Neither fear nor loathing

 

The endless olive grove

Our little town--a village of 96 souls

View down to Finikounda

Words and Names

 

Although I’m hardly a linguist, I’ve always been drawn to the nuances of language, with a kind of sophomoric enthusiasm. (I can’t make a real living, so I’m a book editor by trade.) I began studying Modern Greek in earnest at age 20, the only one of 23 grandchildren who learned the mother tongue. The word “fluent” is debatable. The locals say I’m fluent. I beg to differ. And yet, I’m able to argue with a shop owner, ream out a bad driver, beg for mercy from a police officer, and communicate with the old men at the cafeneion--the latter being the most fun of all.

 

As this blog is all about observation—having dubbed my genre “observational narrative,” which is likely not original—I can’t resist observing my second language. And also my first language, American English, that bastardized hybrid of real English.

 

There are so many words in English that are mystifying. Why do we allow, in English, the word “butterfly” (a stick of butter with wings?) when Greek offers the more elegant and poet petalouthi—that is, a flower that flies? There are a multitude (is a multitude?) of such examples.

 

Growing up, we had Greek American friends with the last name Katapodis—literally, “under foot.” How curious is that?

 

My own surname, Aretakis, could be interpreted in two possible ways. First, nearly all Cretan names end in -akis. And the Classical Greek stem, arete, means “virtue” or “merit.” While I can live with “the virtuous Cretan,” there is a somewhat less glorious etymology.

 

In modern Greek, the akis ending is also a diminutive—so, for example, a paidi is a child and a paidaki is a “small child.”

 

So is an Aretakis one with little virtue? It begs the question.

 

My philhellene friend Bill will have a sensible retort to my juvenile attempt at linguistics and usage.

 

 

No regrets

 

 

I have already reached the halfway point of my time in Greece—at least for this year. Time doesn’t fly, it runs. Faster and faster as we get older. Already a lump forms in my throat, saddened by the prospect of departure. 

 

Do I really have to go back to a waterlogged Downeast Maine, where the mosquitoes are gathering, the culinary options (outside of the house) are nil, and anything vaguely resembling a “cultural mileau” simply doesn’t exist? The “traditional” foods, poetry, dance, and folkways of Downeast Maine…that’s a non sequitur of the highest caliber. But I love the place and (most of) its people dearly. Comparisons are wrong-headed and ill-advised.

 

As much as I treasure the “other” paradise—and, of course, my dear family, my old friends, music, running, and a rich natural world—something really big will be missing when I return to the States.

 

Rural Greece in the summertime. Or anytime. It is really special.

 

Life is a beach (bad dad joke)

Morning run

Why can’t I live in two places at the same time? The concept seems so elementary, the potential for mental health huge.

 

I get drawn into the “if onlys”—if only I had renovated this Greek house twenty years ago; if only I had the means to travel across the Pond with no regard for expense; if only I was 20 years old again…ad nauseum.

 

Before you give me the digital slap, I am reminded of the modern Greek, Nobel Prize–winning poet, George Seferis, whose long poem Mythistorima contends with this very thought. I first read this poem in 1979, when I was an archaeology/classics student for a year in Athens, with my sloppy attempts at translation. Certain parts of this long poem have become my go-to admonitions for such ruminations. It talks about living in the present moment, wherever one is, and it describes “regret” in the most basic terms.

 

The Greek reads: Λυπούμαι διοτη άφησα να περάσει ενα πλατύ ποτάμι χωρις να πιω ουτε μια στάλα (Lepoume dioti afesa na perasei ena plate potami horis na pio oute mia stala):

 

My translation reads: I regret that I let a wide river pass through my fingers without ever drinking a single drop.

 

It has taken more than a half-century to come to the realization that there is no room for regret, especially in a life that careens toward an expiration date just a little bit each day.

 

How to make friends and influence people

 

Accept hospitality graciously. Show hospitality without a fault. It is as simple as that.

 

Take no photos

 

Mavrovouni--"black mountain"

I brought some English friends to the Kalamata airport to meet their daughter, who just flew in from Manchester. She was late getting through passport control, so I waited outside and watched the planes take off and land.

 

Adjacent to the civilian airport is the Greek Air Force’s section, whose airfield is now being expanded in a cooperative agreement with the Israeli Air Force—and billions of euros are being pumped into the region, which is a source of concern for some. Like me.

 

Greek pilots learn to fly on powerful single-engine, single-seat aircraft. They buzz the shoreline near our house every day, but are usually flying at such an altitude that you can’t even see them. But it can sound like Pearl Harbor in December 1941.

 

At the airport, these young pilots engage in a constant touch-and-go as part of their training. There are also American F16s, which roar overhead and shake you right to the bone. It is part of the larger militarization of the eastern Mediterranean, which grows in strategic importance each day.

 

Whatever you do, dear reader, resist the temptation to film these aerial acrobatics. Or film them at your own peril.

 

Two British tourists, presumably innocent aviation enthusiasts, were caught with high-powered telescopic lens on their cameras filming this aerial ballet. Unfortunately for them, when the police arrived to seize their cameras, they noticed a controversial stamp of entry on their passports: Turkish.

 

They are still in a local prison awaiting their trial for espionage.

 

 

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Swallows—halidones

 

The swallows dart overhead in the early morning and at dusk, remarkable creatures of the avian world, whose migration from North Africa is the stuff of myth. In the village they navigate between buildings at incredible speed. They are delight to watch along the waterfront, while sitting at a cafeneion and sipping a drink.

 

In traditional Greece, swallows have their own spiritual dimension, and having a pair build a nest on your house eaves is a special kind of honor. It is a mark of good fortune for the home and its occupants. And they also eat mosquitoes by the bucket-load, so they are most welcome.

 

So when I learned last year that my dear foreign friends had torn down a swallow nest from their marble pediments, I felt just a little heartbroken and saddened. I said nothing.

 

For years I’ve hoped that the swallows would discover our humble abode and bring us good tidings. And fewer mosquitoes.

Breakfast of champions

 

 

Money talks, the world over

 

This corner of Messenia, in the southwest Peloponnese, is getting bombarded with big money. That’s Big with a capital B. Most of it is coming from northern Europe: the Germans, Dutch, and Swiss seem to have it all. They are building massive, wrong-sized villas—the villa-fication of Greece. I suppose they are entitled to do whatever they want with their money.

 

But just like back in eastern Maine, there are unforeseen consequences, beyond issues of overdevelopment. The worst (here and there) is that young people who grew up in this remarkable region are being priced out of the real-estate market. And that’s an understatement.

 

East of Pylos, the Costa Navarino resorts are growing like some invasive species, taking over waterfront once frequented by locals, building massive luxury hotels, and (worst of all in an arid country) building multiple 18-hole golf courses. Soon Costa Navarino will be part of the PGA tour, which barely a sport if you ride in a cart.

 

The region is becoming the exclusive playground of the very, very rich: from rich Europeans to Russian oligarchs to Chinese and Saudi investors.

 

I learned yesterday that the “discount” package tour from the UK to Costa Navarino—for one week, with airfare, and "breakfast included!"—costs $16,000. Per person. In seems unconscionable, but it’s true. Sadly.

 

Here, about thirty kilometers away, the beaches are pristine and undeveloped. The big beach in Finikounda, Anemomilos, carries the European Union’s “Natura 2000” designation, with its uninterrupted dunes with rare flora and fauna, and as a major nesting ground for the loggerhead turtle, a graceful creature of the sea that is the size of a VW beetle.

 

Folks wonder if money is more powerful than nature. (Thinnking folks know the answer to that question.) Will this area eventually have a similar fate to Yalova, the once sleepy village that has now been consumed by Costa Navarino?

 

Things happen. Money speaks and ordinary people listen.

 

 

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Sunset over the Ionian Sea

Thievery

 

There is and has been an epidemic of thievery in this area—in truth, throughout Greece. This is a traditional society that would never have tolerated such activity a half generation ago. To steal brings shame, dishonor, and opprobrium to your family. But Greece is changing. Ordinary Greeks have struggled since the “crisis” of 2007, bad debt has been sold to leeches of northern European finance, foreclosures have become a reality.

Banks are foreclosing on properties left and right. At the same time, very wealthy northern Europeans (German, Dutch, Swiss primarily—also Italians, French, and Swedes) are moving here in droves, building colossal “second” homes. They tend to be the primary targets of break-ins. Follow the money.

 

We have nothing in our house of value—a travel guitar, a small radio, and bedding. I don’t lose any sleep over break-ins, which is not say it can’t happen. But mercy on the soul who breaks in while I’m there. My garden hoe has their name on it.

 

Thievery always assumes the non-violent variety, that is, break-ins of unoccupied houses and car break-ins (seeking loose change left behind carelessly).  Theories abound on the culprits; they range from Gypsies (in particular, Bulgarian Gypsies) to Albanians to local villagers. Who knows, it could even be that lunatic American who runs up the mountain every morning.

 

A few days ago old Nikolas, the 86-year-old farmer who I picked up hitch-hiking earlier in the week, was victimized. He had just sold a field and had 5,000 euros stuffed into the proverbial mattress—perhaps his life savings. Gone. Without a trace. Someone obviously had some inside information.

 

Under-subscribed beach

Finikounda harbor at night

I tell the men in the cafeneion that this wouldn’t happen in my village in Maine, or at least not to such an extent. A few of the local men would set a trap, beat the culprits senseless, and that would be the end of it. For some reason, it doesn’t happen like this here. Are the perpetrators someone’s second cousin twice removed? Is there fear of retribution?

 

It is a perplexing state of affairs and by my estimation the only wrinkle in paradise. Which is why my little rucksack goes wherever I go. And my garden hoe, with its hickory handle, lives in the house, ready to meet and greet.

Be happy at all costs