Temenos 2023

 

Temenos--A Family Journal

2023 Edition

Temenos: A Family Journal was born in 2009, in the course of a family

sabbatical in Greece. This was a big family adventure, which involved

leaving our home on the fringes of eastern Maine, our jobs, and our daily routines, 

and then finding a rental house in the southwestern corner of the Peloponnese, in

a small fishing village named Finikounda.

It is a place where I have no family connections and yet it feels very much like my patrida (fatherland/motherland).

Our time in rural Messenia, the prefecture that forms this peninsula, was

memorable and impactful—the girls, Lucia and Evyenia, attended the local one-room

village school, while Manny was home-schooled by his mom, who took a six-

month sabbatical as a public school teacher. And with laptop in tow, I continued freelance editing

while immersing myself in a culture rich in history, language, foodways, and

poetry/song/dance.

We were all taken by the immense beauty of rural Greece in the transition from late winter until early summer and began, day by

day, to build friendships and an unspoken commitment to return one day. The

trip marked my 15th or 16th to Greece since 1973.

In 2012, we enjoyed an extended summer visit. At this point, we were also

smitten by the idea of acquiring a small piece of land in southern Greece.

Desire became reality the following year, when we purchased a small plot of

land adjacent to a vast and seemingly endless olive grove, with the wreck of a brick

building hidden in the thicket.

Unoccupied for many years, the wreck was slowly transformed into a house, a home, a sanctuary for our future Hellenic adventures.

 

In 2022 we had the pleasure of yet another return trip to Hellas, this time in

celebration of our 30th wedding anniversary. Now the three children were

young adults and the parents were careening toward a distant horizon called

“retirement”—and although those goal posts keep moving further and further away,

we grow more committed to this place against all odds--financial and otherwise.

And for the first time, all five of us cohabitated in our half-finished, liter-sized house 

in the olive grove, with a spectacular view to the west, across the expanse of cobalt 

Mediterranean, just

a few steps from our front door.

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The word temenos can be translated in several ways. For me, the primary

definition—“sanctuary”—carries the most profound meaning of all.

Temenos, the sanctuary, is a place, a feeling, an emotional bond with one

another. It is the power of family, of love, of understanding, and a place of

mutual respect and admiration. For me, temenos is also the rich cultural

heritage of the eastern Mediterranean, which elicits a shared appreciation of a

place so profoundly beautiful and seductive.

And so I am here. Alone. For forty-plus days. There is a mission attached to

this trip: partly personal renewal, partly an exercise in continued home

renovation. It is a chance—granted by my loving and highly accommodating

family—to finish what I started in 2013, even though resources are dwindling, and

also to immerse myself in language, friendships, and the wonders of place.

And, of course, daily immersion in Homer's wine-blue Aegean.

 

Athens

I arrived a few short days ago, greeted by my dear old friend (and best man)

Thanasi, his lovely wife Koula, and an old friend, Akis. We met long ago, when I was

an archaeology student in Athens in 1979/1980, and have maintained strong

bonds of friendship ever since. The three of us have seen our children grow into

special beings, full of laughter, intellect, creativity, and joy. Nothing could be

more gratifying for a parent.

Under Athena’s Watchful Eye

The writer Henry Miller describes the modern world as “an air-conditioned

nightmare,” a phrase that in some ways describes the megalopolis of Athens—a

vastness of concrete that has endeared itself with me. I love Athens. I hate Athens.

And then I love it again--like my old friends.

After a first night of restless sleep, I did what comes most naturally: running.

I set off from Thanasi and Koula’s house straight up Mount Hymettos, an

imposing range on the east side of Athens. In the ascent, the concrete turns

into gravel roads and foot paths, then into a veritable labyrinth of trails in the

“aesthetic forest” (its actual name), with an 11th-century monastery, the

scattered debris of former World War II battlegrounds, goat herders’ warrens,

and a multitude of surprises.

The brave and noble goddess Athena protected me from cars, taxis, motorcycles, Gypsies,

wild dogs, and most of all—myself. It was such an unmitigated pleasure to not

fall flat on my face on the uneven footing, sharp ledges, and meandering trails.

In the evening, the four of us walked to an outdoor taverna from another era,

the kind I recalled as being on every corner  in the 1970s and that is now an endangered

species in contemporary Greece.

 

Escape from Gotham

 

As a former New Yorker with a penchant for driving among lunatics, I felt right

at home. Within an hour, the rental buggy passed Megara, Eleusis, and then gradually

approached the Corinth canal. A sharp left off the highway, and I followed the

tortuous switchbacks to the village of Kosta, in the eastern Argolid, a storied

region from antiquity, with village names that still suggest the Dorian invasion

of about 1200 bce.

 

I took an ancient, rusting, and slightly listing ferryboat across the Saronic Gulf to

 the island of

Spetses—birthplace of my maternal grandmother (1899) and the place where

we were married in 1992.

 

The invited guest of my 86-year-old uncle (among the last of my mother’s living

cousins), I made my way through the hora (main town) to the Argytis

“compound,” a series of houses on the land our family has owned for about 300

years.

 

Uncle Kyriakos, a former ship’s captain, treats me like an adopted son. We

both recalled a time fifty years earlier when, as a 13-year-old, I would wait by the

window of my grandmother’s kitchen for his arrival. Strapping, good looking,

and fluent in five or six languages, my uncle has showered kindness on me for

most of my life, treating me like a second son.

 

He prepared a meal of moussaka, salad, cheese, bread, and fruit. We ate until

conscious began to slip.

Then I partook of the elemental Greek siesta.

 

 

Born to be wild

 

I am not afflicted with any forms of risk adversity, so I didn’t hesitate to ride on

the back of my nearly 90-year-old uncle’s motorcycle. The fact that he is partly deaf,

blind, and troubled by poor balance flew just under the radar of my conscious

reasoning. It was a delightful ride to his favorite breakfast haunt, even as he

conversed on Facetime with a daughter in Switzerland while driving one-handed.

“Here, Sofia, say hello to your cousin Jonathan….," passing the phone over his

 shoulder while in motion.

 

Kyriakos and I arrived at “Mosquito,” a waterside restaurant/bar, where we

met two of his “oldest and dearest friends.” He whispered in my ear as we

approached the table: “The rest are all dead.”

My uncle was a ship’s captain, plying the North Atlantic, Arctic Circle,

South America, and Far East before retiring at age 39 to build the family hotel

on Spetses in 1970.

 

So I sat with three retired captains and listened gleefully to narratives of their

life at sea, fascinated by tales, short and tall, taking copious mental notes.

Apparently this is the right way to grow old: sleep late, eat a big breakfast, take

a nap, wake up for an ouzo and a sweet—and then start the day at 8 p.m. Last

night’s dinner began at 11:00 p.m. and concluded just after 1:00 a.m., with a

final admonition: “Should we go have an ouzo before bed?”

Eat. Eat More. Eat Yet More

From the time I first came to Spetses, at age 19 in 1979, the prospect of being

fed ridiculous amounts of food became the norm. Obliged to visit each

relative at least once requires some kind of strategic planning—fasting, extreme

exercise, and no small measure of endurance. It is a nearly impossible task, a

fearful project in endurance, a marathon of consumption. 

Luckily, I have survived all these years of being fed like the family goose.

“You are too thin, please eat.” Then: “I cooked this meal especially for you, so

you must eat every last bit.” Followed by: “I made your mother’s favorite

dessert.”

Kindness meets caloric excruciation every day. And the marching orders are in for

tonight: “We will eat fish.” I am imagining an entire school.

 

Democracy on Steroids

While “democracy” is all but dead and buried in America, replaced by an obscene

 form of plutocracy, it still thrives at the

source. Tomorrow the country faces national elections. With 44 political parties

on the ballot, there is no shortage of choices. Except for the Communists, the

general sentiment is that they are all malakas (the universal adjective:

definition available upon request), “thieves,” and “Turks” (the worst insult of

of all). We give the Communists some slack because they are tired museum pieces in

 need of a very long siesta.

Greeks have no shortage of political opinions. It is true what they say about opinions: like a certain part of human anatomy, everyone has one. And at least  several of the former.

Sale of alcohol is forbidden on Election Day. Hence the little plastic, anonymous

 white cups, a universal symbol of democracy in action.

Name Day Celebrations

Not only does today—21 May—mark national elections, it is also the feast day

of Saints Constantine and Helen, an auspicious holiday. Those who have

these names (Constantine,

Kosta, Constantina, Helen, Eleni) celebrate their yiorti or name day. Orthodox

Christians are

named after saints and one’s saint day is vastly more important than a

birthday, which is a meaningless and largely ignored day.

Uncle Kyriakos and I were invited to his friend Kosta’s name day meal. The

celebrant's house, a restored Turkish villa dating to the 18th century, sits high

above the island with a broad view of the Saronic Gulf.

 

Name days are no joke in the village. They involve copious quantities of food,

drink, gifts, and sweets—the latter being of utmost importance.

 

We were twelve souls, seated around a long table on a covered terrace.

Among others, the grandmother was there: a chain-smoking, wine-guzzling 94-

year-old with the mental acuity of a twenty year old.

 

We enjoyed a 12-course meal, six bottles of wine, a bottle of tsipoura (the

equivalent of an industrial-strength floor cleaner distilled from grape skins), and

five (yes, five) different desserts.

 

Pacing was of no avail. The food kept coming, one platter after another. It

began to rain later in the afternoon, so the ride home on the motorcycle was an

exercise in deep faith. The delirum grew exponentially.