The sound of the church bells
from the main square in Finikounda reverberate across the sea and up the hills,
reminding the faithful (and the faithless, who are still sleeping) that the
liturgy will soon begin. It also marks a holiday, among the most important παναγηρη/panagiri (Orthodox
Christian celebrations) of the church year: Αγιος Πνευματα/Ayios Pnevmata, or “Holy
Spirit,” which is known as Pentecost in the Western church.
For the believers, the celebration marks Christ’s final ascension into Heaven, fifty days after the Resurrection. Along with Easter, it is an important moment in the liturgical calendar. And also a time for great celebration and revelry. This was on display in the village last night, as hundreds of people—Greeks and foreign residents alike—engaged in the “promenade” along the waterfront: husband, wives, children, and friends walked hand in hand along the waterfront, stopping for a coffee or an ouzo, as the twilight turned the cobalt sea into a pastel of indescribably gentle, soft beauty.
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| Fresh and local |
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| Pylos town square |
Summer is here
For all practical purposes Ayio Pneuvmata marks the start of summer. Another measure of summer is found on the beach itself: it is now impossible to dash from umbrella/beach towel to the ocean’s edge without wearing sandals, because the sand will scorch your feet in seconds. But the plunge into the ocean tempers the suffering and make for a calm sense of release.
For me, the rising heat, the cacophony of the cicadas, and the general vibe of rural Greece is background music to what has become an established routine, which includes a morning run (before the heat becomes intolerable), some house and perivoli (garden/pasture) tasks, a bit of freelance copyediting in an effort to remain solvent. And then I gather my bag for the beach: water (lots), snack, towel, book, notepad, sunscreen. Alas, there is no room left for a bathing suit—which has been largely extraneous since 1979.
My energy levels are high, despite the late nights, the heat, the lack of sleep, the occasional ouzo. None of which is a recipe for exceptional cognition.
I never promised my (two or three) readers much in the way of brilliant composition. So I play the hand I was given, even if I “don’t have all the cards,” to quote Our Dear Leader.
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| At Ploes, in Finikounda |
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| Never doubted it... |
We humans are endowed with a
unique capacity for self-deception. So often we falsely assume that we are smarter,
stronger, kinder, or however better equipped than simple reality might suggest.
I suppose that I am not immune to this very human failure.
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It feels right to avoid all the news from the Taliban West and instead appreciate this life for what it is: a daily gift with simple pleasures, one that includes family and friends and good health. And food!!
Slightly further afield
A few days ago I enjoyed the company of two friends, Ken and Niko, one English the other Greek, for a coffee in the plateia (square) in Pylos, the largest regional town, about 15 kilometers to the west. Pylos is a mystical and mythical place with a storied history dating back to the Middle Bronze Age--Homer's "sandy Pylos"--then the site of an epic battle between Sparta and Athens during the Peloponnesian War; then few thousand years later the site of enormous naval battle (in the Bay of Navarino, 1832), pitting the Greek, Russian, French, and English fleets against the Ottomans. The Ottoman fleet was obliterated and Greek Independence, after 400 years of misery, was at hand.
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| One thousand years of harvest |
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| Morning swim |
The town square has no shortage of characters, both Greek and foreign resident alike.
At Niko’s urging, we visited Sophia in her second hand shop, where shirts cost 5 euros. Ken describes the owner as Sylvester Stallone’s long-lost mother. Which is generous.
The old ways are still with us
Returning from Pylos, we pass the village of Mesohori, which sits astride a steep rocky mountain that overlooks the Ionian Sea to the west.
In days gone by, when the boys of Mesohori sought the hand of a young maiden, the approving mother-in-law-to-be made one request of the suitor: he had to run up the mountain, through the brambles and thistle—which I can say, from personal experience, leads to significant blood loss—and return with a strip of rosemary from the wild bushes at the summit. It seems a fair bargain for marriage. The soon-to-be bride simply produced a chest of woven items and her father a few dozen sheep as her part of the bargain, the dowry.
These boys—or any male deserving of a compliment—are called παλικαρια/palikaria, which translates, roughly, into “heroic and chivalrous fighter.” Cretans, by their nature, are palikaris. The ones from the high mountain regions, like my grandfather, who was born in 1892, are called κλεφτης/kleftis, or “thieves/robbers,” for which our people have a distinguished history. The prized items of theft were--and in some places still are--sheep. On Crete, the traditional songs/verse that describe these exploits are called μαντινάδες/mantinathes, a rhyming couplet with a “sting in the tail,” as the British say.
Sadly, in this traditional and patriarchal society there is no real equivalent word for women, who are long-suffering and central to male existence. But we all recognize that they are truly heroic souls in their own way—having to put up with the men in their lives.
On the other end of the labeling
spectrum, in the world of insults and obcenities, is Greece's universal adjective--the word μαλάκα/malaka. It can be both an insult or—in proper
context—a word of endearment. Boys calls boys malakas. Girls call girls malakas.
Priests call parishioners malakas. But let’s not mince words: it
means, literally, “masturbator.” 
A Greek lesson on every bag
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On the island of Sapienza, located a few kilometers out to sea beyond Methoni, with a town with a massive Venetian castle dating from the early Middle Ages, my friend Niko recalled collecting salt as a child. The sea water, following the winter storms, would collect in the rocks and crags, where it evaporated in the heat of summer. The resulting salt is full of trace minerals that are exceptional for one's health—and a key ingredient for processing olives, fish, and dried meats.
Niko also recalled how the fishermen made a special soup from whatever of the day’s catch went unsold in the market.
The fish were placed in a large pan and were covered with seawater. As the seawater evaporated more seawater was added, then some olive oil, and finally the juice of several lemons. The soup was poured over dry, crusty bread. And this became the super food of champions.
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On the way back to Finikounda we stopped to buy several kilos of frozen octopus, which come from the Indian Ocean and are a real bargain for those who enjoy eating exceptionally sentient beings (I don’t).
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| House with the little red roof--near the cypress trees--home sweet home |
My big fat Greek escape
Being here—simply existing here—has been one of the premier experiences and passions of my life, one that began in 1974, right here in the western Peloponnese, at a summer camp for Orthodox Christian youth from America. Part religious indoctrination, part summer holiday. I chose my part with care.
Among the things that I appreciate in Greece are the reckless fatalism (“we’re all going to die—so enjoy your life today”) and the massive incongruities of life.
Last night, when I came home from a night in the village, I turned on the radio to listen to the Kalamata FM station—a really great way to learn Greek, especially the rapid-fire variety.
Through the rural Greek airwaves a Willie Nelson special filled the night air with the sounds of home. The other home.
And then again, last night there was a Beatles special, with an interesting take. The DJ would play an original Beatles tune (the first was “O-bla-di”) followed by a Greek-language cover of the same tune. Listening carefully, I realized that while the melody was a perfect match to the English original, the Greek choruses were very cheeky. I sat alone giggling in the cool night air.
Maniatiko Valley
Behind Finikounda, heading inland from the sea and just beyond the agricultural zone, a rich and ecologically diverse valley is formed between two large mountain ranges. It is a European Union designated wilderness area—and the home to a wide range of endangered Mediterranean floral and fauna: among the former, jackals, wild boar, and the Mediterranean golden eagle. And snakes. Lots of snakes.
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| Ghost village |
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| Where the valley ends, the trail begins |
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| Start of legendary trail, 18 km long |
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| Several stream crossings |
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| An ancient olive tree with tales to tell |
Where the thousand-year-old olive trees end—a liminal place that is reminiscent of Middle Earth or a Harry Potter episode—the very narrow track begins. It leads 18 kilometers through an exceptionally remote area, passing through three or four ghost villages (some destroyed by the Germans during World War II), several Bronze Age sites, once-occupied caves, an abandoned monastery, several small churches, a medieval Venetian water works, an abandoned schoolhouse from which partisans staged attacks against the Ottomans, and a host of other fascinating sites. And did I mention the snakes?
“Remote” is the operative word. I
aspire to run the full 18 km from Finikounda to the village on the other end,
called Ambelokipi. Doing so would require a very early start, a hydration pack
with some nutrition, compass/map, Greek phone, and my trusty German-language
snake bite kit. Also, someone will need to pick me up on the other end…or call
the equivalent of the Maine Warden Service to come fetch my body. 
Wasn't there this morning
Yesterday I did an initial recon, running with my pack about halfway and then turning around to return before I ran out of water and shade.
At the 10-kilometer mark I saw a sign that said “cave-church, 250 meters,” but it pointed off the trail into a thicket of meter-high dried grass, brambles, and thistle, and then toward a stream bed with a four-meter high bamboo forest, with semi-dry mud that was full of wild boar tracks.
After the initial posted sign, there was no evidence of a trail and I feared getting lost. As I retraced my footsteps to the main trail, I heard all sorts of movement and hissing from the overgrowth. I had been warned about snakes so I retreated with great care, wishing I had worn some leather breeches like a Cretan shepherd.
When I returned to the main gravel road, I met a woman with a walking stick. We struck up a conversation in Greek. She was an avid hiker—and, like me, was 66 years old and seemingly very fit. I told Dimitra of my plan to run to the other end one day and also mentioned the “cave-church.” Had she ever seen it? Why couldn’t I find it?
Without any prompting she said: “Don’t leave the trail there this time of the year. The biggest snakes I’ve ever seen live in that thicket, possibly even the rare horned viper.” My farmer friends tell have told me that the venom from a horned viper will cause convulsions and paralysis within 40 minutes…not enough time to get to the Pylos medical center.
There is nothing like local
knowledge. I still hope to do this run one morning. Maybe I’ll have to borrow
my neighbor’s Ruger and machete—the quintessential cross-training gear.
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| Swimming with the loggerhead turtles |
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| Best kept secret from the house...if you can scale the cliffs |
The beach
I spend at least three hours a day on the beach, which has a totally narcotic effect: the extreme heat, followed by the silky coolness of the ocean, hanging out with a few other compatriots in their birthday suits. We are all good friends.
Anemomilos beach, distant
Somehow, when I swim, my thoughts turn to the barrel-chested sponge divers from the island of Kalymnos who free dive, holding a boulder in two hands and a basket strung across their shoulders, to a depth of 50 meters (more than 150 feet). They fill their bags—at such depth, the lungs perform something short of a miracle, allowing several minutes of foraging—then they tug the rope as a sign for the men in the caique above to hoist their catch while they are resurfacing. The caique is full of boulders for subsequent dives.
I am not the strongest swimmer but I make up for it with reckless fearlessness. So I have tried to swim down as far as a I can. I think the boulder, held in two hands, is the key, because by the time I swim hard for 20 seconds, straight down, I’m exhausted.
Amateurs like me are prone to strokes, so I’m not pushing this activity all too hard. Instead I’ll run through the snake pit, which is a bit safer.
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| Olives groves down to the sea |
The sounds of summer...
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