Time Enough

 

View toward Finikounda--but it changes with the light and movement of the sun

Nearly a countdown (gulp)

 

We have arrived at the last day of the month. A Greek might say the same thing as an English-speaker: πως περαει ο καιρός / pos pernai of xeros …how does the time pass?! Although the past two weeks have seemed quite long, jam full of daily activites, surely the next two will pass all too quickly.

 

I manage to stay busy—some might say frenetic—every day. Either I’m running, swimming, working on the house and grove, or visiting friends. More likely, I’m doing most or all of it at the same time. Multi-tasking in the Mediterranean.

 

Attuned to nature

Perhaps it goes without saying that rural people are more connected to the land, the cycles of nature, and the flora and fauna that surround them. So it is with those of us who are privileged to live in eastern Maine—our own little paradise squeezed between the 45th parallel and the cold blue of the Bay of Fundy.

 

Here in Messinia, everyone is a farmer, even if they own a taverna, a cafeneion, or a tourist shop to supplement their income. People grow up from childhood working the olive harvest (late October to late November), along with the activities of the other eleven months that make their livelihood possible. This involves, pruning, clearing, tilling, and (gasp!) spraying. More and more farms are βιολογικη / violoyiki…organic. The price of olive oil has nearly doubled in the past five years, owing to increased demand, declining production (due to longer drought periods and a Mediterranean-wide infestation, the latter. especially severe in Italy), and the lack of workers to gather the harvest. Farming organically, aside from the obvious benefits, guarantees a higher price per kilo for wholesale oil.

 

Local farmers have exhausted their supply of family and neighborly olive gatherers and have resorted in recent years to employing Albanians, Pakistanis, and Bangladeshis. Lately, the Albanians, who are master stone masons, have asked for more than the farmers can afford to pay. So large swaths olive production are now going unharvested.

 

Democracy…now and then

The ancient Greeks developed the notion of democracy (albeit imperfect: slavery existed, and only male citizens who owned property could vote) and it was this template that the American Revolutionaries—Thomas Jefferson, Alexander Hamilton, John Adams, and others—looked to for inspiration, for both the Declaration of Independence and the nascent US Constitution.

After years of decline—from the classical world to the Hellenistic world to the Roman conquests, and finally the barbarian invasions of the early Middle Ages—the people of what is today modern Greece looked to the American Revolution in the 1820s for inspiration in establishing their own modern democratic state.

Which is equally imperfect. But what goes around comes around, as they say. And democracy itself is a continuing experiment, an aspirational act at its very best.

Now, in America, the experiment is threatened more so than at any time since 1776.

Brace yourself, world. We are about to come apart at the seams.

 

The Other

 

Notions of “the Other” prevail the world over.

In America, the Other might be Mexicans or Central Americans, people of color, poor people, LGBTQ+ people—and now, depending on your persuasions, Democrats or Republicans.

Here in Greece, the Other might be Albanians (of which many Greeks, including possibly us, have some heritage, dating back to invasions of the later Middle Ages), Bulgarians, Gypsies, communists, fascists…

It seems that wherever you are, the dominant demographic always finds the Other in their midst, a product of fear, ignorance, and learned behavior.

 

The six-day workweek

When Greece was getting bailed out during the Eurozone crisis of 2009 and after, the common belief among Northern Europeans was that Greeks were lazy, they didn’t work many hours, and they spent half the day taking a siesta, smoking cigareetes, drinking coffee, and playing tavli (backgammon). But, in reality, when the OEC looked at the statistics, they discovered that Greeks actually worked more hours per week than any other European citizens. The stereotype was based in racism—and even envy. Life in Northern Europe can sterile. Life in the Mediterranean countries is vibrant and sometimes a bit excessive. Their loss, our gain.

But now Greece’s conservative government is advocating for a six-day work week, while almost all industrialized nations are moving toward a four-day work week. Essentially, work more earn less. Sound familiar?

 

You’d think, surely, this means fewer hours each day over a six day period. But you would be mistaken. The government is proposing that everyone (except politicians, naturally) works the same the number of hours each day…but add one more day. For the same pay.

The prime minister cites labor shortages and declining birthrates  (a real problem—throughout the world in the post-Covid period), but Greek workers suffer under the double-edge sword of low salaries (average is 800 euros per month, even for those with advanced degrees) and stubbornly high inflation, especially for food and fuel (gas is nearly 2 euros per liter or roughly $9.00 US per gallon).

 

This is the face of “austerity.” But don’t be smug, you American readers, this new reality is coming to a theater near you. How else can the collective sustain the deadbeat 1 percent?

 

The super rich: Now marginalized by the very, very super rich

It is not unusual to see several $25 million yachts at a time in Finikounda’s outer harbor. But these pale in comparison to the vessel that anchored yesterday.

Jeff Bezos’s Koru dropped anchor on the leeward side of Schiza island. Recently constructed at a cost of $500 million dollars, this 430-foot-sailboat includes a below deck swimming pool, encased in class on all four sides. Folks in the dining room can look down at the their friends swimming below. And the swimmers can look down (and sideways) at the Mediterranean below the surface.

 

In addition, the Koru is flanked by two support vessels, the size and look of Navy frigates, each with a helicopter on the afterdeck—security for the richest man in the world and his current guest: Kim Kardashian.

 

Rather than support our humble but lovely village--not to mention our rock concert fundraiser for the village clinic--these folks flew by helicopter to the invitation-only Costa Navarino resort about 15 km west of here. Rooms start at 3,000 euros per night, the best suite costs…go figure…28,000 euros per night.

 

As one of the few Americans in this village, I anticipated a call from my fellow travelers. Alas, I need to find other company.

 

In defense of semi-fluency

“Fluency” in a foreign language—this is a loaded, highly fraught concept. Although I am capable of expressing most ideas in Greek and follow the conversations of others with relative ease, I would never assert “fluency.” Even “semi-fluency” is a stretch. But stumbling linguistically never stops me.

The locals, on the other hand, keep telling me how good my Greek is. I’m highly skeptical of their accolades.

So it was surprising last night, when I drove up to our mountain village cafeneion to hang out with the old men and work on my spoken Greek. For me, it is one of the great pleasures of being here.

I sat with a group of about four or five old farmers. A fancy car pulled up to the cafeneion and out stepped a dapper, middle-aged man, whom everyone seemed to know. Although he was originally from the village, he spent his life (and made his fortune) in Athens.

He joined our conversation. After I had spoken for a spell, about my life and work in the States, he promptly critiqued my Greek, in Greek:

“You know your Greek isn’t very good. You have an obvious American accent. And your word choice is a bit novice.” His English, which he tried to impress on me, was awfully rudimentary. 

I swallowed hard and didn’t really reply. Maybe I needed this to temper my linguistic hubris.

The man got up to use the rest room. One of the old men looked at me and said: “You know, he’s a real Malaka [translation: much worse than the relatively polite “asshole”], just ignore that pompous fool. He’s an Athenian. He’s no longer one of us. You speak excellent Greek, we all know what you’re saying.”

When the visitor with the fancy car returned to the table, the conversation had turned to sheep. So I turned to the visitor and asked, in Greek: “Let me ask you, Sir, when you slaughter and gut your sheep, how do you skin it? Do you use a razor blade, a flat blade, or a sharpened knife? Do you hang it and let it bleed out, or do you skin it on the ground? You must be expert at this because you’re … local.”

All the old man started to laugh, slapped their britches, and said “bravo, young man. This pousti [bastard] can’t do anything but make money in the city.”

It was a weird kind of vindication.

Difficult choices

The bartender at Southwest, a bar on the far end of the village, was a fellow student at the village school with my daughters in 2009. He was 12 then—so it feels curiously wrong to be served by a “child”….who is no longer a child.

“We have two specials tonight. What will it be, Porn Star or Sex on the Beach?”

My mother once told me that life would be rife with difficult choices.