On the Edge
This blog references the village
Finikounda, which is about 3 kilometers down the winding road from our village,
called Akritohori, which lies at about 600 feet above sea level—halfway up the
mountain, leading toward the pass that eventually leads down toward the Gulf of
Messinia and the large town named Koroni, with its lovely old Crusader castle,
nunnery, and vibrant cultural life.
Akritohori, our village,
literally means “village on the edge” or “on the precipice.” It is
appropriately named for my purposes, having lived on the edge, more or less,
for the past sixty-five years—financially, socially, intellectually. Our
village also goes by the old Turkish name, “Grizi,” which means “gray,” and the
smaller satellite village below—with its flat plain and rich agriculture, is
called “Grizokampos,” or the “gray pasture.” It was probably named after the
gray cliffs that surround the flatland.
Someone from Grizi is called a Grizaios.
My Greek friends down in Finikounda introduce me to their friends as a Grizaios.
Which, as a foreigner, I find endearing.
We looked for land in several
places fifteen years ago, and it is largely by accident that we ended up here,
in Akritohori—just below the village center, tucked into a flat area that was
divided by the construction of the main road (the so-called Methoni-Koroni
Road) about twenty-five years ago. The road divided this large area of pastureland
into two areas: the ambeli (vineyard) on the other side of the road, and
the elies (olive groves) on our side of the road. Not behind a rock and
a hard place—but between olives and grapes.
In some ways this is a lonely
part of the village, with only a smattering of houses that are far apart. There
is no artificial light, so the night sky is phenomenal—shooting stars and
constellations are so evident.
For this reason—relative
remoteness—we still have no electricity, because the cost of installing power
poles—by my reckoning, we need at leave six of them—would make this undertaking
prohibitive. So after eleven years of habitation, we are leaning toward a
photovoltaic system, one that is portable in the sense that we can disassemble
it each year and store it off-site. Lest it become Gypsy fodder in our absence.
In the meantime, some solar lights and a small generator have sufficed.
Mental health
No different than our village in Downeast
Maine, this place should not be considered a bastion of superior mental health.
In short, there is a fair collection of crazy but generally harmless people.
Given my daily routine of running up the mountain road in the blazing heat of
summer, the locals have a good sense as to which camp I belong.
But “mentally ill” is a relative
term—and of course, psychological problems are no laughing matter. There is a
fair collection of souls who “act out,” but they are generally harmless and are
treated with compassion and understanding by most villagers.
On the subject of mental health:
in a little more than a week, I will set off for Athens and then back to
Boston, via Dublin. The time passes and the thought of leaving here saddens me.
But the thought of seeing my
family in New England, friends in our sleepy village, musical cohorts, and the
beauty of Downeast Maine, these are all prospects that sustain me and soften
the departure.
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Speaking Greek
Each day my spoken Greek improves
exponentially, which isn’t to say that I don’t make enormous mistakes in
syntax, word choice, and general expression. But I’m able to communicate on
almost any subject at a rapid-fire pace. I am a little embarrassed when the
non-English-speakers erroneously label me as being “fluent.” Nothing could be
further from the truth.
But one of the most fascinating
things is how Greek has become a sort of lingua franca in this region. I
converse, in Greek, with non-English-speaking people from Germany, Italy,
France, Poland, Croatia, the Czech Republic, Bulgaria, Albania, Bangladesh, and
even a few Chinese. It is always a really gratifying experience and it
encourages me to continue learning.
Wherever I go, I carry my little
reporter’s note pad. A day doesn’t pass without adding a few new words,
expressions, or curious idioms.
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