Village People

 

Baring all—or most

 

Sometimes I am a little surprised at the similarities between our town in Downeast Maine and this village in southern Greece.

 

Neither place can be described as a bastion of superior mental health.

 

Of course, mental health issues or any mental disability is no laughing matter. Sadly, people in both places lack treatment options or compassionate understanding by their fellows. And some poor souls are born with more grave disabilities.

 

My English friends suggest, as an explanation, that “the donkey didn’t travel very far,” which is taken to mean that the gene pool is more closed than might be desired in a procreational sense. (In eastern Maine, the donkey is a pickup truck.) Examples proliferate, but here’s just one.

 

Yesterday a young man with some emotional problems drove his motorcycle through the village several times, at top speed, at midday. This alone is not too concerning or unusual. (Motorists are uniformly reckless in the Balkan nations.) The fact that he wasn’t wearing any clothes was curious, at the very least. I only hope that this young lad was wearing some flip-flops and a helmet. But only foreigners wear helmets.

 

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Village People

 

So much of my life over the past fifty years has been defined by distance running, a near-daily activity that I began at the tender age of 14, with my father, a Marine Corps officer. We ran in circles at the old YMCA. I shone with pride when his World War II buddies said: "George, that kid can run!" I've been running ever since.

Tidy olive grove in the valley

The deeper in the valley, the more remote

 

Quiet morning in the village

For me, running (usually alone) has been the premier way to discover the physical and spiritual world. While traveling, it is clearly the least expensive and most efficient method of exploration.

 

Finikounda harbor

Here is Greece, particularly in the summer, I strive to run in the morning, before the heat of day builds. So it was that yesterday I drove down the mountain and parked on the dusty strip of land near Mavrovouni beach. First I ran along the beach, about 1 kilometer, and then into Finikounda, which was still slumbering at 7 a.m. Then I left the village and ran through the Mangiotika Trail, one of the European Union’s protected areas under the Natural 2000 designation.

 

The quantity of wildlife is incredible—just like in eastern Maine. In the last three days I have seen foxes, jackals, wild boar, a golden eagle, and (regrettably for one so fear-filled) very large snakes.

 

Here are some pictures taken on yesterday’s run.

 

 

Refurbished Finikound pier

God save the planet...first

Kalamata

 

Partial view of Kalmata from the castle

Kalamata is the queen city of Messenia prefecture, a 55-minute ride from our little house, over the other side of the mountain and then along the coast. Yesterday I drove there at noon, as the clouds from Arkadia (the prefecture to the north) lowered and thickened on the city.

Kalamata ring road with gorge to Sparta

View east toward distant Sparta, over the mountains

 

I navigated my way through the bustling city to the public parking area, where I meet an old Athens friend, Akis, and a new friend (who already seems like an old friend), Niko. The two friends showered me with the typical Greek hospitality, while we took a walking a tour of the old city, of the 12th-century Frankish castle, and of nearby sites.

 

Chapel with the cathedral compound

Archaeological dig in process

The three of us climbed the long steps to the top of the castle, where a group of university students were engaged in an archaeological dig. It took me back to 1979/1980, when I was a classics and archaeology student in Athens, occasionally working as an apprentice dig assistant for the American School of Classical Studies, when I was enrolled at College Year in Athens in my junior year abroad. It was then that I met my dearest and oldest Greek friends, Thanasi and Akis.

 

The old city center

Kalamata cathedral

Ascending to the Frankish castle, c. 1200

Here are some photos from yesterday’s outing, which included a hair-rising drive back to our village at dusk, on the dangerous coastal road. So-called “defensive driving” doesn’t cut it here. One needs a balance of defense and offense, a ready vocabulary of insults, and a small arsenal of hand gestures. But the little Nissan Micra isn't much of challenge to the Mercedes 300 than nearly ran me off the road. I offered the driving a swift commentary on his mother, sister, and family goats.

 

Old friends and new friends

Archaeological finds halt the new parking lot

At the time, it felt very much like a death-defying experience, and so I was pleased to arrive at the spitaki (little house) with the last rays of pink light vanishing from the western Mediterranean horizon. It was shaking from a combination of abject fear and raging anger. Not recommended, it leads nowhere quickly.

Lunch in the old city

Doesn't getting any better than this