Temenos: DWI, Names, & Monks

Use em or lose em

Morning paddle to Marathi

I am on an agricultural mission of sorts. No, it's not planting more lemon trees (which I've done) or a non-fruit-bearing mulberry (later today, when it's cooled off)...it's eating oranges. The mission is simple: juice five oranges every morning and again every afternoon, following siesta. We are awash in oranges, so the old adage ("use em or lose em") applies...generously.

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Driving while under the influence (of alcohol, not politics) is no laughing matter—not back home, not in Greece, nowhere. But the consequences in rural Greece can be pathetically laughable.

The little red roof at 3:00

With its narrow, winding roadways—populated by insane Greek drivers and foreign apprentice drivers, tractors galore, cement mixers, oblivious cyclists, old ladies in black, and goats, sheep, and really big snakes—the hazards are manifest. Add a little booze and driving becomes an act of extreme recklessness.

But here’s an example of the dismay I feel concerning an DWI offense. My English friend C. was driving back from Kalamata, after enjoying a nice lunch with her husband, including a shared half kilo of wine on the waterfront. She found herself caught up in a breathalizer stop at the Messini roundabout. Everyone is stopped—there is nothing like “suspicion,” based on poor driving.

She felt like she was sober, but she failed the test. The cop re-tested her and she failed again. So she was ordered by the police to pay a small fine on the spot…and then she was free to drive home.

Go figure.

My little notebook

For years while traveling in Greece, I’ve carried a little notebook and pen wherever I go. Since I am the quintessential visual learner, new Greek words and the names of people are entered in longhand. These bits are entered into the master list on the laptop, to one file called “Greek vocabulary” the other called “Greek Name Directory.”

Admittedly, it is a bit retentive and the activity garners some looks from locals. (“Is this guy taking notes on us?”). But the process serves me well.

The problem with names, is that in this village of 300 or so (winter souls), so very many people have the same name. For example, I know at least eight people who are named Dimitri Tsonis, so a bit of fine-tuning is necessary, usually in the following manner: “Dimitri plumber,” “Dimitri mason,” “Dimitri fish taverna,” “Dimitri son of Panos,” “Dimitri the one-handed gardener.”

Bouganvillia

Another reality complicates (or simplifies, depending on your perspective) the matter of name recall. Nearly 90 percent of men in this part of the Peloponnese are named—in order of commonality—Panayiotis, Dimitris, Nikos, and Kosta. So, if you forget a name, you enjoy a 25 percent chance of being correct by guessing. It could be “Panayiotis butcher,” “Dimitri goats,” or “Kosta lisp.”

Twenty-first-century monks

A few days ago, while out for a run, I came upon three old monks: long-bearded, with pony tails, and wearing full, black vestments in the building heat of summer. I saw them from the back, with their arms around each other in a pose of lovely brotherhood. The monk in the middle was taking a selfie of all three.