27–29 March 2009
Friday–Sunday

Today is yiayia’s (the kids’ Greek-American grandmother) birthday. We feel a bit remiss and very sorry not to be there to give her five individualized hugs. Na exastostiseis, yiayia! (“may you be one hundred”)—the usual wish, regardless of one’s age.

Goin’ Mobile

We “hired a car” (or in Americanese: “rented a car”) for the next month, a bright red Fiat Punto hatchback, which is large enough to accommodate two adults and three sardelles (sardines). Our little buggy will allow us to explore many of the small mountain villages, among other sites, which are beyond the reach of bicycle, bus, or running path.

In the afternoon, following the Evangelismos celebration at the village church, we tried out our new wheels by driving to the nearby hillside village of Evangelismos, which was an appropriate choice given the holiday of the same name. We parked and walked some back streets and met an elderly gentleman and asked him how we could find the only cafeneion. “My name is Thanasi. Let me take you there.” We had enough time for a few cool drinks and to engage the owner, a young man named Fotis, in some lively conversation. The weather is one of those universal topics, so we complained about all the rain. “In my forty-five years in this village, I have never seen so much rain. Last winter it rained five times. Last summer, we had no water in the village for several days. We are all farmers here, so the rain is a wonderful thing for us.”

We had the requisite conversation about who we are and why we’re here. Fotis introduced himself in Greek to the children, asked their names and their ages—and the parents were gratified that their offspring could reply in understandable Greek. Like everyone else we have met, he was pleased that the children are learning Greek. When it was time to pay he refused our money. “This is your first visit to our village, so it is our chance to treat you.” We thanked him for his hospitality and promised to return again.

Just after returning to Finikounda, we joined our landlady and her family for lunch upstairs. It was the traditional Lenten lunch for Wednesdays: fried bakalarios (cod fish) with skordalia (garlic dip), taramosalata (fish roe dip) boiled potatoes and squash, tomato and lettuce salad, local olives (from their groves) and cheese, and crusty village bread—and a modest taste of the local wine. Our landlady Irini, her husband, Yiorgo, and their late-twenties children, Panayioti and Panayiota (the former nicknamed Takis—in order to avoid the obvious confusion) are the human faces of traditional village kindness, generosity, and filoxenia (“friends of foreigners”). We had a chance to tell them more about our lives and dreams—for Jonathan, a minor obsession that includes fixing an old stone house in Greece, possibly in his patrida (Crete) or even in this area, which we have come to call home. “Yiota, be sure to show him the land near Loutsa beach.” Yiorgo’s instruction was titillating, to say the least.

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After Thursday morning at their respective desks, Jonathan and Manny set off in the Fiat for points unknown: a map in hand and thirty liters of gas in the tank. The two took a winding road from Finikounda to nearby Grizókambos, a collection of houses and agricultural plots tucked into a fold of mountains; then climbed a narrow switchback mountain road scattered with rock debris to the village of Kaplani, where they were told one could find an abandoned monastery, several hundred years old, located off a beaten track. An old women tending to a flock of goats offered uncertain directions (something like: “when you get to the fork in the road, take it”).

They found a beaten track alright—but it was clearly the wrong beaten track. It did, nevertheless, lead to a chapel, literally in the middle of nowhere, a crumbling structure dedicated to the Koimisis (Falling Asleep) of the Virgin Mary. It was not our goal, but it would do. The door was open so the two intrepid seekers went inside for a few minutes.

Manny offered his father instructions on how to drive on steep mountain roads with hairpin turns that lack guardrails—only a thirteen-year-old boy could be this well informed. The two could not help but notice a plethora of those little shrines that mark “close calls” in driving history—or worse: ones established by the surviving relatives of car wrecks. Before passing again through Kaplani, two birds caught their attention. Jonathan pulled over and stopped the car, and the two emerged with cameras in hand. As best as they could determine, these were curious variations on Downeast Maine woodcocks, far off course, and a bit unique: with white patches on their wings and large crested plumes on their heads—extraordinarily beautiful creatures unwilling to be photographed from any distance.

Father and son set off in pursuit of these shy birds through an overgrown olive grove awash in springtime color. Jonathan was especially intrigued by several mortarless stone structures, obvious outbuildings for livestock. This “remote” region was a mere twenty minutes from our doorstep, and according to the map there are hundreds of such villages in either direction.

We are relishing the prospect of further exploration in the days and weeks to come.

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This morning Jonathan was able to fax relevant documents to our lawyer-friend Akis in Athens. He is expecting to receive a call from the woman at the Greek Consulate in Boston, with whom Jonathan spoke, on Tuesday. They will discuss the next step our family can take to extend our visa. Our fingers are crossed!

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Palaio Kastro (Pylos), Voïdhokalia, and Nestor’s Cave

Finikounda’s demotiko school is vying for the “best view” of any school—at least that’s our opinion. We picked up the girls from school at noon, a bright blue day with barely any wind, and the five of us set off in the little red Fiat for Pylos, about 20 km west of Finikounda. Nearly a month has passed since our last visit there—our ill-fated excursion to the police station. Our plan was to enjoy a quick lunch and then set off for a hike at the Paliao (Old) Castle just beyond Pylos.



Located on the northern rim of Navarino Bay—site of two famous naval engagements, one in antiquity (during the Peloponnesian War, between Athens and Sparta) and the other in 1827, during the Greek War of Independence—this is a protected area of sand dunes that features one of the world’s largest natural harbors, called Voïdhokalia, and the adjoining lagoon. This conservation area was designated part of Europe’s NATURA 2000, an area especially worthy of preservation, the home of an endangered cameleon and one of Europe’s only nesting grounds for the loggerhead turtle.

It is a vast expanse of cliffs, caves, sand dunes, with an enormous citadel atop the acropolis—and the five of us had the entire area to ourselves. We did not see another soul, just a few cows (and several large bulls, alarmingly untethered) and a variety of bird life: snowy white cranes, skittering sea birds, insect life…and those invisible snakes and scorpions—the latter entirely present in Jonathan’s mind.



After a false start that led us toward Voïdhokalia rather than toward Nestor’s Cave (hardly an unpleasant diversion but a source of short-lived sibling dissention: “Go this way!” “No, go that way!”) we took the more traveled south path to the summit of the citadel, known as the Old Castle. The “new castle,” which we visited several weeks earlier in Pylos, was constructed in 1572. “Old” and “new” are relative terms in Greece.

Pylos’ northern castle and ancient acropolis stands on a long, steep, cliffside ridge, with a terrific panoramic view of the coast in both directions. Rising along a steep path from the south, and with Lucia in the lead, the castle appeared high overhead—a forbidding presence for any would-be conquerors. Or for a family of five at 4 p.m. present-day Crusaders. Mother and father were especially cognizant of the distance we would be covering, the receding daylight, and the potential for mutiny at any moment.



Lucia was the first through the arched gate; Manny and Jonathan were in hot pursuit; Ann and Nia were gasping at the view straight down, the cobalt waves crashing into the cliffsides and the plumes of white spray.

The magnitude of the ancient castle was placed into a strange poetic relief by the plethora of tiny, colorful wildflowers. The juxtaposition of enormity and steely magnitude with microscopic detail and panoramic color is difficult to describe. The following photos show the approach to the acropolis and our hike through the maze of undergrowth within.

Halfway through the castle and looking back, whence we had come, reminded us of several mountain hikes back home in Maine’s forever-wild Baxter State Park—the sense of perspective, of distances traveled, and what lay ahead.

We shredded our bare legs on overgrown nettles and thorns and worked our way to the north end of the acropolis. Imaginary (and not so imaginary) snakes slithered across the barely visible path. In a fleeting moment of clarity Jonathan recalled the way down as Voïdhokalia, the large natural harbor, came into view. He triangulated the general direction of the cave.

According to most learned authorities, this was the harbor that served King Nestor’s ancient “sandy Pylos,” about which Homer wrote. The ancient Mycenaean city is located some 8 kilometers north of the modern town. It did not take a harbormaster to realize the stategic and practical value of this safe anchorage.



We began a difficult descent, the sun now below the oceanside ramparts, hoping that we would find Nestor’s Cave, which we had missed in our original ascent from the north. No one, especially not the children, was disappointed.


After several hundred meters descending the rock face—a slippery and at times trecherous path, owing to our fatigue and the dying light—the large opening of the cave came into view. There was a collective gasp from the children. Manny, who only a few hours before, assumed that this cave would be “puny,” was in mild disbelief. Without the benefit of a flashlight (we brought one specifically for this purpose but had managed to leave it in the car—now a bug-sized red dot below the cliff) we entered the cave far enough until all natural light was extinguished. “Hey, my cell phone has a flash light!” Manny chirped. We proceeded a few more yards until father’s comments about bats frightened the girls into an early retreat.

We returned to the car at dusk, spending a few moments on the beach watching the cranes and sea birds, and then drove back toward Pylos in the dying light, stopping for groceries and snacks before heading back to Finikounda.

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Trip to Koroni

The third of the three great Venetian citadels is in Koroni, lying east over the mountain from Finikounda. It was our Saturday excursion.

The castle at Koroni has been described as “domestic” when compared to its counterparts in Methoni and Pylos. It is one of the few ancient citadels in Greece in which townsfolk still live within its walls. Most of Koroni town lies outside the castle, however, and we started our day along the waterfront, where the view east across the Messenian Gulf to the Peloponnese’s middle peninsula—a harsh, bare place known as the Mani—is made most spectacular by the imposing, snow-covered range of Mount Taygetos, beyond which lies modern and ancient Sparta, and the Byzantine city of Mistras. These will be visited in another excursion.

We snacked on some fresh bakery items and watched a fisherman beat octopus against the breakwater—a process that tenderizes this delicacy, which is best consumed (grilled, minced, and served cold with olive oil and vinegar) following one’s afternoon siesta, with the benefit of a glass of ouzo.

Jonathan asked the man how many times he throws it against the rocks. “Eighty or one hundred times, depending.” “Depending on what?” Jonathan asked earnestly. “Depending on how tired I am.” It seemed a most reasonable answer.

We walked through the narrow back streets of Koroni and passed through the arched entrance of the Venetian castle.

A sign announced that the European Union had earmarked 600,000 euros for restoration of the castle, and the presence of scaffolding confirmed the proclamation.

We entered the first of three gates of an Orthodox Christian nunnery. To the right is a third-century Christian chapel with bapistry, built on the site of an ancient, pre-Christian sanctuary.

The nunnery is called Timíou Prodhrómou—and it is not just any monastery, but one run by the Old Calendarists or Palaio Metroloyites. Without belaboring (or misrepresenting) the “schism” within Orthodoxy, let us simply say that the Old Calendarists in Greece (who follow the Gregorian Calendar, as do the Russians and other Slavic Orthodox churches) have been persecuted, overtly in the 1920s and 1950s, and more subtlely in recent years, by the “official church” (the so-called New Calendarists) who have the power of the state behind them. Each considers the other “heretics” and the split remains highly contentious to this day. This brief background is necessary to understand the nearly one-hundred-year history of Timíou Prodhrómou.

The nunnery is under the tutelage of an Old Calendar monastery located near Kalamata, and on this day several young monks were present—there to assist the nuns in the day-to-day operation of the nunnery, maintaining the flower-strewn interior, the gardens, and assist with tours. The nunnery, as such, has been reduced to no more than five or six elderly sisters.

We met Pater (Father) Athanasios, a young Toronto-born Greek with parents from Kalamata. Athanasios gave us a first-rate tour of the monastery—and a minor lecture on the persectution of Old Calendarists generally and this order specifically in the modern era. Brother Athanasios was kind, gracious, and more than willing to answer our questions.

The monastery was founded in the early twentieth century by Father Theodoris, a monk from nearby Kalamata whose relics (skull and bones and vestments) are displayed in a small box, where they are venerated in the katholikon (central chapel). (We entered the chapel and, following the lead of our guide, crossed ourselves and kissed the skull—Lucia looked slightly faint and her father suggested that she kiss the wood box top.) The persecution of Father Theodoris and his followers occurred from the outset and was (according to Brother Athanasios) particularly brutal.

The police would cut off the beards of the brothers, shave their heads, beat them, and throw them in jail. As a result the monastery, a citadel within a citadel, developed a series of underground secret passageways—from Theodoris’ cell, a matchbox-sized closet, to the krufa skoleio (secret school) to the back of the altar—from which he and his followers could elude the police and other authorities during their periodic raids.

Brother Theodoris told us several stories of Theodoris’s close escapes. Once, in the early 1930s, a detachment of police officers came from Kalamata, led by their chief. The monks, who were forewarned, locked the gates and the officer ordered his men to scale the walls. The men refused. In a show of bravado the police chief reportedly said, “then I will do it myself.” According to Athanasios, as he scaled the walls, nearly reaching the top of the bastion, an invisible hand reached from behind and threw him to the ground. Quite shaken, he gathered his men and refused to return ever again.

More recently, the Greek state has threatened the nuns with closure and seizure of their property. For many years, the nunnery displayed several ancient column capitals, which was a source of consternation for the authorities—two years ago, the antiquities department arrived with armed guards and tore them away from their displays, and ferried the antiquities off to a distant museum—where they would be “safe.”

During the Second World War, Koroni was occupied by German forces and the local population, their fields, crops, and livestock were ravished by the occupiers. The local population were constantly on the brink of starvation. According to several sources, the nuns fed more than half the city—baking bread late at night, and then crawling through the maze of secret tunnels to deliver it to the neediest families before sunrise, right under the noses of the Nazis. The mother superior and sisters were said to have gone for weeks without eating so as to save the people of Koroni.

The nuns’ cells—and that of Theodoris (located in the first compound), preserved in its original state—are impossibly tiny closets with three-foot-high doors.



Athanasios told us that the short doorways served two purposes: to remind monastics that “the ‘way’ was narrow” and to help them remain “forever humble.” Athanasios added: “And if you bonked your head, it reminded you that you perhaps you had forgotten about humility.”

The old Ottoman Turkish–era powder room and tower are the highest structure within the third walled compound. A narrow winding staircase leads to the top, a dizzing column of stone rising more than two-hundred-feet above the acropolis. Jonathan had warned Ann and the children about the inherent danger from memories of his trip here in 2007. “There are no rails, so please, no horsing around kids!” Brother Athanasios led us to the edge of a dizzying abyss and commented: “And for those monks who refused to pay attention, they got thrown off the edge.” The adults were certain that he was joking—the girls looked on (and then carefully over the edge) with less certainty.

The “secret schoolroom,” located in a small grotto under the monastery, was entered through a hobbit-sized door: entering the room required squatting and then turning sideways, a slightly acrobatic shuffle. Inside there was a row of wooden benches, a bookshelf, and a human skeleton hanging from a hook, holding a placard. In monasteries, generally, death is displayed to remind monastics of the fleeting nature of this life. In Greek, the deceased monk’s admonition said (a poor paraphrase): “I am no longer with you, but I continue to teach you with my presence. Someday you too will be like me—a rack of bones.” Each end of the room had a narrow hidden passageway behind a false wall: one led under the entire length of the monastery grounds, and the other out of the acropolis; and still another led to Father Theodoris’ matchbox-size cell. These were the escape hatches when the authorities would make their periodic raids. Athanasios added: “Many of the passageways have been closed because they are unsafe, but most are still passable—you just need to hold a candle and watch out for snakes and scorpions.”

Athanasios led us past three bells. “And here’s something interesting. During the occupation [c. 1942] an Italian ship ran aground near here. The people of Koroni rowed out to the foundering ship and stripped anything of value from it. The captain rowed to shore with one of the ship’s bells and met the mother superior on the beach. He asked: “Can you use this in your nunnery?” The bell has the name “Giovanni” (i.e., John) stamped clearly on it. The monastery is dedicated to Saint John the Baptist (Prodhomos)—which the mother superior viewed as no mere coincidence. The bell hangs in the church’s belfry today. (Note: Our Manny’s middle name is “Giovanni”!)

Athanasios took us back to the monastery’s small gift shop. One of the sisters is a masterful icon painter: “but we can never say so in front of her or she will stop painting. Hers is a gift from God and she is a very humble woman.” Her work, indeed, is inspired. She and the other nuns, all quite elderly, treated us to loukoumia (soft, chewy candies) and sent us on our way with a bag of gifts—books, pamphlets, crosses, komboskoinoi (knotted wool, made from the nunnery’s wool, and used in prayer like silent rosary beads), and other handmade items. Brother Athanasios invited us to visit his monastery in Kalamata.

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We continued our circuit from the acropolis above Koroni, visiting a nineteenth-century church called Panayia Elestrias, which houses a miraculous icon that was unearthed from a cave (located below the foundation walls of church, which was built to house it) with the assistance of a local woman, who discovered it after having a vision. This is a much-venerated icon in this part of Messenia.

One story tells of an attempt to steal the icon. The pirates who perpetrated this would-be theft did not escape—their ship was turned into stone and the wayward icon floated back safely to Koroni. In fact, there is an island far offshore, south of Schiza—only days before Jonathan spotted it with binoculars from the beach in Finikounda. He asked Ann: “I can’t tell if that is ship or or not. It doesn’t seem to be moving.” It was a very strange irony to have been told this story just a day later.

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We concluded our walk through Koroni town with a stop at the gelata shop—ice cream for everyone was a fitting conclusion to a special day. The blue Mediterrean spread before us, the snow-capped mountains of Taygetos beyond the next shoreline.



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On Saturday night, after the girls had gone to sleep, Jonathan and Ann slipped out for an evening at Elena’s restaurant, located on the knoll above the fishing harbor in Finikounda. We had been told that we might hear some local musicians playing. Manny promised to check in with momma and baba should there be a sibling crisis at home—and off we set at 11:30 p.m. for our first night alone in six weeks. The music was excellent, if slightly overamplified, and we enjoyed a fish meze (appetizer) by the taverna woodstove—shrimp, kalamari, and filets of white fish, along with some local elixir.

We returned by 1 a.m. to find Manny awake and fully in charge of the situation.

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Our Sunday Drive

The time changed (daylight savings time) on Saturday night, so the tolling of the church bells interrupted an already short night of sleep. We had told the children in no uncertain terms the night before that we would be attending the liturgy on Sunday, and we kept our word.

At 10 a.m. we set off in the “Lamborghini” (our Fiat Punto) for a tour of some more distant mountain villages. Our first stop was at an abandoned nunnery located a few miles off the main road (which isn’t very “main”), called Iera Moni Ayia Theodoron. Down a bumpy red gravel track and tucked into a fold of mountains, very far from any houses, we stumbled on this beautful abandoned monastery.

The place was so peaceful, a setting where time had clearly stopped--one of those hackneyed phrases that fits this place. Jonathan marveled at what it must have felt like, in such a remote location, being the among the last nuns, the order about to vanish. There were beehives all around the monastery grounds, some huge carob trees, and an overgrown olive orchard—all signs of a mortal wealth now vanished.



From the monastery we headed further northeast to two villages: the first called Harakopio, where we were unable to find a much-needed cafeneion, the second called Mistraki, a smaller jewel of stone houses, many of them of being restored by Germans—one of the ironies of the southern Peloponnese. Jonathan, ever the cynic at heart, mused at the prospect of Americans building vacation homes in Baghdad.

By the time we returned to Finikounda, we were ready for naps. But Nia was pining for a swim (although the water, according to a local fisherman, is barely 10 degrees Celsius) and Manny and Lucia wanted to visit the Internet café.

So we compromised: Jonathan napped while everyone else set off for the village center.



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22–25 March 2009
Sunday--Wednesday

The Gods Must Be Angry

The weather takes two steps forward, one step backward—not unlike springtime in Maine. For the past three days it has rained relentlessly. Not just rain, but horrific downpours with frequent—and seemingly close—strikes of lightning.

Adding to the misery of the steady downpour is the Finikounda public works department. Now at the dawn of the busy season, they have chosen to tear up the entire waterfront street, the hub and heart of the village. Each day a small army of jackhammers, dump trucks, back hoes, and tractors carve away the asphalt. The ultimate aim is clear from the opposite end of town: a crew of masterful Albanian stone masons is laying cobblestone, and they have made incredible progress in a short time. We pass their ongoing work each morning as we walk the girls to school at 8 o’clock—each day they complete fifty to seventy-five feet of handlaid stone, fitted to perfection: two men mix cement, one man cuts and shapes stone by hand, two men fit stone, and last of all a woman in a headscarf does the grout work…and, of course, the clean up.

But the forces of deconstruction (always one to reckon with in Greece) have gotten much too far ahead of the stone layers. And the result is a hopeless mire of muck. Made only worse by the rain.

The constant rumble of dump trucks has cracked our marble patio deck. Additional fissures may have been a result, too, of last Monday’s earthquake, which was centered just east of Kalamata. One of the largest seismic faults in the eastern Mediterranean runs through this part of the Pelopponnese and under the nearby island of Kithera. Shaking and rumbles are not uncommon. Kalamata, 48 kilometers away by twisty road, was the epicenter of a severe earthquake in 1986, in which several dozen people died, hundreds were injured, and 12,000 left homeless. On the day of our arrival in the village, more than a month ago, we had a “family earthquake awareness” meeting.

Meeting New Friends

The folks from whom we rented mountain bikes are a British couple who manage one of the beachfront campgrounds and several holiday homes. Their story is not unlike that of several other foreigners we have meet during our stay here. A dozen or so years ago they sold their home, bought a motorhome, sold most of their possessions in the U.K., and set off across Europe. They found their new “home”—a patch of beachfront to park their motorhome—and have lived here ever since.

Manny and Jonathan (his travel guitar slung over his back) biked to the motorhome during a lull in the rain. The couple were gracious and welcoming and invited us inside for coffee and conversation, and a little music. (He has a half dozen acoustic guitars scattered about the motorhome, and told us he once owned a recording studio in Los Angeles, next to Elvis Presley’s former studio). It is fun to hear everyone’s story—how they left their old lives behind and made new lives for themselves in Greece. We agreed to meet again soon for an evening music session in one of the rental houses that they manage in the hills. They also offered to inquire about a long-term car rental for us.

Last night we made a repeat performance at Treis Chordes, the taverna in the village of Mesohori, on the way to Pylos. It was our British friend Chris’s suggestion (Kosta is away in Athens) and the excursion provided an opportunity for him to introduce two British couples who have been living here for many years but have never met. Chris “borrowed” Ilias’s car (the key is always in the ignition) and took Ann and the girls; Jonathan and Manny traveled in a rickety Lada, a Soviet-era all-terrain vehicle that was on it’s last leg. We were a convoy of three vehicles in all, with Chris in the lead.

It was easy enough to find Mesohori, the village; somewhat more of a challenge to find Treis Chordes in the maze of village streets. We drove in circles for ten minutes, covering every street in the village several times, finally locating the taverna more by accident than by design.

Our five British friends know a smattering of Greek among them (Chris more than the others) so much of the translation was left to Jonathan. Although we had met only once, the owner, Panayioti, greeted all of us by first name. This time we had an opportunity to examine the reconstruction of this three-hundred-year-old stone house more closely. It belonged to Panayiotis’ grandfather, and he had fond memories of his childhood there: “This is where my bed was.” He pointed to a wide stone staircase, an obvious addition to the old house.

The ten of us filled a long table on the second floor. Just as we sat a crack of lightning struck and five minutes of heavy hail ensued. We were glad to be inside. Jonathan resolved not to visit the olive orchard this night, and paced himself carefully. Chris remarked: “You’re not in charge of pouring the wine tonight.”

We made new friends and received nice comments on the behavior of our children. Chris said: “Your children are a pleasure to be with at taverna.” It was the ultimate compliment.

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We returned home just after 1 a.m., moments ahead of a horrific lightning storm and a rainfall of biblical proportions. None of us slept particularly well. We missed the Sunday morning liturgy, our first absence in the month that we have been here in the village. We were waiting for Papa Giorgi to come find us. It was a slow start for all of us, especially for Manny—who promised to join Chris for part III of a tiling “class.” Chris is renovating a taverna on the waterfront and Manny, to whom he has taken a shining, has become his sidekick on the tile cutting machine. In exchange, Manny has gotten a collection of tile pieces with which he has created some impressive mosaics—one of which will become a part of the taverna wall. He will leave a bit of his presence to find again during our next visit.

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Home Restorations

Yesterday (Sunday) Manny and Jonathan took advantage of a break in the weather and cycled up to Lahanada, a hillside village that commands the heights above Finikounda. We had been invited by our friend Chris, who has become Manny’s mosaic “mentor,” to look at the house he has restored.

The most notable moment in our journey straight uphill to Lahanada—aside from distant flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder—was a very large hawk that the two cyclists scared up from the side of the road. The bird flew up from the roadside thicket and missed Jonathan’s head by a matter of inches, its enormous talons dangling threateningly behind. From his vantage point several meters behind his father, Manny was convinced that the bird was prepared to circle around for the final kill, take his father back as food for the raptor’s youngsters. The two stopped, breathless, and nearly speechless.

The trip to Lahanada takes all of ten minutes, rising steeply on a narrow winding road. We arrived in a peaceful, idyllic village with a broad expansive view of the coastline, from the headlands near Koroni to the distant roll of hills that lead to Methoni. Neatly manicured vineyards and olive orchards stretch in every direction, punctuated by a smattering of second homes.

We found Chris’s motorbike among the maze of houses that are entirely or partially connected to one another, but were uncertain which house was his. A few minutes later, having heard our quiet banter, he emerged on an overhead patio and invited us inside for the fifty-cent tour.

The restoration work is masterful: from a crumbling shell he has recreated the feel and aura of long-lost centuries and the structural integrity that any sensible homeowner would desire. Exposed olive wood lintels, carefully pointed masonry walls, exposed stone and mosaic, a cathedral ceiling with exposed rough-sawn beams. A veritable work of art but entirely unpretentious and in perfect keeping with the traditions of the village. A testimony to good taste and an eye to perfection.

Chris led us across the way to the home of the British couple with whom we had dined the night before, retired educators from the U.K. who arrived in southern Messenia—like so many others—in a camper van a dozen or so years earlier. Their house had once belonged to the village priest, his wife, and four children. It was much larger than Chris’s house and the layout was different, but the end result was the same: a masterful restoration of the old Greece.

Both houses may otherwise have crumbled into the rubble of a dying village. Instead, the results are humble museum-pieces, respectful of the character of this place.

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Trip to Kalamata

Ann and Manny set off for Kalamata, the central city of Messenia, at 8 o’clock with the British couple who live in Lahanada. Jonathan walked the girls to the demotiko and for the first time had the entire house to himself—and no excuses not to work industriously on an editing project.

Jonathan checked with Manny by mobile phone (each of them has one) and learned that the old Lada found a new home in a Kalamata mechanic’s shop and that they would be returning home on the 1:00 bus—with everyone else. But not before shopping for a new chainsaw. Our British friends own a dozen small trees between them. For those of us who cut up ten cord of firewood per year, it didn’t seem like a practical necessity. But to each his own.

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The Visa Saga—part V (or was it VI? or VII?)

Our dear friends Thanasi and Koula are our koumbaroi—which for some people (like us) is a bond as close as that of a blood relative. They “married” us on the island of Spetses (the birthplace of Jonathan’s maternal grandmother) in 1992. Although we are separated by the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, we have managed to keep in regular touch and occasional visits. Our daughters, Lucia and Dionysia, are the same age—and are slowly becoming friends, in spite of the language barrier that is slowly vanishing.

Jonathan and Thanasi have been friends since 1979, when the two shaggy, aspiring revolutionaries met in Athens. Co-opted by “the system” (Thanasi is a banker; Jonathan an editor—and the revolution has not progressed much past the cafeneion stage), the two remain awash in peaceful ideals.

Our Greek friends have known for years about our plans to spend an extended period in Greece. And now they are a part of our saga to overcome the seemingly insurmountable bureaucracy that does not want us to stay here more than ninety days. If only we were Pakistanis selling pirated DVDs in front of the Pylos police station—then we would be safe.

Koula offered to visit the police headquarters in Pireaeus that handles tourist visas. She called earlier this evening.

“I have news for you, and it is isn’t good.” This is never a promising start. “The police said that in order to extend your stay you need to appear at the police station five days before your visa expires—and pay 480 euros per person. No exceptions for children.” For people subsisting (in theory, at least) on crusts of village bread and fresh vegetables, the prospect of paying 2,400 euros (or more than $3000) for an extra forty-five days is…well, let’s say, prohibitive.

The most exasperating thing is: the cost of the visa from the consulate in Boston would have been $125 each (“but you can apply for it in Pylos, don’t worry be xhappy”); the Pylos police chief quoted us a price of 300 euros each (“and you still might not get the paper!”; and the U.S. Embassy said that the fine for overstaying our visa would be 450 euros each (“and they do collect it”). Our conclusion, in the final analysis, is that the visa itself costs more than the fine for not having a visa! Only in Greece.

Our only hope is the consulate lady in Boston who offered a slim chance of helping us—by way of the dual citizenship process. To say that we are skeptical is an understatement. We are light on paperwork, heavy on ambition.

And if we overstay our visa and are fined at the airport and claim poverty, then what happens? we wonder. If we say, “come on kids, empty your pockets on Kerie Kleftopoulos’s desk…oops, not enough? Sorry kerie. Would you take a couple of sheep, and perhaps a fifty euro note in your vest pocket?” To be continued…

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Fear Not…the Visa Solution: Part I

Hercules was said to have performed twelve labors in order to achieve immortality—among them, killing the Erymanthian boar and the Stymphalian birds, cleaning the Augean stables, and capturing the Ceryneian deer. These were relatively easy tasks. Lucky for him, he did not have to receive an extended visa in modern Greece.

We are feeling exceptionally mortal on account of the thirteenth labor.

So, reflecting on Hercules—and several Amstels later—Jonathan had a revelation on the visa issue: We will all dress as gypsies before we go to the airport. (Greeks seems to be frightened of these nomadic peoples who have lived in their midst for hundreds of years.) We will wrap the girls in bandages from head to toe and tell the authorities that they lost their limbs in a terrible accident on the Metro. (And we will also demand money from them! That is sure to fix them.) We will say that we didn’t think it would be fair to subject the girls, after such a horrific accident, to an international flight without just a few days of recovery—hence we overstayed our visa by 34 days. “And, by the way, did we mention that we want some money in our jar?”

Or better yet, Ann can threaten the authorities with a magic potion from the little bag around her neck, or cast the evil eye on the Customs man, while hissing an incantation.

Solution: Part II

Or maybe we can all carry armloads of pirated DVDs and say we are Pakistanis leaving Greece for America. (The authorities might welcome the chance at voluntary deportation of a small handful of the many thousand South Asians living illegally in their midst.) Or perhaps we could do the same, disguised as Bulgarians, Albanians, Poles, Russians, or any of the other non-EU members flaunting the visa requirements under the noses of the Tourist Police.

Solution: Part III

Alexandros, the man who runs the stable and riding school in Methoni, has a lovely Saint Bernard, and she is very pregnant. Manny has taken a shining to the dog, which Alexandros instantly recognized. “The Great” offered one of the puppies to Manny, which, of course, would present a logistical nightmare.

Or a solution? In order to bring an animal on an international flight, there is a mandatory 90-day quarantine period. Alas, the puppy is the answer! “But, kurie, we were only obeying the law in quarantining our dog and awaiting the 90-day period to pass in its entirety. Surely you can’t fine us for obeying your laws?”

The Final Analysis

The first problem is we are of Greek heritage, speak Greek, raised our children as Orthodox Christians, and spend our own money in Greece. The second problem is that we are attempting to obey the law: first by traveling 400 miles to the Boston Consulate; second by trying to register at the Pylos police station; third, by being stupid enough to consider paying 2500 euros for the privilege of doing our part to support the Greek tourist economy for another 36 days.

Maybe Nikos is right: Greece is the most Islamic country in Europe!

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The Bird Man of Kalamata

The truck’s loudspeaker caught our attention this morning: “I’ve got ducks and geese and chickens, including roosters, all healthy and ready for your yard.” Jonathan grabbed Manny by the shirt-collar and dragged him to the porch: “get your camera.”

The truck snaked through the village, a small plume of feathers trailing behind it, a visual advertisement of the product. Manny was disappointed that we did not make any purchases from the bird man of Kalamata.

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Solo Run to Akritohori

Jonathan set off for a solo run to the village of Akritohori above Finikounda. Running always manages to clear his head and help put life in perspective. He ran first to the village to walk the lot that Yiota showed us last week. He stopped his watch long enough to take a rest in the family’s imaginary house, and enjoyed the long views of the mountain to the north called Mavrovouno.



Setting off for the return to Finikounda, he remembered his friend Tom’s comments about a dirt road that led to the vigli. Jonathan followed a confusing selection of red dirt roads that led off into the hills—access roads to various olive orchards on the hillside. It was a beautiful and lonely stretch of hillside.

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Nikos, our friend who is a poet, called in the early evening to say that our papers, sent by Jonathan’s sister, had arrived in the afternoon mail. Jonathan and Manny rushed over to Nikos’s house and tore open the package in his saloni. Jonathan was hardly disappointed: the “delayed registration of birth” documents, filed in 1941 before his father’s entry into the U.S. Marine Corps, looked official enough—even for the Greek authorities—and seemed a suitable replacement for the never-filed 1917 documents. Also included in the package was his father’s most recent cancelled passport and his parents’ wedding certificate, in both Greek and English.

It was a heartening moment.

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Greek Independence Day––March 25th

Today is a national and a religious holiday--Greek Independence Day and the Annunciation (Evangelismos) of the Virgin Mary—perhaps the third most important day in Greece after Easter (April 18th this year) and the Dormition (Koimisis) of the Virgin (August 15th).

After a long and bloody struggle, the Greek people ended four hundred years of Ottoman Turkish occupation in 1821—when a bishop declared Greece’s independence in a monastery on the Feast Day of Dormition. With the help of philhellenes from around the worlds (the most notable, Lord Byron, who gave his life for Greece), the people won liberation.

All week there have been nationalistic and historical skits, television shows, and radio broadcasts. In a television drama yesterday, a priest asked a girl in church: “How old are you dear?” She replies, “I am nine, Father.” He then asks: “Have you ever killed anyone before?” She shakes her head innocently. “Well, tomorrow you will kill for our freedom.”

Jonathan translated this episode for Lucia and Evyenia, who have been preparing for weeks to take part in the school’s celebration. They may not have been ready to kill the Turkish hordes, but they were quite prepared to dance, sing, recite Greek poetry, and eat sweets—on the plaza in front of the church, with nearly the entire village in attendance. Here are a few images from today’s events.

19 March 2009
Thursday


Methoni Riding School (3/12/09)—a few words from Lucia

Hi everyone! I went to Alexandros’ stable for a riding lesson last week! I rode on a beautiful chocolate brown mare, one of my favorites. I’m going to tell you all about it! Here’s my story.

When we got to Alexandros’ stable, he wasn’t there yet but a girl and her father, who are the care-takers of the horses, were saddling up the chocolate colored mare. When they were done, they led the horse into the riding ring. By now, Alexandros had arrived and asked his wife to get me ready for the lesson.

Alexandros’ wife, Soula, told me to follow her to the tack room where she fit me into leg guards, a helmet, gloves and a protection vest. I was ready to go. Soula then took me to the ring where I mounted up on to the horse. Soula then attached a rope to the bridle of the horse and led me around so I could get used to the horse and to the English saddle.

As I rode, Soula reminded me to keep my heels down, toes up, knees tight around the saddle, and my hands above the front of the saddle. So much to remember, and I am riding! I walked the horse around the circle of the lunge line several times so Alexandros could assess my skills. Soula asked me if I knew how to post. I had tried this before, so we tried a posting trot. It was hard at first, but after a few times around, it felt easier and more comfortable. Alexandros came into the ring, took the line and asked, “Do you know how to canter?” Of course I answered, “Yes!” I signaled the horse to canter and it felt like I was flying! It was soooooo…fun.

Alexandros saw that I could handle the horse well, and he removed the lunge line and had me walk the horse around the perimeter of the arena. Next, I practiced the posting trot again. We finished the lesson with a cool-down for the horse, walking several times around the arena. After I dismounted, the stable girl took over. She removed the saddle and took the horse to wash its legs. My lesson was over, and it was a dream come true. Alexandros told me that when I got really good at English riding, we could go for a ride on the beach. I can’t wait!

I’ll keep you posted….

Lucia

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Window shopping for property

Yesterday Manny and Jonathan biked/ran to Akritohori, the village above Finikounda where our landlady’s daughter, Yiota, had showed us a small lot within the village limits the day before.



It was a beautiful climb through Loutsa, skirting most of the main road, and then into the village proper. The lot is postage-stamp size but has tremendous potential for views of the ocean and some of the mountains to the north.

Manny climbed an olive tree to capture a better view, to get a sense of what our family might see while sitting on our imaginary second-story balcony.

The two strolled through the adjoining lot and imagined that it too was theirs, giving the five of us more room to breath and ensuring an unobstucted view to the southwest. Then Manny and Jonathan took the road up into the small village of about 115 souls, a quiet and tidy place where improvements are underway. A crew of Albanian masons are laying flagstone sidewalks, and several new houses are being built. There are two cafeneions, one that sells bulk honey, and a rather imposing church located at the highest point. From the village center the long views of Mavrovouna, the highest mountain in the region, are unobstructed and breathtaking.





The return to Finikounda, following the same set of side roads, so as to cut off as much of the main road as possible, was nothing short of exhilirating—especially so for Manny on a bicycle, who careened downhill toward the cobalt ribbon of ocean with his father in hot pursuit.

Their next stop was the lot that Yiota showed us in Finikounda, back toward the valley and about 1 kilometer from the Anemomilos beach. Jonathan carefully noted on his watch how long it took (running) from the bakery to the property, which seemed the most helpful rule of thumb for auto-less folk. It took all of 6 minutes at a leisurely pace.



It is a special spot, too, but for different reasons. It is doubtful that one could capture much of an ocean view, although a thin ribbon of blue might be possible from a second floor. This time, without the realtor and the girls to slow down the boys, the two strolled around the edge of the lot. Wearing only light sneakers and ever fearful of snakes, which Yiota said are most active now, we did not feel especially compelled to stroll through the thick undergrowth. So, from the edge of gravel road, we counted the olive trees (about 30 or more) and made some mental notes about the lay of the land (totally flat), the adjoining pastures (nearly all are active vineyards), and the views in each direction. We then ascended the old track that was once the Evangelismos Road, which runs by the property, and from a slight elevation could appreciate the view out to sea.

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Later in the afternoon, just before sunset, Manny and Jonathan returned to the Fini lot on bicycle. The quality of light at that hour gave them a new appreciation for the property—as well as a few of its limitations—and wearing boots Jonathan ventured through the length of the lot, albeit gingerly. The trees are recent plantings, perhaps no older than five years. There is huge potential for landscaping and planting—in our mind’s eye we imagined several lemon and orange trees, perhaps a fig tree, a small garden, rock walls, a stone patio, an outdoor oven, and the scarlet bougainvillaea climbing the white-washed wall…all in our minds’ eye.

For a few moments we tried to dispell the reality of our place in life—middle-class folk from the coast of Downeast Maine, a good life for which we are most grateful—and instead dreamed of our small “spitaki” on the edge of the Mediterranean. Alas, what is life without a few special dreams?

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Bike Ride to the Chapel of Profitis Ilias

Recalling a ride he took several years ago with his friend Tom, Jonathan and Manny set off on bikes toward the chapel to Profitis Ilias (the Prophet Elisha). Chapels to Profitis Ilias are most often located on very high, forbidden places—mountain tops, edges of cliffs, certainly off the beaten track. This sanctuary does not defy the rule.

They set off on the main road in a halting head wind, heading west toward Methoni. At one point, at the top of a long, steep hill, the two stopped to rest, looking back in the direction from which they had come, all of three kilometers behind them. “Oh wow!” issued from their mouths simultaneously—the craggy peaks of the Taygetos range, perhaps fifty kilometers distant, filled the horizon. Ten thousand feet of snow-clad mountains, with sharp peaks as forbidding as any great range, and contrasting spectacularly with the wine-blue sea. It was an incredible site to behold.



The two turned off the main road onto a rough track that lead out to the end of the peninsula, marveling at the clarity of the day, the forbidden beauty of this place. The views west toward Methoni were crystalline and unobstructed.



Pleasantly surprised to find the chapel open, the two entered and lit candles and rested in the cool shade. There was a special silence within, beyond the rustle of leaves, the noonday sun, and the stiff breeze.





On the return trip, the pair passed a collection of villas

Jonathan pointed out the houses to Manny and referenced a wealthy, long-lost uncle who would soon leave us one of these villas—knowing the joy that it would bring our family.

For a brief moment, Manny suspended belief and accepted this fiction.

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