A pre-departure introductionOur 2009 family sabbatical in Greece is the culmination of several years of planning and is made possible through Ann’s one-year teaching sabbatical, Jonathan’s “portable” work as a freelance copy editor, and several years of stubborn scrimping and saving. We intend to “home school” (away from home) our children––the second half of Manny’s 8th grade, Lucia’s 6th grade, and Evyenia’s 1st grade curricula will be supplemented by studies in modern Greek language, culture, and travel. And a periodic video postcard (podcast) to their local school is part of their educational plan.
We are full of the requiste anticipation (with a pinch of anxiety for good measure) and almost everything has fallen into place: from housesitters in our absence to house rentals in Greece; from itineraries sketched to rudimentary Greek studies now underway. While the dismal state of the world economy, uncertainty about employment, and the weak U.S. dollar (but improving U.S. reputation) may cause us to modify or abbreviate our plans, we are industrious, self-sufficient New Englanders capable of living on less––ready to be sustained by the wine-blue Aegean, crusts of village bread, and the occassional intimacy of our family tent.
These past few years have been marked by personal and family succeses, as well as goodbyes to loved ones, bold attempts at financial discipline, dreams deferred, and several important goals achieved. Ann’s father, Angelo, passed away in July, which was a great loss to our large, extended families. In August, Ann completed her graduate degree (MA in Education) and also received Maine state endorsement in ESL (for teaching English as a second language). Jonathan is engaged in a yearlong freelance editorial project on the subject of ancient Greece and Rome––a fitting precursor to our sabbatical. Who knows, maybe our trip is tax deductible??!
What are our goals during these next five or six months? Where will we stay? How will you be able to follow our exploits vicariously?
We hope to update this family blog on a weekly basis––with text and images and a slightly censored collection of our rantings and ravings from Greece.
You can reach us at our new, mobile email addresses:
jonathan.aretakis@gmail.comacannizzaro4@gmail.comemmanuel_giovanni_aretakis@hotmail.comlzaretakis@gmail.comSorry, but we don’t have a separate email address for Nia!
We will arrive in Athens on Feb. 10th, stay in an apartment near the marble stadium (the Panathenaikos), and a week later should be in our first residence, in the village of Finikounda in the southern Peloponnese, located roughly equidistant between the imposing Venetian citadels of Koroni and Methoni, the best preserved crusader castles in the Mediterranean.
By early May we hope to be on the island of Crete, in the vicinity of the old Turko-Venetian city of Hania (birthplace of Jonathan’s paternal grandmother Evanthia) and hiking in the White Mountains above Hania (birthplace of Jonathan’s paternal grandfather Andoni)…with various stops along with way.
We carry with us the boundless love of family and friends along with Jonathan’s maternal grandmother Efstathia’s ageless caveat (
Opios filai ta pouha exei ta misa)—“he who keeps a watchful eye over his clothes, ends up with half of them.”
And that’s if we’re lucky...
OUR JOURNALWelcome (back) to Athens…
We arrived in Athens, via London-Heathrow, on Tuesday, 10 Febuary. We quickly abandoned our plan to walk—with tired kids and eight pieces of luggage—from Syntagma Square, through the National Gardens, to our apartment. We found an “accommodating” taxi driver, who broke the law by managing to squeeze all five of us and our belonging into an undersized Mercedes Benz, and then charged us thrice the going rate (we learned subsequently). He ferried us to our new temporary home, beside the marble stadium, known as the Panathenaikos Stadium, which was constructed as the site of the first modern Olympic Games in 1896.
For the record: this journey marks Evyenia and Lucia’s second trip Athens; Manny’s third; Ann’s fourth; Jonathan’s sixteenth or seventeenth…
Jonathan lived in Athens (in the neighorhood of Kolonaki) in 1979–1980, as a junior year abroad student at College Year in Athens, a program in classics and archaeology (from whom we are renting our Athens apartment); and again in 1981–1982, as an editorial apprentice for a book publisher. During his second residence, Jonathan lived in Mets, the neighborhood around the marble stadium, so this is a homecoming of a sort.
Jonathan’s former “stomping grounds” is located five minutes from the National Gardens and the imposing temple of Olympios Zeus, which was constructed by the Roman emperor Hadrian and dedicated in 131 ad. The temple once housed an enormous gold statue of Zeus, Hadrian’s most revered and consulted diety in the pantheon of Olympian gods. One of the ancient world’s premier self-promoters, Hadrian installed no less than four marble statues in the sanctuary––depicting none other than Hadrian himself. The subject Athenians could have no doubt as to their city’s new benefactor. Beside the sanctuary stands Hadrian’s Gate. Beneath the carbonized pollution stains the side with the frieze reads, “This is Athens, the ancient city of Theseus” (he who slew the Minotaur, freeing Athens of the curse of child tribute); the entrance side reads, “This is the city of Hadrian and not of Theseus”––another reminder of the Roman emperor’s largesse, and the simple fact that Athens was his city.
On first glance, Athens is a modern urban monstrosity; and on second glance, Athens is a modern urban monstrosity: a concrete jungle with interminable traffic, noise, and legions of befuddled tourists. This is especially so during the summer months. But Athens is also described, by those of us who have lived there for any time, as Greece’s largest village, a vast melting pot of generations of rural immigrants. Today it is also home to large Balkan, eastern European, and even Chinese populations. Jonathan, in particular, finds the presence of Greek-speaking Chinese remarkable, having recalled his father’s memory of Chinese-speaking diaspora Greeks while serving with the U.S. Marine Expeditionary Forces in Tienstin during World War II.
Scores of distinct neighborhoods give Athens its unique character.
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10 February 2009
Tuesday
We arrived, no worse for the wear, after 22 hours of eastward momentum—from JFK in New York City to London’s Heathrow and finally to Athens in the heart of Attica, a busy and fast-paced metropolis.
Alex at College Year in Athens led us to our apartment and we settled right in. Three bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a wrap-around balcony that is accessed from every room. We would like to write about the fantastic view of the Akropolis––alas, our view is slightly more contemporary: Domino’s Pizza and a line of several dozen pizza delivery motorcycles from one window, a cafenion populated by retired gentlemen, fingering worry beads and playing tavli (backgammon) from another. And from Nia’s window, a small piece of the Olympic stadium, if one contorts one’s neck properly. But a walk around the corner yields an obstructed view of the Athen’s ancient citadel, the Acropolis, and the north end of the Parthenon; the aforementioned temple of Zeus; the National Gardens; and a vast panorama of. . . concrete.
After settling in, the five of us reconnoitered our neighborhood, discovering (first and foremost) the nearest
zaharoplastiero (pastry shop) and the sundry little shops and kiosks. We took full advantage of the wireless Internet provided at the college’s academic center. Later in the early evening we met up with our friend Thanasi, our best man––we were married in Greece in 1991––for an easy meal consisting of a mountainous Greek salad, topped with an enormous hunk of feta, and
bifteki, seasoned beef in crisp pita.
And then some much-needed sleep.
11 February 2009
Wednesday
Nia and Jonathan proved the early birds, setting off on a critical early morning mission: coffee. And then fresh bread, yogurt, the sweetest fresh Cretan oranges that euros could buy, and chocolate croissants. The latter were especially effective in rousing Manny and Lucia.
We took a long and leisurely stroll through the National Gardens, a sanctuary in the midst of so much noise and traffic. Manny’s creative eye captured some wonderful photographs. We emerged beside the Parliament building (one of several sites of rioting in January 2009). Nia was impressed by the “men marching in wooden shoes and dresses.” (“Actually, my dear, these are Evzones, the traditional palace guards dressed in traditional nineteenth-century costumes.”) Our perambulations led us south of Syntagma Square to the eleventh-century chapel of Ayia Varvara (Saint Barbara), where we lit candles for our mothers and counted our many blessings, and then through the maze of winding streets in the area known as Ayio Markos (Saint Mark), a bric-a-brac center of street merchants, an eclectic mix of Greeks and Africans and South Asian immigrants, all plying their wares on the hectic streets.
A siesta back at the apartment revived us for an evening in Athens.
12–14 February (Thurs., Fri., and Sat.)
We have engaged in “extreme walking”––at least this is our kids’ perspective, and certainly that of our Greek friends, who like many of their compatriats, drive everywhere. Our pezoporia (hike) began with a modest march to central Athens’ highest point (Likabettos Hill), a rock edifice topped by the chapel of St. George, a small white-washed sanctuary constructed just after the Turkokratia (the Turkish domination) in 1835. The patron saint of Jonathan’s father, this seemed the appropriate place to light candles in memory of both Jonathan and Ann’s fathers. Lighting candles in an Orthodox Christian church is a way to venerate that church’s named saint, or simply a way of offering a personal prayer.
We met with our lawyer-friend Akis in the upscale neighborhood of Kolonaki for a coffee at an outdoor cafeneion. Yes, outdoors! While the temperature back in Maine hovers in the low 20s F., here in Athens a chilly but tolerable 60 degrees permits the thoroughly erroneous belief that summer has arrived . And for Greeks, who socialize outdoors but find 60 degrees “cold” (ha!), overhead outdoor heaters offer a poor impression of Greek summer.
Lucia fed at least half of Athens’ several million pigeons and doves––or so it seemed––in Kolonaki Square and again in the National Gardens. Later in the day, after our siesta, Lucia and I dressed for a run and worked our way to the Olympic stadium. Although it is not permitted to run on the stadium’s resurfaced track, a lovely cinder track circles the top of the stadium. Athens may be the only major European city where one does not encounter runners (a result of the summertime pollution, crowded sidewalks, and incessant traffic), so the stadium is a major sanctuary for the few who do run. We have returned several times since, running on the cinder track and on the woody knoll that surrounds the stadium on both sides.
On Wednesday night we walked to Thanasi and Koula’s house for a visit and dinner. Their daughter, Dionysia, who is the same age as Lucia, studies English at the
demotiko (demotic, i.e., elementary) school. But when the girls met they stared blankly at each other for half an hour, then disappeared into Dionysia’s bedroom––emerging later as fast friends. But still not talking. Shyness, however, did not prevail for long. By the end of the evening, they were communicating with a combination of Greek, English, and the universal language of childhood: laughter.
The Acropolis, the Ancient Agora, the Plaka
Athens has been occupied continuously for more than seven thousand years, so any tour of this great city must be considered “abbreviated” at best. Our description follows suit.
On Friday (2/13) we set off early on foot for the Acropolis, winding our way past the temple of Zeus, Hadrian’s Arch, the Lysikrattos monument (where, as a student, Jonathan delivered an open-air lecture in 1979), and the Panathenaic Way, to the Propylaia, the entrance to the Acropolis.
There could be no better day or season to tour ancient Athens. The air was clear and crisp, the sun shining, the legions of tourists rather small compared to the summer months. Jonathan tried his best to explain the historic, archaeological, and cultural significance of these sites––but the children were constantly one step ahead of their parents, seemingly oblivious to their father’s pedantic ravings.
The south slope of the Acropolis acquired great religious, intellectual, and cultural importance for the city of Athens as early as the Archaic period (sixth century bce).
From our approach, we peered into the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, built in the second century ce, viewed from the back of the stage area; passed the much older sanctuary of Dionysios Eleutherios, with the ancient theater famous for its production of the plays of Athens’ greatest tragedians (Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides), strolled past the sanctuary of Asklepios (the healing cult was introduced to Athens in the early fifth century bce), and then climbed to the Acropolis itself.
Friday’s tour marked Manny’s third visit to the Acropolis; and the second visit for Lucia and Nia.
The restoration of the Parthenon has been underway for many years; parts of this most renowned ancient temple to Athena are shrouded in metal scaffolding, but this obstruction hardly diminishes the aura, beauty, and significance of the site. We strolled leisurely around the Parthenon. Manny used his creative eye to capture a large collection of still images, some of which we share here: of the Acropolis generally, of the Parthenon and other temples specifically.
Saturday (2/14) Lunch in DrosiaOn Saturday we traveled to the leafy northern suburbs of Athens, to a place called Drosia, for an afternoon meal of peinarli, a culinary specialty specific to this area. A peinerli is a brick-oven bread that is sliced open like a large canoe and stuffed with any number of savory items: the choices include cheese, sausage, spiced meat, and camel meat. Yes, camel meat—which leads to the less obvious question: “one hump or two?” (A bad but unavoidable joke.) We were warned that camel meat could be “rather smelly” (a fitting description for odiferous folks living out of backpacks), so we declined this particular filling, opting instead for the more predictable bacon, sausage, cheese, etc.
Joining us were our friends/best man Thanasi and Koula and their daughter Dionysia, who is the same age as Lucia; and our friends Aki and Mania, who were blessed in midlife with a baby girl named Lydia. Ann presented Aki and Mania with a hand-made baby quilt, which became all the rage in the restaurant. We ate from one o’clock until nearly four o’clock, then returned to Kasarianni, the Athens neighborhood on the slopes of Mount Hymettos, where we drank coffee and ate sweets until dusk. Later in the evening Jonathan and Manny stumbled back to the apartment in a portly haze.
Meanwhile, the girls were invited to a costume party at Dionysia’s elementary school, borrowing outfits to wear: Lucia dressed as Pocohantas, Evyenia as a pirate. This is the pre-Lenten season, the Triodion period that precedes the more pious, reserved, and spiritually focused time of Orthodox Lent. Better known in the West as “Carnival,” this is the time to parade in outrageous costumes—worn by both young and old—enjoy dancing, drinking (a sort of Olympic sport for those who wish), and late nights. Ann reports a chaotic and noisy party that was enjoyed by all.
Manny and Jonathan watched a Greek football (soccer) match with Thanasi—and celebrated the fact that “our” team (Panathenaikos, the local Athens team) won.
Traveling to the Peloponnese
On Sunday morning we woke at 5:30, gathered ourselves, and were soon picked up by two shiny Mercedes Benz taxis outside our apartment. The five of us and all our luggage (backbacks and “spillover” bags that included unlikely items: baseball mits, metal detector, guitar/flute, and a small library of school supplies) were ferried to the bus station serving points south…all for a small fortune. (Alas, we have contributed unwittingly to the taxi guild of Athens, all because of a seeming inability to shed our many belongings.)
As the bus passed through the outskirts of Athens, past Eleusis and Megara, over the Corinth Canal, and into the northern Peloponnese, we experienced a collective sigh of relief. Five days in Athens is enough to last a lifetime—the noise, the pollution, the incessant whine of motorcyles. It is more than we country folk can take. With that said, the astounding generosity of strangers, even in Athens, is a remarkable aspect of Greece. The love of children, in particular, is in marked contrast to the attitude found in North America, where children are more often viewed as noisy appendages to their adult counterparts.
The agricultural richness of the Peloponnese becomes apparent almost immediately after crossing the canal in Isthmia: the endless vineyards of Nemea, the orange and lemon groves around Trikala, a veritable horizon of orange and yellow, punctuated by tidy olive orchards stretching as far as the eye can see. And now the wildflowers, including fields of crimson poppies, predominate.
Sadly, the devastation of the 2007 wildfires is also visible. Sections of forest have been obliterated—many thousands of acres of charred pine forest are visible at every turn, and one can only imagine the horrors faced by residents fleeing for their lives, the hundreds of thousands of sheep, goats, and wildlife lost to the relentless waves of wind-driven flames. Evidence of extreme fire damage is evident to the road’s edge on either side. In other places, the fire skipped, leaving patches of verdant overgrowth.
The kindness of total strangers extended to the bus itself. In Greece, the presence of young children lights the faces of men and women of all ages. In a mere five hours, our three children received innumerable gifts: sweets, fruit, and (for Manny) a very special set of
koumbaloi (worry beads), given to him by an elderly woman. Did he look particularly worried? we wondered. The answer, in short, was yes. For as we left the central Peloponnesian city of Trikala, the bus proceeded through a series of hairpin turns against the backdrop of snow-covered mountains rising over 7,000 feet. The beads clicked faster and faster as the road became steeper, the turns wider, the encounters with other vehicles closer and closer. Roadside shrines, small kiosks with icons and lit candles, mark the spot where motorists were miraculously saved—or not.
The descent (there is no other way to describe it) into Kalamata brings into focus this olive-growing capital of Greece. Many hundreds of thousands of olive trees stretch into the horizon in every direction. In the outskirts of Kalamata, gypsy encampments predominate, and we found ourselves politely declining the advances of beggars of all ages. In the midst of people who seem to have so little—torn canvas tents, ragged clothing, unwashed babies—it was an opportunity to reflect on our good fortune and give thanks for our plenty, our good health, the opportunities that most people of the world lack.
The road to modern Pylos, a lovely village of hand-hewn stone houses spilling down to the sea, was even more extreme. Hairpin turns, roadsides that fall off many hundreds of meters, frequent roadside shrines to those whose driving skills and/or fortune eluded them one last time, all carefully measured by the clicking of Manny’s worry beads.
It became obvious to us that we had passed into an altogether different climate zone. The presence of stately palm trees, citrus orchards, and fields of wildflowers (bright red poppies and hillsides strewn with a pastiche of yellow, crimson, and blue) greeted every turn. The bus driver seemingly defied several laws of physics in manipulating a full-size bus through narrow streets built by Crusaders back in the Middle Ages. Another ten kilometers and we entered Methoni, and still another ten kilometers—now as the final passengers in a nearly six-hour trip—and our final destination lie ahead: Finikounda.
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Some Background: Messenia––The Southern Peloponnese
Our new home (after leaving Athens) is the region known as Messenia, located in the southwestern Peloponnese. In antiquity, the populace of Messenia was held in a near perpetual state of serfdom, dominated by the powerful Spartans to the north. We are happy to report that the situation has improved over the past 2,500 years. We do not anticipate any problems with the Spartans!
This area is best known for its agriculture (olives, grapes, currants) and for its Mycenaean-era antiquities, Venetian castles, and for long stretches of sandy beaches. And a burgeonind second-home market for northern Europeans. One real-estate sign best describes the situation: “own a piece of the Mediterranean paradise.” Argggh.
The capital city of Messenia is Kalamata, located some 60 kilometers to the north.
We are renting a house in the village of Finikounda, alongside the village church and the bakery—conveniently located sustentance, spiritual and otherwise, is but a stone’s throw from our avle (porch/garden). “Finikounda” comes from the Greek word finike, palm tree. The approach to the village is lined with stately palm trees.
We were met at the bus stop by Irini, our landlady, a generous and enthusiastic women who speaks not a word of English. This later fact is one that Jonathan, in particular, appreciates. His days as translator-interlocutor are over! Ann and the children are on their own.
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Finikounda is the “Finkous Limin” mentioned by Pausanias, the 2nd century ce travel writer and geographer. Ancient ruins can still be seen scattered around nearby Analipsi and Anemomilos, walking distance from our house. There are dozens of colorful, traditional villages on the hillsides leading away from the shore, several of them within hiking––or running––distance.
Finikounda is described by locals and visitors alike as one of the most picturesque fishing villages in Greece, located in a beautiful sheltered bay in the lee anchorage opposite the islet of Shciza. Caiques (the quintessential double-enders of the eastern Mediterranean) and fishing boats moor in the shelter of its harbor and anchor all along its sandy shore.
Finikounda is famed for its excellent sea and the town has a golden sandy beach with shallow, azure waters ideal for swimming. To the east just beyond the rocky jetty is Paradise beach. Anemomios beach to the west of Finikounda is a broad stretch of golden sand backed by wild sand dunes. There are many other excellent beaches nearby to explore.
The municipal beach has been awarded the coveted European “Blue Flag.” During the summer, Finikounda is a mecca for windsurfing and sailing—and possibly more crowded than we might like. In the late winter and early spring, however, it is a quiet place whose residents demonstrate the age-old custom of filoxenia (literally, “friend to foreigners”) or hospitality. This quality became apparent within moments of our arrival.
17 February 2009
Tuesday––Finikounda
Our second full day in the village. This is a special day, Ann’s thirtieth birthday. It seems incredible that she consented to marry a man twenty years her senior, but this is the Greek way—ensuring a long and rich life for the husband and his nifi (bride).
Jonathan ran 12 kilometers before everyone else woke this morning, following a footpath into the hill country. He was greeted by an enormous falcon sitting on the top of a wire, which made him feel rather…rodent-like. Later in the day, Jonathan and Lucia ran 5 kilometers together, mostly along the beach.
Finally we have established an Internet connection, a wireless signal that serves not only Finikounda but the villages in the hills above us, the larger towns of Methoni and Pylos and Koroni, and several points beyond.
Early this morning Jonathan and Lucia met Dimitri the butcher. When Jonathan mentioned the goals of our family trip—to discover more about Greek heritage, Orthodox Christianity, and to teach the children rudimentary Greek—he gave Jonathan an enormous bear hug and began to cry! It was quite a scene amid the chops and the filets and ground beef. Dimitri is a local historian and writes a weekly column for the area newspaper. He lives on a small farm outside of town, where he tends goats, chickens, and a horse that is about to foal. He and his wife have invited us to come “drink wine and eat.” Lucia, who is learning to ride horseback in Maine, was particularly excited by the prospect of a horse—and thrilled to learn that there is a riding school in Methoni, where she will be able to ride along the beach in the shadow of the twelfth-century citadel.
Dimitri’s daughter is a teacher at the local demotiko (elementary) school and suggested that we enroll the children there, but this seems unlikely. Nevertheless, we plan to visit the school soon and strike up some friendships. Already the children have been invited (on Saturday) to a day of sporting events (led by the local gymnastiko, gym teacher) and an evening costume parade through the village—with the promise of copious quantities of food and sweats.
Last night Manny and I played catch. Along with the proverbial kitchen sink, he stuffed into his rucksack a remarkable array of “boy stuff”—a catcher’s mit, a first baseman’s mit, several baseballs, a soccer ball, a metal detector, a frisbee, a kite. Have we forgotten anything from that bottomles pit? The village boys who were playing soccer watched us in disbelief as we threw the ball. Baseball is as foreign to Greek village boys as cricket is to their counterparts back in Pembroke, Maine. When we tried to strike up a conversation we soon realized that these “Greek” boys were actually Albanians, the sons of local stone masons building houses for foreigners who are buying parcels of land at an alarming rate.
We returned to the village playground today. An elderly gentleman strolled past carrying an overcoat that was wrapped in a bundle. He stopped to speak with us. “Deutsche?” he asked. (“Are you German?”). Jonathan explained that we are Greek Americans who will be staying in his village for several months. His face lit up and he began to tell us the entire history of the village.
Modern Finikounda was founded by Cretans who were escaping the Turkish occupation in the late 1500s. When Jonathan mentioned that his/our family heritage is Cretan, he fell all over us. He carefully opened his overcoat and revealed a veritable mountain of wild greens (called horta, the equivalent of dandelion greens) that he had picked that morning in the hills above the village. He produced a torn piece of plastic from his back pocket and offered us half his cache, and included instructions on how to cook them: boil until tender, drain, add olive oil, fresh lemon, and salt. “These are very good for your heart,” he said. “And they are especially good for children.”
He proceeded to tell us how, in the old days, the Turks would land in Finikounda and steal away the children, who were taken back to Turkey and sold into slavery. “They were barbarians,” he added, “much worse than the Germans.” Later in the day, when the children balked at doing school work, their parents threatened to “call in the Turks.” This proved an effective educational motivation.
Yesterday we found a banana tree with large bunches of nearly ripe fruit––although at present the weather is unseasonably cool (as low as 45 F. at night) the presence of bananas gives one a sense of the weather that is to come.
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In the evening we strolled into the village for an early dinner—early, that is, by Greek standards (9 p.m.)—to celebrate Ann’s birthday. We ate in a smokey, back-alley taverna, and dinner consisted of the following: fresh cabbage salad with shredded carrot, olives, and olive oil; meatball soup with egg-lemon sauce; grilled chicken; pork souvlaki (grilled pork on a stick); bakaralos (cod fish) with garlic sauce; fried potatoes; and a carafe of wine, compliments of the men at the neighboring table. The only objection was the thick haze of cigarette smoke, which is a universal fact of Greek life.
At 11 p.m., we strolled into a sweet shop. Ann’s birthday cake was a small mountain of chocolate frosting topped with shredded pistachio and locally grown cherries. Yum!!
Tomorrow our regular routine will commence. Jonathan will copyedit while Ann follows the school curriculum for the children. Morning is work time; mesimeri (midday) is play time; afternoon is siesta (nap) time; early evening is reserved for additional copyediting/school work, and this leaves our evenings free—for strolling along the waterfront, eating sweets, and striking up friendships.
18 February 2009
Wednesday––Finikounda
Many American kids know the story of the Hatfields and the McCoys, two Appalachian families who had a long-forgotten grievance that resulted in decades of inter-family violence and vengeance killings. The Peloponnese, much like Crete, is well known for this type of long-standing family vengeance and retribution--at least historically. This morning we became privy to the remnants of such attitudes from a local perspective.
Jonathan casually mentioned to our nikokiri (landlady) that a man named Kosta had invited the children to Carnival celebrations on the weekend. Her response was sudden and unexpected. “We don’t talk to them!” she shouted, her otherwise welcoming and gracious visage turning as sour as an unripe lemon, her jaw contorting. “They are bad people, the worst sort. We will take you and your children to Carnival.” Then she smiled and pinched Evyenia on the check.
Out of his mother’s view, her son Panayiotis, a recent law school graduate with a new practice in Kalamata, rolled his eyes impatiently, seeming to say, “We’ve heard it all before.” After she left, he winked and said, “We’ll talk about this sometime.”
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The Internet signal, which seemed so reliable yesterday, has become spotty. Our access to Internet is imperative—for Jonathan’s work and for Manny’s online algebra class, not to mention keeping in touch with family and friends and managing finances. Panayiotis, the young lawyer, suggested we take our computer to the beach, in the shade of a palm tree, where the signal would be superior. The suggestion gives “portable office” a whole new meaning.
Regretably, there was scant improvement on the beach, so Jonathan climbed to the headlands above the village, where the signal was much improved, sitting amid the wildflowers, but the rising sun made viewing the screen nearly impossible. Nevertheless, he accomplished his mission—fact-checking a bibliography and doing some online banking.
Eating Oranges with Nikos
Our friends in New Hampshire purchased their oikopetho (property) from a man named Niko, described by them as the unofficial mayor of Fini—a bachelor-scholar, poet, and yet another local historian. The five of us found his lovely house beside an orange grove, with gardenias and an assortment of potted plants placed carefully around his avli (courtyard-garden-porch). We climbed the stone steps to the second floor and introduced ourselves. As “friends of friends” we were all greeted with the customary kiss on both cheeks and then shown typical village hospitality.
Niko was sitting in the kitchen with an elderly woman, perhaps 85 or so, a koumbari (“best lady”) of his now deceased parents. She was drinking a large glass of cognac (it was 11 a.m.) and greeted us with a broad, toothless smile.
The old lady looked at Evyenia and proceeded to tell us that because our seven-year-old daughter had a large space between her front teeth, this signified that someday she would marry a man far from our home. Jonathan translated this prediction for everyone’s benefit, and we all were amused as Evyenia’s eyes grew wide.
Niko served us of plates of yalaktobouriko (a sweet custard with filo) and then began peeling oranges, and more oranges, and yet more oranges, a veritable mountain of citrus, which he then cut into bite-sized pieces and distributed on several platters. There was lively commentary with every orange that was peeled and cut. “Ah, yes, this one is sweet. That one is a bit sour but has a nice aftertaste. Here, try one of the mandorinis [mandarin=tangerine], they have an altogether different flavor.” This went on for an hour or more. Manny whispered to his father, “they’re delicious but I don’t think that I can eat any more!” Then Niko produced another dozen or so oranges, along with some dried, salted figs that were dusted with wild mountain oregano. They too were distributed among three platters. He apologized that he did not have an entire bag of oranges to send off with us, a shortcoming that generated a quiet sigh of relief from Manny. “I need to go pick some for you—maybe tomorrow you can stop in for them.”
Niko, one of the few nonsmokers in Greece, read a highly metaphorical self-composed poem called “H prosevhi” (“The prayer”) in Greek about smokers and the Ayia Triada—“the Holy Trinity is coffee, cigarettes, and newspapers”—and then gave Jonathan a take-home assignment: the original Greek text as an exercise in translation. He invited us to return again and offered to help us in any way during our stay in the village. A real gentleman and a steward of the values of filoxenia (hospitality).
Niko explained to us that Finikounda was, until around 1920, called Taverna: among the original Cretan colonizers, who lived in the hilltop village of Lahanada, was a man who had a shack on the beach here. Inside was a barrel of wine—and it became the local “taverna” for the people of the nearby village, hence the village’s former name. Niko also mentioned, with some amusement, that the people of nearby Methoni do not like the people of Finikounda, whom they call “snail eaters.” (Snails are still regarded as a delicacy by the people of Crete, who fled the brutal Ottoman occupation of their island and colonized Finikounda in the 1830s.) For their part, the people of Finikounda regard their neighbors in Methoni as yifti (gypsies), according to Niko. This reminds us of a rivalry back home, in Maine, between the people of Eastport and Pembroke.
On Nikos’ suggestion, we strolled to the original village church, located on an acropolis above the village beside the cemetary. The view was stupendous—of the long beach called Anemomilos, of distant villages on the hills, and of the uninhabited scattered islands in the distance, scattered like black and green seeds on the cobalt sea.
On the way down we spotted a pair of week-old katsikakia (goat kids) hiding beneath a table. Lucia stopped to pet one and a woman emerged from a small stone house. She explained that the mother goat had died during kidding and that these babies needed to be fed nounou (condensed milk) by bottle.
The Football Game
Frustrated by the village’s wireless Internet, a system barely maintained during the off-season, we ventured into town in search of the ubiquitous Internet café.
We found a café-bar operated by Ilias, with several computers located on the ocean-front end of the establishment. Jonathan explained his predicament and Ilias was only too happy provide Jonathan with the password for his network. “Use it any time. You don’t have to pay. We are all Cretans here.”
His generosity notwithstanding, the place was choked with cigarette smoke, and in a short time the girls were driven away and returned home to prepare an “early” (9 p.m.) dinner at the house. Manny and Jonathan remained, however, because a football (soccer) game was underway on the television. The Peloponnesian team was playing a semifinal against a French team, Saint Etienne. This provided a wonderful opportunity for Manny to learn a smattering of Greek curses, insults, and reckless gesticulations—the essential protocol of soccer fans.
About the referee: “You ignorant goat!”
About the Peloponnesian defense: “Holy Virgin Mary, you are a blind cripple.”
About the opposition: “Your mother is a prostitute, your father is a keratos (cuckhold).
At every other play, the local fans would rise in unison, scream incessantly, then sit down and light another cigarette. Manny would whisper eagerly, “what are they saying now?” and Jonathan would offer his best translation. Manny’s boisterous laughter was in marked contrast to the agonizing screams of the other patrons.
After ninety minutes of near asphyxiation (the Peloponnesians lost this particular war) we thanked the owner and set off for home.
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Manny and Jonathan returned home just ahead of a downpour and the violent thunderstorm that followed. The girls had already eaten supper and were getting ready for bed. Our house, we’re afraid, includes the bane of modern civilization, television, and we have attempted to keep the forbidden black box unplugged. But not always: last night was an exception to our rule.
Manny, Ann, and Jonathan watched clips of several Greek television shows, and some English-language programs with Greek subtitles. The justification, as weak as it might seem, was “educational.” The slickly produced commercials are especially…informative. Greeks in general and Europeans in particular lack that curious North American prudishness that permits extreme television violence while forbiding, say, a bare-breasted women in a commercial for Ivory soap. In Greece, a nation with an tradition of piety, the mores and values have changed dramatically over the past thirty years, much for the worse, sadly, and both extremes (mindless violence and sexual explicitness) are now considered de rigueur—at least by those under fifty.
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19 February 2009
Thursday––Finikounda
Jonathan woke before sunrise. The violent nighttime storm passed and the sky was totally blue. Breakfast consisted of fresh, warm village bread smeared with local honey, olives, and some slices of orange. Then he set off for a run to Lahanada, onthe hillside, through the olive groves, as far as the demotiko, which afforded a tremendous view of the bay below.
It is still quite cool and occasionally overcast. When the sun does emerge, however, we get a good sense of what’s to come. By the time we bundle up jackets, it is time to take them off. The local green-grocer promises that the weekend will bring warmth, sun, and an inkling of summertime weather.
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But the rain, the cold, the occasional hail—it seems relentless. Whenever we ask ourselves, impatiently, When will summer come?, we are reminded of the fact that it is just the third week of February and we are strolling about in no more than slacks and sweatshirts. Back in Maine is has snowed on and off for a week.
So again, we count our blessings.
This morning we received a call from Petros and Sandra, friends of our New Hampshire friends Tom and Kim, who recently spent a year here and will someday build a home on property they purchased in the hills. (Jonathan and Tom were students in Athens in 1980 and have a shared a lifelong love of all things Greek.) Petros and Sanda have themselves built a beatiful villa on a sloping olive grove with an utterly stunning view of the ocean. We spent all of today and most of the evening with them. Like the local people (although they are not local but have recently retired here from the U.K.), they are warm, generous, kind, and welcoming people. We are privileged to have met them and very quickly became friends.
The seven of us walked to the village and spent an hour or more eating sweets by the harbor, and then walked about town getting to know each other. They invited us back to their home—a fantastically designed creation of stone, marble, and thoughtful appointments.
We listened to music, enjoyed each others’ company over some beverages, and watched from the terrace as the storm clouds, lightning, and thunder advanced from the mountains toward the sea.
By the time we returned home we realized we had not eaten anything—aside from copious sweets, nuts, and fruit—for the entire day. Our plans for being economical went out the window. We set off for the village center, a three-minute walk, and landed at To Steki, the traditional taverna tucked into a back-alley street, where we filled ourselves with heaping plates of spagetti bolognese.
Where did the day go? we wondered, with the happy and satisfied smiles of Cheshire cats.
20 February 2009
Friday
Last night’s persistent rain and thunder made sleep difficult. The cold and the wet is getting somewhat oppressive, but we made the best of the situtation (and the newly installed heaters) on a decidedly “inside day”: the children had their most complete day of school to date, and Jonathan copyedited for five or six hours.
When the Lights Went Out
In the late afternoon Manny and Jonathan took advantage of a break in the weather and dashed to town with their laptop computers. Ilias, the operator of one of at least three Internet cafes, welcomed us with his establishment’s wireless password and two Nescafe frapes––frothy, iced coffees sweatened and topped with fresh cream.
The place was nearly empty save for a few local schoolchildren who pecked away at the bank of computers on the seaward end of the cafe. The level of cigarette smoke was tolerable and the wireless signal was far superior to the one we receive in the house. Jonathan finished fact-checking several bibliographies, communicated with clients back in New York. But before any of this, Jonathan asked where he and Manny might plug in their computers in order to save battery power.
All things electrical in Greece can be questionable, often marginal. The power supply to rural areas, in particular, can be uncertain and power outages are comon. With an abundant confidence Jonathan pulled out his collection of European adapters, power strips, power packs, etc. and proceeded to walk behind the bar to plug in. As he slid the plug into the socket a loud explosion occurred, a blue flame shot skyward, and the power went out in all of Finikounda (or so it seemed)—the cafeneion became dark, eight computers and two Playstations expired (thankfully, only temporarily) and Jonathan was lifted several feet in the air. All eyes were on Jonathan who was shaking uncontrollably, embarrassed, but soon relieved—that the damage was directed entirely at his electrified ego. Ilias’ son Yianni said “no problems, everything’s o.k.” and rebooted all the computers.
Since then, Jonathan and Manny have developed an altogether new respect for Greek power.
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Homer and 911
Manny set off for home ahead of Jonathan, who became engaged in conversation with Ilias. “I’m writing a book and I need help.” Jonathan thought, “Oh boy, I have heard this one a hundred times before. What have I got myself into!”
A most fascinating theory was laid at Jonathan’s feet.
According to Ilias, Homer—antiquity’s father of myth and history, the blind poet who composed the Iliad and the Odyssey, the story of the Trojan War and its aftermath, during Greece’s Dark Age (eighth century bce)—was “not only a poet but a prophet.” “This is what I believe, and I will tell you why.” Ilias explained with the enthusiasm of a mad scientist the connection between Homer’s tale and everything else, from Christianity itself to the tragedy of 911. It was a fascinating numerological and mystical explanation of the world based on references in Homer, geometrical equations (“Did you know that Odysseus traveled, on the order of the goddess, from Ithaki to Pylos and then on to Sparta, before setting off for Troy? And this itinerary forms a perfect triangle, when divided by the number of lines in book 7 of the Iliad, creates a series of parallelograms that themselves form geometrical forms that…” etc.). Homer predicts, according to Ilias, not only the birth of Christ; the very creation of the United States; and the Second World War; but perhaps most remarkably, the destruction of New York’s twin towers! Jonathan’s head was reeling by the time he bid Ilias good-night.
On other point of conversation. Jonathan asked Ilias if he had children. “Yes,” he said. “I have two children and two girls.” This is a old manner of describing the distinction between boys (who inherit property and provide labor) and girls, who are a “burden” that require great expense (prika, or dowry, now officially outlawed) for families. All of this has changed in the contemporary era, but the expressions live on.
In the evening we watched a DVD on Jonathan’s computer, the five of us staying up until midnight. If only their grandmothers knew!
21 February 2009
Saturday
This is the second (of three) Saturday of Souls, which, in the Orthodox Christian tradition occur before Lent, the forty days preceding Easter. Services in the church allow the faithful to honor their deceased loved ones and prepare themselves spiritually for the Passion of Christ that culminates in the very beautiful and moving Anastisis, or Resurrection of the Lord, at midnight on Holy Saturday. We will be here for all of Lent and Easter, by far the most important holiday in Greece. Christmas, by comparison, barely ranks fourth place in the hierarchy of holidays.
The church bells (very much plural) began tolling at 6 a.m. and continued every hour until 9 a.m. Our house, which is immediately beside the church, vibrated with each ring of the bell. The loose glass panes shook. This call to prayer put our little travel alarm clock to shame.
Lucia was the first awake and she joined Jonathan for a run up through the olive orchards to our friends Tom and Kim’s property—a olive-tree strewn hillside with a southerly exposure to the sea. 
By the time we returned home, the others had risen—shaken from their slumber by the church bells.
So we set off on foot for the nearby village of Lahanada
Hike to Lahanada
a grape vineyard, olive orchard, citrus grove, and large family garden. “But how will the five of us fit into the car,” Jonathan inquired. “There is plenty of room!” he replied with a suspicious laugh.
Jonathan set off for a walk, while the others slept, to the highest knoll in Finikounda, where a slight glimpse of Messenia’s Mount Ithone was visible. In antiquity, mountains were a frequent setting for the worship of Zeus, and Ithone is said to be one of a handful of places with local or regional shrines to the god of the sky—like Arcadia’s Lykaion and Attica’s Hymettus. None, however, is more famous than the venerable sanctuary in Dodona in northwestern Greece, said to be the oldest in Greece. In Dodona, Zeus communicated his responses from his sacred oak tree, through the rustling of its leaves when the wind blew, a message interpreted by the priestess.
