I Was So Much Older Then

 

Looking west toward Finikounda

I’m Younger Than That Now

 

 

Something about this country, my family’s patrida (homeland), which I first visited in 1973, has always put a spell on me. A bit of Hellenic black magic, in a good sense, if that's possible. For fifty years, this nation and its people have rejuvenated, restored, and enriched me in countless ways. I am blessed to be here now.

 

This is not quite the final lap, but it is getting close. The days come and go with alarming rapidity.

 

All of my days are packed with running, house repairs, freelancing, swimming, visiting friends, and thinking about what I want to say in this blog. Roughly in that order. I’m not willing to dispense with any of it.

 

I will be the first to admit that there is nothing particularly profound or literary in my observations—these are often the rantings and ravings of someone who sleeps four or five hours on a good night.

 

Mediterranean Yoga (aka siesta)

 

Sleeping (or at least, lying down) in the afternoon is the thing that keeps me going. It is a universal endeavor here in Greece during the summer, as it in most other Mediterranean countries. A little nap makes a late evening possible, in the luscious, warm seaside air.

 

Our mountain village

 

The tourist haunts are fun at night, but our village is the real deal: a traditional mountain village, populated by farmers and craftspeople, who show genuine hospitality and kindness to “strangers.” In Greek it is called φιλοξενία (filoxenia), which means, quite literally, “friend of the foreigner.”

Run, swim, repeat

 

But I don’t really feel like a foreigner, having obtained my Greek dual citizenship (as did our daughter, Evyenia) in 2017, after a long and arduous ordeal that begin at the Greek Consulate in Boston. It is fun and enlightening to meet so many resident foreigners—my friend Niko calls it the “United Nations of Finikounda”—but I prefer to spend most of my time with Greeks. Doing so thrusts me into a linguistic and cultural universe that serves to strengthen my spirit and improve my spoken Greek.

 

I carry my little notebook wherever I go. When I meet someone new, their name goes into said notebook, with a descriptor: “Niko red tractor”; “Yianni big vineyard”; “Maria sweetbread.”

 

There truly is something in a name. When you remember someone’s name and then greet them by their name in your next encounter, you are showing a certain kind of respect. And it is much appreciated.

 

Everyone in the village knows my name—and part of my back story—and they shower kindness and generosity on me. And I try to reciprocate in any way I can. During the first year (2013) I helped with grape harvest in September.

 

Bachelor farmers

 

There are a lot of unmarried, bachelor farmers in this village. In traditional Greek society, brothers are obliged to ensure that their sisters are married off. Although the old-fashioned dowry was made illegal (officially) many years ago, something of it remains, unspoken though it may be.

 

Mountain village

It goes something this: “Marry my sister and you will receive a pasture with 27 olives trees. We will throw in a few goats for good measure—because she is a bit homely, just like you.”

 

 

 

Breakfast has various forms

A uniform diet

 

In Messenia the primary source of protein is pork. I have been eating so much pork that I fear I might soon grow a tail. Or squeal with delight. The vegetarian alternatives are just as good. 

 

Running

Loutsa beach--nearest swimming hole

 

I have been a distance runner since the age of fourteen. It begin with a trip to the local YMCA with my father, a World War II vintage combat Marine who I admired and respected but could never really agree with. On any subject.

 

We agreed on running. Each Saturday, we would circle the YMCA’s basketball court, on a wooden track with its banked corners, that was raised about twenty feet above the court. His Marine buddies would comment: “George, that kid can run.” I blushed with adolescent pride.

 

Here in Greece, I run every morning, while it is still relatively cool. (I usually swim in the ocean at some point during my run.) Since there is almost no flat terrain in Greece, I tackle steep grades almost every day, gaining about 1,000 feet of elevation—that’s a bit more than Mount Everest every month.

 

At age 64, I still manage over 2,000 miles per year. I’m not bragging, I'm really not. It feels so right, even more so with each passing year, like a form of moving meditation, and I am overcome with gratitude for this gift that I have cultivated over a lifetime.

 

There is no better way to explore the world, as my equally dedicated running friends will attest.