a right-sized villa near “our” beach. British aristocracy in the hood. No one asked us for our opinion!
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I
continue to train for the Spetses Mini Marathon, a 25-kilometer tour of the
island where my grandmother was born in 1899. In 2018, I broke 2 hours on this
exceedingly challenging course; in 2019, I won my age group (60+), a feat I
aspire to repeat next Sunday.
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| Posing in our pasture |
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| Our little village, pop. 112 |
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Big
mountains, moderate aspirations
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| Lucia boning up on her Greek, 2009 |
Across
the Messinian Gulf, which separates the Peloponnese’s eastern peninsula (the
prefecture called Messinia) from the next peninsula, the prefecture called Laconia
(home to Sparta), you observe a tremendous mountain range as a silhouette pocked with snow at the highest elevation.
During Sparta’s pre-eminence (5th century bce to about 300 bce), our Messinian brethren, known then as Helots, were held in abject slavery and victimized by Sparta’s brutal military prowess, annual raids, and the like.
Sparta, a singular military culture, would toss their weakling children (and “excess” girls) off the 8,200-foot cliffs of Mount Taygetos, which remains snow-clad at its peaks all summer. I hope to climb Taygetos next May with my friend Dimitri and members of the Kalamata Alpine Association.
Finally the Spartans were vanquished by Epimanondes, the leader of Thebes, and the long decline began for Spara. Good for us, bad for them.
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The
long decline
Speaking of “long decline,” it is
so sad to read the news from America, where 45 percent of the population appears to be living in an alternative reality—among, other things, casting doubt on the 2020 election
results, which have been proven and verified five times over, by members of their
own party. The greatness of our vibrant democracy, modeled by America’s Founding Fathers on the template of Greek democracy, is so dangerously
imperiled. Those who think otherwise, are avoiding reality. An attempted coup,
in which over 140 police officers were wounded, has described by some as a “tourist
visit” on the Capitol.
One very ignorant, racist, sexist man, with a long and well documented history of malfeasance and a hatred of the pluralism that defines America, lies at the heart of it. But the stupidity, small-mindedness, and mean-spiritedness was borne long before the so-called “Reagan Miracle,” where trickle-down economics had vanquished the American Dream for all but the very few.
Corporate America aches to return America to the dark days of the 1920s, when capitalism ruled over democracy like a big cudgel, and people themselves were at the bottom, eating scraps.
But this is an aside and not the focus of Temenos, which seeks to portray happier subjects. So my apologies to those who are otherwise offended by such frankness.
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Forgive but Never Forget
Greeks have a most curious relationship with Germany and the German people, which dates back to the founding of the Republic in 1832, following a long and protracted struggle for Independence. This year Greece celebrates its bicentennial of liberation from Ottoman yoke.
In 1832, the Imperial Powers—England, France, and Russia—imposed a monarchy on the new republic, installing a Bavarian king, Otto, and his queen, Olga. Today one finds a number of Greek girls named Olga, but I have yet to meet a boy named Otto. The Greek royal family is related, in blood lines, not just to Bavarian aristocracy, but to the British and Russian thrones. Prince Charles I had a Greek father and an English mother (aka, Queen Elixabeth).
Greece’s suffering during the German Occupation was especially onerous, with a level of brutality that remains hard to comprehend. More Greeks died, per capita, than that of any other European nation during the war years.
The once vibrant Jewish population of Salonika, themselves refugees from Spain and Portugal in the late Middle Ages, were all but exterminated by the Nazis during World War II, summarily shipped to Auschwitz and Treblinka concentration camps.
The wounds are very real and, here in the Peloponnese, can be viewed everywhere: in roadside monuments, in abandoned villages, in living oral history. Our own family, in a high mountain village in Crete, was summarily executed one night in 1943 for participating in the resistance--for defending their cherished homeland. My own grandfather Andoni, and a few of his twelve siblings, had escaped the carnage by virtue of their immigration to America, circa 1910.
An aside: my proud Cretan American family served gallantly in during World War II, fighting in the Pacific Theater—five US Marine brothers in combat simultaneously, which by all accounts is unparalleled USMC service by a single family. The sixth brother served in General Patton’s army in the European theater. My father retired as a Lt. Colonel in the US Marine Corps—no small achievement for a first-generation, Harlem-born eldest child of illiterate parents. Remarkably, all six brothers lived to return to their Brooklyn home. The youngest, my Uncle Artie, lied about his age so he could join his brothers in combat. He was sixteen years old when his unit rushed the beach head in Iwo Jima in 1944.
And yet today Germans are welcomed by the Greeks, who defy all reason in forgiving their forefathers’ sins. While Greeks have forgiven, they have hardly forgotten. Nevertheless, German visitors and permanent residents are treated with dignity, kindness, and are, like the rest of us, recipients of daily expressions of filoxenia (hospitality).
And to the credit of Germany, a truly great and highly advanced nation in the center of Europe, Greece was saved from catastrophic default after the 2008 debt crisis metastasized throughout the world. Highly indebted Greece was saved from penury and poverty by one Angela Merkel, the outgoing premier, who risked tremendous political capital in persuading the European Union to come to Greece’s rescue.
And as further credit to the Germans living here, they are largely fluent in modern Greek, enamored of Greek culture (they can dance!), and fierce defenders of Greek democracy and well-being.
After what my country has done across the globe—after the long string of US atrocities perpetrated in Central America, and especially in the Middle East—it is indeed heartening to witness German acts of kindness, generosity, and good will toward their poorer southern neighbors. It is a model to emulate.
Oops, there I go off-topic again.
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| I am a hopeless dropout |
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| We want this rig back in Maine! |
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| A friend's traditional caique in Fini harbor |
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Earthquakes and tidal waves
An earthquake, centered on the not-to-distant
island of Crete, struck last week, killing one and causing damage to structures.
It was a magnitude 6.1 on the Richter scale, at a depth of 17 kilometers.
The tidal wave that some predicted never occurred. Some say there was one in 1930s that obliterated our nearest beach, Loutsa, about 1.2 miles away. Others say this is nothing more than malakia, which must remain untranslated.
This part of the Peloponnese sits on a significant fault line. Because of this all new construction (thoughout Greece) must meet very high standards for seismic activity. All construction and some renovations must be approved by a civil engineer (a μιχανικός / mechanikos), with steel reinforcement in the concrete piers that define modern construction here.
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| Finikounda's one-room schoolhouse...with a view |
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| Fire on the mountain |
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| Running on Loutsa beach on Friday |
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| No run without a swim |
Our little traditional house has none
of this; rather, it is of stone/brick/mortar construction with a light wooden
and tile roof. And it is just one single floor, with a loft.
Regardless, Nia knows the routine
should the house shake. Run outside or get into the doorway.
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