4 March 2009
Wednesday

Last night we had dinner with our friend Niko at the poet’s house. We had bumped into him two days before at the celebration in Methoni. He suggested treating us to his special homemade chicken soup with egg and lemon, a recipe he learned many years ago from his grandmother.

Not wanting to arrive empty-handed, we stopped at the sweet shop just after sunset and tried to come to an agreement about what to choose. The worker at the shop simplified matters by offering us nearly one of each confection to try. We settled on a box of mixed cookies and set off.

Niko’s cousin Dimitra, visiting her home village from Athens, greeted us at the door and we proceded directly to his round table, which was set to perfection. While the soup simmered, we snacked on olives from Niko’s orchard, fresh brown bread, and large bowls of creamy taramasolata—one of the quintessential Lenten foods—and some very special local wine. Before the main course arrived, the conversation turned to Ann’s experience with the girls at the local school. “I guess they have to think about it, check with their superiors in Methoni, and get back to us on Thursday.”

Niko began to boil with disbelief. “I tell you, this is the most Islamic country in all of Europe! It only proves that the poorer the country, the more enormous the bureacracy. Asta me auto to thema, Yianni, tha mou kanei trello!” (“Enough of that subject, Yianni, you will make me crazy.)

The chicken avgolemono (egg-lemon) soup far exceeded the mark of culinary delight, especially for the children, who, by 10:00 p.m. were falling asleep in their chairs—Evyenia’s face was especially rosy from just a few hours in the Greek sun—and Niko urged us to get them to bed. It was the first night in three weeks that we were all in bed before midnight. An honest admission for their yiayiades (grandmothers).

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A Birthday Celebration

In Greece, birthdays take a distant second place to name days, in which one marks their saint’s day on the church calendar. Orthodox Christians are named for a Christian saint—even those with “pagan” names (Odysseus or Homer, for example) generally have an alternative baptismal name. For Jonathan (“John”) it is 7 January, the feast day of Saint John the Baptist. On one’s name day the greeting is chronia polla (many years) and the celebrant becomes the fortunate recipient of all manner of attention…and sweets.

But we’re American—and today is Jonathan’s fiftieth birthday. (By looking at him, you wouldn’t think he was a day over twenty…). The standard greeting on one’s birthday is na ekatostises (“may you live to one hundred”). Jonathan took little comfort in knowing that he was only halfway there. The thought of another half century makes his bones hurt prematurely. And pushes back his retirement to around eighty-five, out of necessity.

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6 p.m.

Jonathan just returned from a long run up the east side of the valley, an attempt to reach the end of the valley—intrigued by his friend Tom’s suggestion that it stretches on “forever.” With Finikounda just a two kilometers behind, all signs of humanity disappear; even the groves of the olive trees became more wild, unpruned, and the rough track soon becomes little more than a goat path.

Some strange sounds issued from the steep embankment that marks the swift river, now concealed by thick clusters of bamboo. Was it birds of prey? Frogs? The deep moans of some mytic creature, a troll or perhaps a satyr hidden since antiquity? Jonathan recalled the conversation at Dimitri and Yiorgia’s house: until recently they could hear the evening cries of a certain creature. “Is is wolf (lykos)?” Jonathan inquired. “No, it is smaller than a wolf but larger than the creatures you call coyotes. They travel in packs and they howl at night—a beautiful and forbidden sound, one, regretably, that we do not often hear nowadays. They have sensitive ears and are greatly bothered by the low-altitude air force missions through the valleys. We have complained for years. Now the tsakalia have moved further up the valley and into the mountains.”

That evening Jonathan found the word tsakala in his Concise Oxford Greek Dictionary, but had all but forgotten this conversation. Tsakala even sounds like the English word: jackal.

Was he being followed stealthily by a pack of hungry jackals? In thirty-five years of running, Jonathan has encountered every critter under the sun—bear, moose, deer, wild goats, and, of course, angry domesticated dogs and the occasional incensed human. But never jackals. The further he ran up the valley, now 6 or 7 kilometers from the nearest occupied home, he considered the prospect of being eaten by wild jackals on his fiftieth birthday. It would make for a tremendous story among the running community back in rural Maine. “Downeast Runner Eaten by Wild Jackals.”

Alas, no jackals were seen. But the sound of rushing water became more intense—and although the valley did seem to continue on “forever” the dirt path met the river: swollen and chest deep. If the jackals didn’t get him, drowning in the depths of the valley seemed a genuine prospect. He would return in the dry season. For now, he turned and headed back for the village, retracing his footsteeps through the olive groves, past the yellow fragrant sfalaktra, back to the land of the many noisy motosikletes.

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Observations from Evyenia Xena (age 7)--in her own words

My friend Finn said you can only have goat’s milk and juice and wine [in Greece]. And no soda—but you can have soda!

My favorite thing to eat is souvlaki. Souvlaki is chicken or pork on a stick. A squirt of lemon makes it nostimo (delicious). Nostimo is what you say when something tastes delicious. Orange Fanta is a good drink with dinner. If you want to order orange juice at the restaurant you have to ask for ena portakalada parakalo (“one orange juice, please”).

from the editor: more to come from Evyenia!

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