A famous nobody
A few years ago Brad Pitt and Angelina
Jolie appeared in the village and caused a stir. Last year, before my family
arrived, Beyoncé, who is infinitely more talented than Hollywood’s dynamic duo,
was said to have strolled the waterfront with an entourage from a massive yacht
anchored just beyond the harbor breakwater.
Famous people, who don’t really
interest me, come and go. Beautiful places throughout Greece attract beautiful people. The
summer here can be like that.
One of the ladies at the sweet
shop on the main road has taken to staring at me when I enter the store. It’s
not menacing, it’s not a come-on, but I do notice it. This afternoon there was
another blue-eye-piercing study, just like in previous days. This time she asked
a question from over the counter.
“What’s your name?”
I rarely use my American given
name (Jonathan or Jon for short), preferring to be “Yianni” (my baptismal name)
when I’m in Greece. For some reason, though, I deferred to what just a few locals insist on calling me.
“My name is Tzon. What’s you’re
name?” She didn’t answer.
“Are you a musician?” she asks.
“Yes, I am. How did you know?”
“You a very famous,” she
adds with a blush.
“No, ma’am, you’re confusing me
with someone else.”
“Sure” she say. “Whatever
you say.” And then she winks knowingly.
-----------------
The human lemming
Lying on the beach, festooned in the good Lord’s birthday suit, not a soul in sight along the long ribbon of white sand that extends a half kilometer in each direction. A glorious little camp on the edge of the Mediterranean—the best place to count my lucky stars. A wife and children I adore; good health; and a means of income while living in a tiny house that still seems very much like a dream.
I read, I doze off, I resist the temptation
to swim. The surf is driven by a fierce southerly, blowing across the open ocean
from North Africa. Waves crash on the beach and a thick, white foam rolls up
sand and pebbles toward my encampment, stopping just short of my towel.
In the distance I see a twenty-something
blonde, foreign woman—German, Dutch, or English judging by her fair complexion
and skimpy attire—walking in my direction. I continue reading my book, looking
up occasionally to notice that she is walking with her head down, zig-zagging
slightly. I realize that she is walking while looking at a mobile phone. I go
back to my book, a wonderful satire by Paul Beatty. Occasionally I laugh aloud,
no one can hear me.
When I look up again I notice the
arc of her walk. A bit of basic geometry tells me that she will either step on
me or fall into my lap. One hundred meters, fifty meters, then just a few steps away.
Does she not see me, in her pre-occupation? I wonder. At the eleventh hour she self-corrects
and heads down the angled slope, seaward, but not quite parallel to the beach. She
never really saw me, so I go on reading.
I notice what appears to be inevitable
as she continues to angle toward the ocean, seemingly oblivious to the incoming
surf. I see it coming, now from afar. A large wave breaks near her, she stumbles,
and lands phone-first into the receding ocean. Both phone and young woman
disappear momentarily in an agitated sea.
She shouts out something, but she
is so far away and her words are unrecognizable.
Primal fears
I will admit and submit to two
primal fears: snakes and lightning. Snakes because there are so many of them—the
non-poisonous ones can be two meters long; the poisonous adders are tiny by comparison,
but can be lethal. They are especially prevalent in the spring.
If you threw me in a snake pit
during a lightning storm, you’d have me. Hands down.
While on the beach, my back to the
mountains that separate us from Kalamata, I was startled by a loud crack of
lightning and the boom of thunder. I turned and realized that the distant storm
had crept over me in my oblivion. I quickly dressed, gathered my things, and
dashed toward the sand dunes—with a metal beach chair—to where my car was
parked, nearly hyperventilating as I unlocked the door. I had neglected to
exercise my usual caution while walking through the high, dead grass—where the
snakes blend in so well.
Yesterday a 26-year-old British windsurfer
on the island of Rhodes was struck by lightning and killed while on his board.
He lived in a seaside village with his English parents, had learned to speak
fluent Greek, and was beloved by the locals. Tragedies happen the world over.
This one was avoidable.
I was thinking about him when the
lightning stuck.
--------------------------------------
Μπλενεϊκο/Bleneiko: A Ghost Village Near
the Mountaintop
There is an abandoned “ghost
village” high above our mountain village. I had heard about it years earlier.
I assume that—like so many places
in Greece—a lack of water spelled its demise. My friend Panayioti, the local
beekeeper—was born there and told me that as a child there were dozens of
homes. Now they lay in ruins. Only the chapel, Saint Demetrios, remains.
I was determined to run there,
not being sure what I might find. It is an impossibly steep approach, and I made
the mistake of setting off too late in the morning—the sun was powerful at 10
a.m. But I wore a hydration vest and brought the usual “kit”: first aid,
compass, map, emergency blanket, and my iPhone (which has no service here but takes
great photos).
On the ascent, after passing one
massive villa owned by a very wealthy Swiss family, I was in the wilderness—the
wolli-wogs. I came across two large oxen, some wild mountain goats, a few
snakes spied from afar, and then the chapel, just after a shepherd’s warren.
I noticed some barking on the way
down, then realized I had stirred up three or four (I wasn’t sure) guard dogs.
There was no way around, I had to pass them in the descent. I was totally
apprehensive, so I picked up a handful of pebbles and gravel as I approached the dogs, who
stood like sentries on the gravel road. When I bent over for the rocks, I somehow
turned on the music on my phone, which was turned up all the way. It was Stevie
Raye Vaughn, “Texas Flood,” and the sound of raw electric guitar sent the dogs
running.
Saved by the blues! You gotta pay
your dues if you want to sing the blues…
No comments:
Post a Comment