What's in a Name?

 

Cooling off during a run

Remembering a person’s name is a sign of respect the world over. Sadly, in America I am too often guilty of forgetting names, but here in Greece I carry a notepad wherever I travel—to help secure my memory of names, new vocabulary, and the like. Not only do I record names, but also try to determine that person’s relations to others whom I’ve met along the way—everyone is related to everyone else here—so I include their village name, professions, and other key facts. All of this information has become a part of my burgeoning “Greek Directory” that is twenty-five-plus years in the making.

 

I am astonished that everyone here remembers my name, along with associated details of my life and background, so I am simply returning the favor.

House on the mountain

 

V. is beloved in the village, treated respectfully, but is otherwise known as the “village idiot”—sometimes I feel like a solid contender for the number 2 spot. He is a mentally handicapped or intellectually challenged soul in his mid-40s.

 

The very name “village idiot” makes me cringe: not only is this politically incorrect, as some might say, but it is also incredibly rude, insensitive, and so badly dated. Of course, no one calls him this to this face. He is treated with nothing but kindness.

 

“Hello, Yianni,” V. offers without looking up at me as he pushes his wheelbarrow, broom, and dustpan through the village, a one-man sanitation department. He hasn’t seen me in over seven months, and I could not claim to be a dear old friend. I am merely an acquaintance, just another foreigner with a second home on the outskirts of the village.

 

“And how is Lucia?” he inquires. He hasn’t seen my middle daughter in nearly eight years but remembers her name. I doubt that he carries a notepad to record the names of all the people he has met.

 

 

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Our mountain village, which looks down on the broad expanse of the Ionion Sea, is called Akritohori, which literally means “village on the edge,” a fitting nomenclature. In fact, the village is a bit “edgy,” so the name fits.

 

The old-timers still use the Turkish name, Grizi, recalling the period of brutal Ottoman occupation which the entire Peloponnese endured for four hundred years. As a resident there, this makes me a Grizaos.

Ancient olive trees over the wall

...is a very, very fine house

The long and winding road

In the eyes of the many proud nationalists, the Turks were expelled last week—actually, emancipation occurred in late 1820s, with the help of combined naval force of English, French, and Russians warships, the young nation’s fiercest defenders.

 

The epic Battle of Navarino occurred in nearby Pylos, where several dozen Ottoman man-of-war galleons lay on the ocean floor, some still clearly visible in the aquamarine at depths of sixty feet. Navarino Bay is one of the most famous dive sites in southern Greece that isn’t dated to the classical period.

Neighbor's vineyard

Our little town

Can't get there from here

 

The deepest spot in the Mediterranean lies 22 nautical miles southwest of Pylos. There in the ocean depths of over 17,000 feet astronomers have placed a massive telescope that views nanoparticles in the depths of outer space and studies distant galaxies, unobstructed by daylight.

 

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In our village of about 200 souls, there are seven men or boys named Dimitri T., even more name Panayioti T., all of whom are distinguished by their father’s given names, for example, “Dimitri T. of Yianni,” or “Panayioti T. of Dimitri.”

 

 

Which is why I need my little notebook to keep it all straight.

 

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On Thieves and Thievery

 

 

Simple theft and outright house burglaries are a clear and present threat in Greece, an epidemic that has grown worse each year. This sort of thievery hardly existed twenty years ago. It is a sign of the times, a not-so-perplexing phenomenon. Several homeowners—Greeks and foreigners—have been victimized in multiple incidents, their houses ransacked for cash and jewelry. The thieves don’t want passports, laptops, i-Phones, or even foreign cash, which they could not possibly exchange at a bank without raising a flag and drawing in the authorities. Some nearby friends endured $2000 in damage to window casings. The thieves stole toilet paper and two bottles of beer. Desperate times for desperate people--whoever they are.

 

The castaway beach, via cliff or small boat

Meanwhile, the police work in a profession that appears to have but three primary activities: playing backgammon, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee.

 

This small Balkan nation has endured fourteen years of fiscal austerity following the 2007 economic crash, rampant unemployment, and low-wage jobs. For perspective consider this: a fully tenured, experienced public-school teacher earns about $1000 a month. In retirement, said teacher subsists on about 700 euros.

 

So who are these thieves? The old wisdom shouted “Gypsies!” or “Albanians!” or “Bulgarian Roma!” The truth is that no one knows who the cuprits really are, and if they say they do they are merely guessing.

 

Like so many others now, I carry a small rucksack with money, electronics, and passport(s) wherever I go. (I also keep a baseball bat in the car for late night returns. I'm a big baseball fan.) There is so little of value in our house—which I hope is obvious to the perpetrators—and to date we have been fortunate, but no one is immune from the scourge of break-ins.

Voidokoilia, near Pylos

 

And if I thought we were safe, I would quickly supplement my confident assertions by faux spitting to one side (ptew, ptew), a universally understood sign in traditional Greek culture—the only way, in fact, to keep the Evil Eye at bay.

 

This custom has interesting manifestations. “Your baby is so beautiful!” ptew ptew, I spit on the infant in order to ward off the subliminal curse that I am casting. “May you live a long life!” Ptew, Ptew, Ptew.