20–26 April
Monday–Sunday

The Final Countdown

Our time here in southern Messenia is sliding away. We look forward to our next set of visitors on May 1st, Ann’s brother David and wife Lyndsay, followed soon after by sister Lena with her travel partner. In the meantime we have a car, a full tank of fuel, and a lot of ambition.

Chrysokelariá

Monday was a kind of recovery day from the overindulgences of Easter—Jonathan copyedited at the campground on Anemomilos Beach, making the best of an extremely windy day. With too much surf for swimming and even too much wind for sun-bathing, it was a day of mixed ambitions. We watched a windsurfer standing on the shore, his board and sail lying lifeless in the sand, a neoprened adventurer staring longingly out to sea. He was immensely patient, seemingly determined, but in the end discouraged by the pounding surf. “If I could make it past the first 100 meters, I’d be o.k. It’s a great wind for sailing. But I don’t think I’ll make it.” He packed up his gear after several hours of a losing staring contest with the open ocean.

By Tuesday afternoon we were all feeling a bit stir-crazy. Jonathan asked Dimitri and Yiorgia for directions to an unexplored village where we could enjoy a post-siesta cafeneion outing, and they were unanimous in their choice: Chrysokelariá.

We set off at around 6 p.m., heading on the main road toward Koroni. At the peak of the mountain, just before the road took it’s sharp descent toward Koroni and the ocean below, we cut off on a rough track into the hill country. A series of hairpin turns and then the snow-covered peaks of Taygetos came into view—a sharp contrast to the deep blue of the Gulf of Messenia.

We drove into the village center and then poked around on foot in search of the only cafeneion—as it turned out we had passed it on the way into town. When we arrived, Manny and mom ordered super sweet capuccinos; the girls had lemonitas, and Jonathan settled down to Messeni’s own potent elixir.

Rainy days

Lucia and Jonathan visited Dimitri at the butcher shop before noon, with road maps in hand. He helped us plot our course for Thursday’s trip to ancient Olympia. After leaving his shop we stopped at the taverna that is being remodeled by Anastasia with the help of our British friend Chris—at forty-plus years old, it is said to be the oldest in Finikounda.

Months earlier she had mentioned to us that we might be interested in looking at her mother’s abandoned stone house on a hillside deep in the valley, far from the village buzz. She invited Lucia and Jonathan into her house, which is located above the taverna. We followed her up a narrow, circular metal staircase to the roof, then walked to the back edge, cognizant of the forty-foot drop to the street below. “Do you see that hillside there?” She pointed off toward the rolling hills north of Finikounda. “Do you see that stand of cypresses, and the clearing below? The house is about there. Tell me if you have any trouble finding it. If you’re interested we can talk about it. It has a tremendous view of the sea. Watch out for snakes.”

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We have taken an unfortunate detour toward last month’s inclement weather—downpours and thunder punctuate a Mediterranean blue sky and fleetingly tantalizing summer temperatures. None of the locals complain: the rain makes the olives grow, and olives and the oil they produce are their livelihood. The rain fills the cisterns, which allow some defense against drought and wildfires. Last year it rained just once or twice between February and November, and last August there were several days with temperatures over 115 degrees Fahrenheit, and prolonged weeks with the temperature over 100 degrees F.

The downpour came and went several times on Wednesday. Jonathan “took advantage” of the lousy weather by working all morning, then he drove to Methoni with Lucia and Manny in the “Lamborghini” (aka Fiat Punta) in order to check the progress on the citizenship process, which started in earnest several weeks ago.

Grigori at the demarchio (municipal office) had contacted the authorities in Kalamata concerning our request. “The problem is that you will need to register your father first. I’m not sure how we do this.” Jonathan’s father died seven years earlier—a minor detail. “And you need to have your birth certificate translated into Greek.” A kindly and helpful official, Grigori led us to the nearby symvolografios, the notary public, who promised that this would be accomplised by Monday--or maybe Tuesday, certainly by Wednesday. If not...by early next week.

The rain fell heavily through the afternoon, but by 5 p.m. there were signs of clearing, so Jonathan set off for a run into the valley in search of Anastasia’s mother’s old stone house. Neither Manny or Lucia were willing partners on this particular trek. (As it turned out, Jonathan was caught in a downpour at the furthest possible distance from home. At least it wasn't snow..)

Jonathan followed Anastasia’s directions as best he could, but after nine miles of “mountain goating” he had not found the house—but witnessed some stunningly beautiful stretches of mountain footpaths, with broad views of the hill country strewn with wild flowers and the expansive sea below.

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Ancient Olympia

We set off for the site of ancient Olympia early Thursday morning. Rain threatened from the start. We followed the coastal road from Pylos, passing through the gritty seaside village of Marathopoli, passing a multitude of tidy olive groves in a rich red soil. As the rain started, streams of red crossed the roads. We stopped briefly in Filiatra, a larger seaside city that features the goofy fantasies of a self-made local man who returned from the U.S. in the 1960s, his fortune in hand, to build (among other “creations”) a one-fifth size replica of the Eiffel Tower.


After passing the last of the larger seaside cities in the western Peloponnese, Kyparisia, the devastating fire damage from the 2007 wildfires became apparent—entire mountainside forests were reduced to burned out skeletons, large swaths of blackened sticks, many small villages encircled by black scars on an otherwise verdant landscape. From this point north and east, the horrors of the fires are evident. During the 2007 fires, 160 lives were lost, more than five million olive trees were destroyed, 700,000 farm animals perished, and many thousands of local residents were left homeless. It took little imagination to conjure the horrors of those days—the attempts to flee windblown firestorms on narrow mountain passes. The worst affected areas were the villages between Elea and Zacharo. It was a very sad site to behold.

We followed the signs to modern Olympia, a serviceable village that caters to the multitude of tourist buses that come and go daily. Lucky for us, the skies cleared for our visit and the numbers of visitors were relatively small. While we didn’t have all of Olympia to our selves (we had been so spoiled at ancient Messene among other sites), there was still plenty of room to move about.

Olympia is one of the most beautiful ancient sites in Greece, located in a luxuriant valley with olive and plane trees, nestled between the Alphios and Kladhios Rivers, astride the Kronos hill, which was covered with enormous pine trees, purple wildflowers, and crimson poppies. Jonathan last visited ancient Olympia in 1974, as a summer camper.

Occupied since Neolithic times (archaeologists have dated one house there to 4200 bce, but the museum is chock full of finds that are much older: tools, votive offerings, pottery, etc.), by around 1000 bce Olympia was a well-established sanctuary to Zeus, the head of the Olympic pantheon. In the early centuries, entrance to the sacred precinct, the walled rectangular space known as the Altis, was limited to free-born Greeks. The main focus was the great Doric temple of Zeus, built between 470 and 456 bce—a structure nearly as large as the Parthenon in Athens—which stood intact until a major earthquake struck in the middle of the fifth century ce.

Entering the site, along the west side of the Altis, we passed the Prytaneion, the administrators’ residence, where athletes were lodged and feasted. The next major structure and the only circular building at Olympia, the Philippeian, was built by Philip II of Macedon and completed by his son Alexander the Great. It commemerated the Macedonian victory at Charonea against the Thebans and their allies.

A little further, we passed by the temple of Hera on the way to the ancient stadium. Along the path to the stadium are the Zanes, sixteen bases that once supported bronze statues of Zeus. The statues were built from fines levied against athletes who had cheated in the Olympic Games—with their names and offenses carved in marble on the bases. Any athlete entering the stadium would have had to pass the Zanes, which served as warnings of the consequences of cheating. If only the modern Olympics had kept this tradition alive!

The approach to the stadium itself is through a long tunnel and archway. We must admit that we did what all tourists do at Olympia: we ran on the track!

Spectators at the stadium (it was said to have held 45,000 freeborn men—the women occupied a distant hill) sat on the sloped grass—only the officials themselves had a proper seating area.

Leaving the stadium, we worked our way to Nero’s Villa, a temporary residence of the Roman emperor in 65 ce. The villa replaced an earlier sanctuary of Hestia. It features a peristyle court, mosaics, and arched roof. The Roman baths there are well preserved.

On Nero’s orders, the Olympic Games were held in an off year—so that the emperor himself might “compete” in the chariot race. Nero was said to have won the event, but in truth, he crashed his chariot, the other competitors were disqualified, and he was declared the victor. He also competed (and won) musical “events”—which were created for his benefit alone.

Without a doubt, the centerpiece of ancient Olympia is the temple of Zeus. Constructed in the Doric style, the periteral temple was built between 470 and 456 bce, and contained an enormous (12 meters [nearly 40 feet] tall) statue of Zeus, designed and executed by the renowned sculptor Pheidias. The statue, one of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world, was made of gold and ivory. It stood in the temple, unmolested, for more than six hundred years before it was carted off to Constanintople by the Romans and eventually “lost” (that is, stolen and parted out).

Near to the Temple of Zeus is the Workshop of Pheidias, where the enormous statue of the god was fashioned. Olympia’s museum has many finds from the workshop, including carved bone tools used in making the statue of Zeus. The workshop was transformed into a Christian basilica in the fifth century bce, following the banning of pagan festivals and ceremonies by the (now) Christian emperors of the “New” Rome (Constantinople).

We wandered amid the flower-strewn ruins of Olympia for several hours, leaving by way of the gymnasion, a practice area for foot races, javelin, and discus, which dates to the Roman period.

After strolling back to modern Olympia, we found a table at an outside restaurant, the sun now thankfully having burned through the overcast and warming all of us—we enjoyed gyro sandwiches, fried potatoes, and a horiatiki salad before setting off on a perilous mountain road, in fog and intermittent rain, to the temple of Apollo Epikourios (“the healer”) at Bassae.

Temple of Apollo Epikourios (Bassae)

Built by the Phygalians, in gratitude for being spared the plague that devastated most of the Peloponnese in the middle of the fifth century bce, the temple of Apollo Epikourious (“the healer”) is located on a plateau at about 1200 meters (3700 feet) above sea level. It is a remote place and an extremely well-preserved Classical site—surely one of the most spectacular in all of Greece. A long list of superlatives could be used to describe the site, the overall setting, and the temple itself. Now a World Heritage Site, the entire temple has been shrouded in a large canopy since 1997, an effort to halt the distintegration of the limestone structure and the slow subsidence of its foundation while restoration is completed.

Getting there was 90 percent of the adventure—we passed through several remote and very beautiful villages, on an ascent that featured hairpin turns with dizzying descents—and there were no shortage of shrines marking the mishaps of unlucky drivers.

Sweet Home Kalamata

It was well past dark when we return to Finikounda. We logged a little over four hundred kilometers in all, much of it in heavy rain. We treated ourselves to dinner at the Finikounda gyro shop, which is run by Lucia’s horseback riding teachers, Alexandros and Dionysia. Manny and Jonathan were especially taken by a CD that blasted out a Greek version—note for note, with lyrics—of the Lynryd Skynrd tune “Sweet Home Alabama.” We dubbed the Greek version “Sweet Home Kalamata.”

Life is a Beach…

The weather has not cooperated entirely for beachgoing—we have heard enough discussion of how this is the most rainy spring in forty-five years—but we have still taken advantage of each day: especially as our day of departure approaches. We swim in the ocean nearly every day, rain or shine, and tan lines (for some of us at least) are a thing of the past.

After an afternoon at the beach, we drove deep into the valley and found Anastasia’s mother’s house—or the remnants of it. Two large walls stand on the edge of a bluff with a commanding view of the valley below and a broad sweep of ocean, islands, and headlands. It is a spectacular “fixer upper” for the truly ambitious.

April 23rd is Saint George Day, and we did our best to give our best wishes to all those named Georgios (male) or Georgia (female) that we know in Finikounda—we counted seven, including the priest. Our landlady’s husband is a Georgios, and so Jonathan was invited upstairs at 11 p.m. to take part in the celebration: an enormous variety of foods, sweets, wine, cheese, olives and some very entertaining villagers. Although he had only met a small handful of the celebrants, they all knew Jonathan’s name (aka Yianni) and the story of his family and their visit in the village.

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Methoni Catacombs

Located just outside of Methoni, on a rock outcropping about ten minutes walk from the main road, one can find Christian catacombs dating from the second century ce. On Saturday morning we made a special trip there, hiking with care through the high grass. Although damaged by time, moisture, and Communist partisans (c. 1947), the remnants of Christian iconography—saints and biblical stories painted on the walls and ceiling of the caves—is evident. The view from the catacombs, looking south toward Methoni, is spectacular.

Birthday Party

Lucia and Evyenia have made some good friends with the local children who attend Finikounda’s demotiki school. The two were invited to Poppy’s birthday party on Saturday night. Poppy’s father, Ilias, runs the Internet café, so the party was held there, right on the waterfront.

Panayiotis’s Ktima

Among the first people we met in Finikounda was Panayiotis, an elderly gentleman-farmer and a much-respected elder in the village. On several occasions he has given us bags of produce from his ktima (property), located in the hills above Finikounda.

On Saturday evening he asked if we would like to see his property on Sunday morning. Ann, Jonathan, and Lucia followed him up a path to a property that his great-grandfather acquired in the 1830s, when he (along with most of Finikounda’s ancestors) escaped the Turkish oppression in Crete to settle this part of the Peloponnese.

He showed us a few of his 1,700 olive trees, several dozen sheep, gardens, fruit trees—and tremendous views of the open ocean. “Many of the Europeans have asked me how much money I want for this property, or a part of it. You know, Yianni, a man’s land is his heart: without it, he is nothing. I would never sell even a single strema (quarter acre) of this land. It was a gift from my great-grandfather.”

Among the most special plantings are several red fig trees. “My great-grandfather brought these seeds from Hania, Crete, in 1830. Look at them now!” They are towering trees with fantastic canopies.

“This land is a gift from God. Each month the Lord gives us a new fruit: lemons, oranges, apricots, figs, and so on. I do not use any fertilizers or pesticides here, because they would destroy God’s garden.”

Panayioti, in his earlier seventies, climbed a lemon tree and filled a bag with fruit for us; filled another bag with green onions and lettuce; gave us 20 or so fresh eggs; and promised to deliver some of his homemade wine in the coming days.

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13–19 April 2009
Mon.-Sunday.

H Megali Evdomatha—Holy Week

This week marks the culmination of the Orthodox Lenten season, a period that recalls Christ’s Passion, Crucification, and Resurrection. The Easter season is a special time in Greece, a country that is—at least in theory—98 percent Orthodox.

The author writes “theory” because Orthodoxy, at least as an institution, has fallen on hard times in Greece. The irony is that Orthodox Christianity has grown or seen a resurgence worldwide, but here in Greece it has witnessed a decline: not simply in church attendance, but in respect. The monk we met last month at the nunnery in Koroni told us that it is the foreigners (residents and tourists) who most often visit their monastery, who demonstrate the proper decorum and respect owed a two-thousand-year-old sacred institution.

This observation aside, our family had planned long ago to make the most of our time in Greece by exploring our historical, cultural, linguistic—and religious—hertitage to its fullest. The latter has entailed regular attendence at Sunday liturgy, developing a personal relationship with Papa Yiorgi (the village priest), and visits to several historic monasteries and churches. Living a mere fifty meters from the church belltower, it is difficult not to know when services are being held. The four massive bells, when ringing, rattle the window panes of our house.

Manny and Jonathan drove up the mountain to the village of Lahanada at sunset on Monday. Papa Yiorgi had told the Finikounda congregation on Sunday that he would be holding Monday’s (aka Holy Tuesday) nymphios service there. A village of a mere one hundred souls, Lahanada clings to the hillside with a broad southwestern view of the open ocean, and the clear sillouhettes of Schiza and Sapienza islands in the purple light of dusk was extraordinary.

The village church, St. George (the same as our home parish in Bangor, Maine), is an ancient structure sited beside the village school—the latter now closed owing to the near total absence of village children. Lahanada, unlike many other depopulated villages, at least has the pleasure of an occasional visit by the neighboring town’s priest.

Despite St. George’s diminuitive stature, the spirit was large—and the church was full. There were three cantors and a multitude of beeswax candles blazed. After the service we were greeted individually by nearly every member of the parish, who seemed to know all about us. “So you’re the Cretan Americans whose daughters attend the demotiko school in Finikounda. Do you know that Lahanada is a “Cretan village”—founded in 1830s by our great-great grandparents, who fled Ottoman-occupied Crete for the sanctuary of the newly born Greek Republic?” Everyone in Messenia speaks of the region’s history as if it was the recent past. “And as Cretans, you are one of us—and are always welcome in our village.” Several of the village elders spoke of a “field trip” that they all took to Crete last year. One of the men joked: “We thought, after 170 years, it was time for us to go home for a visit! We all found our long-lost families in the village of Spili, near Hania. And since then, our people have come to visit us here.” For Jonathan and Manny it was an important lesson—about knowing who you are and whence you came.

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Jonathan attended several other of the week’s services. On Tuesday evening, after the service ended, Papa Yiorgi made a determined statement of principal. Owing to the reckless use of pyrotechnics (varelota)so near to the church—we now learn fireworks are a common tradition during Lent, and they reach their culmination on Saturday night’s Anastasi service—Papa Yiorgi threatened to leave Finikounda and do the balance of Holy Week services in Lahanada. There was a collective groan from the mostly elderly parishioners. “Either the villages or the police do something, or there will be no services in Finikounda. This has become dangerous for people trying to enter the church.” He walked behind the iconostatis and returned with Exhibit A, the charred remains of a large firecracker. “These will end Holy Week in Finikounda!”

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A Family Emergency—and an Early Departure

All plans are subject to change without notice.

Last week we learned that Jonathan’s mother, who complained of back pain soon after our departure in early February and was subsequently hospitalized with a disc fracture, has now been diagnosed with bone cancer. We are all very sad and very concerned. Yiayia, who has always prided herself on a spirit of personal independence and giving a helping hand to others, now needs a caregiver—or a series of caregivers. Jonathan’s siblings have gone the extra mile in helping their mother. And so has Ann’s mother. Now our turn is at hand.

Although we had planned to stay in Greece for upwards of six months, we will soon leave for America, after just three months. While we are disappointed, we know that it is the right thing to do—and we are not flinching.

Now we need to make the most of the next few weeks.

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Tsapí

On Thursday afternoon we drove halfway toward Koroni and then turned toward the ocean and followed a five-kilometer asphalt lane that descended a series of hairpin turns to the small cove called Tsapí. Little more than a settlement, consisting of five houses and two tavernas, nestled in an isolated cove, Tsapí is another of the those jewels in the rough one finds in the southern Peloponnese—an isolated beach on a protected cove, a perfect place for an afternoon picnic and swim.

Good Friday—H Megali Paraskevi

The church bells began tolling at 9 a.m. and shortly after two young girls appeared across the road from our house, holding baskets. They were staring at our patio with plaintive stares that young village girls can conjure with ease. After a few minutes Jonathan realized it was Veronica and Poppy, friends of our daughters from the demotiko school.

“Are you girls looking for Lucia and Evyenia?”

“We’re collecting flowers for the Epitaphios. Can they come with us?” The Epitaphios is the tomb of Christ, which is decorated with flowers and holds the symbolic body of the Crucified Christ. In the evening it will be carried through the village, followed by the priest, altar boys, and parishioners—those willing to dodge the gauntlet of firecrackers being thrown at them.

Lucia and Evyenia quickly dressed and joined their friends.

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We were joined on Friday by our good friends from Athens: Thanasi and Koula and their daughter Dionysia (like Lucia, age 11); and later in the day by Aki and Mania and their daughter Lydia (age 1). Jonathan has known Thanasi and Aki since 1979, when he was a student in Athens, and both joined us for our wedding on the island of Spetses in 1992. Thanasi is our koumbaros—our best man. We are lucky to have such friends here in Greece.



The girls took Dionysia for a swim at Anemomilos beach, while her parents watched in total disbelief—most people in Greece wouldn’t think of swimming in the ocean before late June.

We went our separate ways for a few hours of siesta time and then all of us (including Akis, Mania, and Lydia) met for a fish dinner at Elena’s restaurant above the village harbor. We sat outside and oriented our visiting friends to “our village”—pointing out the different villages on the hillsides, our favorite beaches and hikes, the homes of various friends—without even standing up from the table. The quality and color of the light at dusk in Greece, even in April, is unsurpassed: soft purples, pinks, and gentle blues. The swallows pirouetted around the harbor and darted in and out of the alleyways.

Epitaphios in Koroni

While Akis, Mania, and Lydia retired to their hotel, the others set off caravan style over the mountain for Koroni. Evyenia in particular was frightened by the random pyrotechnic displays in Finikounda, and our friend Dimitri the hasapiko (butcher) suggested that Koroni would be less anarchic and with fewer explosions during the Epitaphios services, known in English as the Lamentations—ancient hymns sung by the Orthodox faithful on Good Friday, which tells the story of Christ’s cruxification and death and foretells his resurrection.

The Epitaphios itself is a flower-strewn bier that contains a woven image of the crucified Christ—literally a tomb that is everywhere carried through the cities, towns, and villages of Greece, and is followed by parishioners, who carry yellow, beeswax candles. (On Saturday, during the Anastasi (Resurrection) service the candles are white and are lit in a darkend church by a single candle that emerges from the altar—the new light passed from person to person in a highly symbolic moment of solidarity and of victory of life over death.)

Crossing the mountains in the dark is extremely tricky business. Sections of the road are washed out and there are multiple hairpin turns that lack guardrails or even reflectors, and the drops are several hundred feet—and decidedly vertical. We managed to arrived unscathed in Koroni in total darkness. Within moments of arriving we heard loud explosions from nearly every direction. Evyenia clung to her mother: “Dimitri said that there would be no fireworks” she protested increduously.

We wound our way through the maze of Koroni’s cobbled streets to the main church by the waterfront. We could see the overflow crowd through the open doors of the church. Perhaps two hundred fifty people milled in the square in front of the church holding their beeswax candles. Jonathan and Thanasi attempted to muscle their way into the church in order to purchase candles for the children, only to be muscled to the margins by a small army of old women in black. We were clearly outnumbered and begged our retreat to the town square—where the service was booming from an array of hair-raising loudspeakers.

We asked some elderly gentlemen about our options. “Are there other, quieter churches in town?” Jonathan asked. The old men replied. “It is really wonderful. The three churches will each carry their Epitaphios, pass through the center of the castle, and then descend on Elestria Church. It will be like World War II all over again!” They were very excited by the prospects of ceaseless, ear-splitting explosions.

“What did they say, Baba?” Nia asked, a vision of innocence pasted on her face.

“They said it will be quieter up in the castle, honey.”

The eight of us set off in the half-lit village, climbing the narrow streets toward the Frankish castle, where we had visited the Old Calendar monastery just a few weeks before. It was eerily quiet in the castle, and the nunnery was a paragon of serenity amid the the explosions and deafening loudspeakers below. We entered the small chapel and greeted the nuns. Their Epitaphios had just returned to the sanctity of the monastery a short while earlier. The children lit candles and sat quietly inside this beautiful santuary while the adults planned their next move.

We set off just ahead of the three approaching Epitaphios biers, which were all due to arrive from different directions, led by priests, cantors, altar boys, hundreds of parishioners, and teams of explosives provocateurs with large satchels of incendiary devices. We walked through the cemetary in near total darkness, the stars overhead ablaze, the ocean crashing against the castle walls one hundred feet below us. We descended a steep set of winding stone stairs, and arrived at Elestria church moments before the first Epitaphios arrived—preceded by an endless barrage of explosions and a thick cloud of black smoke. A few police stood about smoking cigarettes nervously, looking off toward the ocean, their faces false visions of oblivion.

The safest place seemed to be inside the confines of the solid edifice of Elestrias church, so we retreated there with Evyenia. The other children, as well as the adults, were drawn to the approaching excitement, and poked their heads outside periodically to see the progress of the first Epitaphios.

We made a quick retreat after the arrival of the first Epitaphios, found our parked cars, and set off back across the mountain for Finikounda. We were safely in our house by 1 a.m., an early night.

Methoni—coffee in shadow of the castle

On Saturday morning we all met in Methoni, the larger town west of Finikounda, where Jonathan and Manny showed Thanasis and Akis the castle ramparts, the bourtzi (pictured here) and our favorite cafeneion—with a tremendous view of the castle and Sapienza island. The women and girls met us for a leisurely cup of coffee.

The Resurrection (Anastasi)…from a safe distance

We enjoyed our final Lenten meal—kalamari, salads, and other Lenten foods—before heading to the Anastasi service at the Finikounda church, located just a few meters from our house.

The children carried their Anastasi candles waiting until midnight to take the altar light as it was passed from parishioner to parishioner. We realized at 11:00 p.m. that we dare not run the gauntlet of fireworks and myriad incendiary devices being hurled at the church. So we celebrated the Resurrection, along with a hundred or so kindred souls, from a safe distance.

The sheer volume of explosions, with many rockets targeted at the bell tower, was nothing short of astounding. We could not imagine the agony of being inside this concrete and stone edifice. Literally thousands of large explosives ricocheted off every conceivable corner of the building—and all the while the magnified voices of the priest and cantors held their own.

And at midnight, the flame reached our candles, and we sang: Christos Anesti ek nekro…” Christ is Risen from the Dead, trampling death…”

Pascha—a celebration on the beach

We spent Easter day on the beach, invited by our friends Takis and Despina and Yianni, who run the “Thines” (literally: sand dune) campground. There were many guests: old and young, Greek and foreigner, new tourists and old transplants to Messenia. And, of course, our dear friends visiting from Athens. A whole goat and a whole lamb were cooked on spits, as was kokoretsi, an amalgamation of the entrails of goat/lamb—a culinary delight strictly forbidden under European Union (EU) law. Like so many laws that defy tradition—tradition always wins.



Jonathan played guitar, flute, and even even bouzouki with several musicians. There were copious amounts of wine, dancing, and several swims in the ocean.

It was the ultimate celebration--a time for good cheer and well-wishing.

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7–12 April 2009
Tuesday-Sunday

Lucia Riding

We returned to Methoni to Alexandros’ stables for Lucia to ride horseback a second time. The riding ring was still partially saturated from several days of intermittent rain.

The owner, Alexandros, was away in Athens attending to his competition horses. Lucia’s lesson was with his wife Dionysia, who offerred a parting complement on Lucia’s skills: “We better wait for Alexandros to return. There is not much more that I can show her.” A short video of Lucia riding appears at the end of this posting.

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A Lot with a View

Ann and Jonathan (with Manny as the final arbiter) were shown another property lot today, this one in the small village of Grizokambo, now considered part of Finikounda, and only about 1.5 kilometers east of the village proper—and easy walking distance from Loutsa Beach. Located within the village limits, the property is considered oikonomos (buildable). The soil there is very rich (several thermokoipia—greenhouses—are sited there), the orientation is south, and the views of Schiza island and open ocean are unobstructed at one and a half meters height. The stone vigli is visible on the ridge beyond Akritohori.

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Lucia and Jonathan have been swimming every day this week, usually at the western end of Anemomilos beach, a long ribbon of uninterrupted white sand. The air temperature compensates for the still relatively cool water. The ocean color, with a strengthening sun, is a majestic cobalt with veins of dark and light blue.

Wednesday was the International Day of the Gypsy, which everyone seems to know about except the gypsies. Groups of gypsies pass the through the village several times a day, plying merchanise from the backs of pickup trucks: everything from new clothes to old, rusty metal is offered. We have yet to see any takers.

On Thursday, Jonathan took a ride with Niko to look at several “traditional” houses (i.e., brick, mortar, and plaster construction as opposed those of concrete columns). Niko sought to dispell Jonathan of the belief that it costs a small fortune to build a summer home. We met Niko’s friend Zacharias, who is helping a young Italian couple build such a home. The result is smart, neat, unimposing, and right-sized—which Jonathan has lovingly dubbed the “anti-villa.”

Zacharias took us deeper into Grizokambos to show us some land a friend is looking to sell. We drove Niko’s Citröen down a badly grooved dirt track to the last reasonable turn and then set off on foot up a hillside. It was gorgeous fold of mountains with a tremendous southerly view of the ocean to the south, olive groves to the east, and sharp hillsides to the east and north. Zacharias made an offhand comment about snakes (Jonathan was the only one wearing shorts and sandals, and he had earlier explained his pathological fears of these slithering creatures.) Niko said: “You know who’s really scared of snakes? Bulgarians. Tell a Bulgarian that there are snakes about and they’ll run all the way back to Bulgaria.”

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After school, Lucia joined Jonathan for a bike run (Baba ran, Lucia biked) to Anemomilos Beach for a swim. Lucia snapped a picture of her father in his birthday suit—one for the “subscription blog”—before the two headed back to town. Then Manny had his turn, and son and father biked/ran the 1.5 kilometers to the lot in Grizokambo for the express purpose of determining (a.) how many olive and citrus trees could be reasonably planted while still leaving room for a small house, tenting site, and garden (answer=30); and b.) how long it takes to walk to the nearest beach (answer=3 minutes at an eager pace).

There may indeed be more important, pressing, and universal questions—e.g., (c.) will his father ever be able to retire (answer: at 75, earliest)—but we won’t spoil a sunny day with such details.

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On Friday after the girls enjoyed a Pascha party at school and then celebrated (along with their teachers) a two-week hiatus from the demotiko routine.

Lucia and Jonathan biked and ran (respectively) to Anemomilos beach, stopping for a quick swim, and then took the agricultural roads back to Finikounda. They decided to check the progress of Dimitri and Yiorgia’s new foal.

Yiorgia invited us for a coffee and their children, Christos and Vaso, joined us on the terrace overlooking the ocean—the thin outline of Schiza island, the headlands beyond Akritohori, the broad expanse of sea. Earlier in the day Christos was free-diving (22 meters with flippers; his friend Panayiotis dives to 30 meters without air) and shot an enormous octopus, which was hanging in the shed. Yiorgia showed us how the octopus had begun to eat itself—quite literally. When these creatures are hungry they are known to eat their own legs.

The talk turned to snakes, especially to the feared oxia, which are the only truly poisonous snakes in this area. There are much larger snakes (some well over a meter long and several inches in diameter) but they are mostly harmless. Yiorgia advised: “The poisonous ones are at their most active and potent this month. You must be careful when running alone in the hills. Last year Dimitri killed several right here in the dooryard. When we first moved here there were many skorpia (scorpions) but the chickens have eaten them over time.” Returning to the subject of snakes, Chrisos added: “If you are unfortunate and are bit by one, you must stop immediately and walk slowly to find help. You can tell these snakes from the others because they are small and grey-black and have the Greek letter chi on their backs.”

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Trip to Ancient Messene

On Saturday we set off by car for ancient Messene, one of the least known and best preserved classical-era city-states in all of Greece. The site was established by the Theban general Epaminondas after the defeat of the Spartans at Leuctra in 371 bce, as the southern link in a defensive chain of walled cities intended to contain the now humbled Spartans.

The ancient city is protected by an amazing nine-kilometer circuit of walls constructed of enormous fitted stones. The walls are ten meters (more than thirty feet) high and are interspersed with watchtowers from which defenders could reign down javelins and arrows against the enemy. With such an imposing barrier, the Messenians could return to their ancient acropolis, high above the ancient city.

The people of Messenia, after having been conquered by the Spartas by the seventh century bce, had been held in a state of abject servitude for centuries. As a subject people known as helots, the Messenians endured a four-hundred year oppression. A right of passage for young Spartan men included annual “hunting expeditions” against the helots—which served the purpose of terrorizing the local population and ensuring their compliance.

After the Spartan defeat at Leuctra, the liberated Messenians wasted no time in building their citadel—ancient sources say the construction took all of eight-five days. The walls survived largely intact for 750 years, and the city itself thrived well into the Roman period and then, over time, was depopulated and plundered—and then lost to history under many meters of silt. It was only rediscovered within the past ten years, and methodical excavation only began within the last six years. Jonathan asked the lone, elderly guard what he remembered of the site as a child growing up in the village. “As far as we knew, there was nothing here but our village and a large valley of olive trees with a few stones sticking up here and there.”

Our friend Dimitri the butcher urged us to make an all-day journey to ancient Messene, which is visited by very few tourists and is almost unknown to the modern Messenians, a fact that struck all of us as an unbelievable oversight.

It was the perfect excursion on a cool and cloudy day. We set off toward Kalamata, taking the “short cut” from Pylos thorough a stupendously beautiful array of tight valleys, and past a collection of small villages: Kinigou, Potamolaka, and an assortment of unnamed settlements. The wildflowers are in full bloom, particularly after an exceptionally rainy winter, and there was no shortage of farm animals roaming loose—goats, sheep, cows, donkeys—and colorful wild birds.
Leaving the main road about 20 kilometers before Kalamata, we headed northwest on secondary roads into the hill country and then began a perilous ascent, passing on switchback roads through a collection of villages and settlements. We stopped in Arsinoe, a tidy village of stone houses with the small village school and church located beside the only cafeneion.

Sitting outside, we met several older gentlemen and engaged in some small talk. Sufficiently re-caffeinated, we drove the final ten kilometers of hairpin turns into the modern village of Mavromati (literally “black eye”), where a few seemingly ambiguous signs point in different directions: “Akropolis 5 kilometers,” “ancient Messene 2 kilometers,” “Arcadian Gate 1 kilometer.” It struck us, initially, as a typically Greek confusion of signs. We only learned later the true depth and breath of the site, which stretches in many directions. And only at the end of our visit did we learn that but a fraction of the site has been excavated.

We followed the main road past the village until a large section of walls came into view, along with the sign “Arcadian Gate.” In antiquity, this Cyclopean gate marked the northwestern approach to Messene, from the region of Arcadia to the north.
Arriving utterly unprepared (no map, no guidebook) we were at a distinctive disadvange. In a few minutes, however, we noticed a highly animated man shuffling about with a professional camera, tripod, and bag of lenses. Manny, an aspiring photographer, was immediately drawn to him and sought to learn more about his camera.

We spent most of the day with our new friend, Panayioti, an agrotis (agricultural worker; his family owns 1,500 olive trees) from the town of Gargalianoi northwest of Pylos. A bachelor farmer in his mid-forties, Panayioti possessed a passion for both photography and for this ancient site, which he has visited more than a dozen times since its discovery. He was full of wisdom and had a vivacious philosophical tenor that was electric. When he learned that Manny shared his passion for photography, we found ourselves firmly in his grip for the entire afternoon.

He not only explained techniques of composition to our young aspiring photographer—but about the “soul” beyond the image. He offerred a veritable swift current of ceaseless life lessons: “Learn from others, Manoli, but always trust your own eye. Never think that you are better than another—learn from other's work, but don’t be consumed or overy influenced by it. Know your subject, whether it is a person or an inanimate object. See the “soul” behind the object, human or otherwise. Take one thousand photos before you are satisfied with the one perfect shot.” Jonathan struggled to translate into English a rapid-fire conversation.

Panayioti explained to Manny that there are but “twenty-five days when this site can be photographed properly—and today is one of those days.” And Panayioti was not just idle talk. He showed us a collection of photos he had taken in the previous weeks—images of waterfalls, animals, statuary, and people—and his mastery was obvious.

Best of all, he proceeded to take photos of the five of us, in different poses with sundry backdrops. This lasted for more than hour at just the Arcadian Gate—which represents a mere fraction of the outer site. Before parting we exchanged local addresses and telephone numbers (Panayioti promised to mail us a disc of the day’s shoot) and then we set off for the village of Mavromati. Panayioti’s parting words to Manny: “Remember that money is not the important thing in life. It is what you see all around you, and what you see inside of your self. And there is nothing more special than your family. I could tell from the moment that I set eyes on you that you are a loving family. You have something special, so cherish it. You will forget many things in life but you will always remember your family.”

The weather was threatening and we were all very hungry, so we returned to Mavromati and found an eatery on the hillside with a broad view down into the valley—to the ancient city that we had not yet visited. We feasted on local specialties, including a variety of greens, a delicious briam (vegetables cooked slowly in the oven with olive oil), the taverna family’s wine and olives, and a delectable olive paste served on toasted proseimiko (unleavened village bread).

We visited the very small museum that houses a small number of statuary found at the main site—the excavation lacks proper funding and most of the finds are housed out of view in a warehouse: at the Aspeleipon alone, more than ninety statues were recovered, another several dozen statues were discovered in the temple of Artemis, and there were a multitude of Roman-era finds as well.

Jonathan’s mobile phone rang before we were halfway through the museum. “This is Panayioti. Where are you right now? I’ll meet you at the stadium when you’re done.” And so we reconnected with our new friend for the balance of the afternoon. We drove nearer and then walked into ancient Messene, and were astounded by the magnitude of the site: a theater, a healing spring, several temples, the Ascleipon, and at the the lowest level, an ancient stadium. Apparently as recently as five years ago, the stadium was totally buried under many meters of silt and clay—and so was perfectly preserved.

Panayioti soon became the bane of old Yiorgio, the site’s sole guard, who followed our every step from a distance. Every two or three minutes the guard would blow his whistle and shout: “Hey, what are you doing! You can’t do that.” The culprit was Panayioti himself, who was climbing onto broken columns, slithering up cordoned-off sections of the site, going where visitors were generally prohibited from entering. There was a lively exchange between Panayioti, who sought the perfect angle for his shoot, and Yiorgio, whose lifelong mission was to protect this underfunded site from plunder and damage. We were witnessing an archaeological standoff and became convinced that the Kalamata police would be arriving anytime with their blue lights flashing. Both men were utterly unrelenting: Yiorgio with his whistle (“please, sir, I’ve told you a dozen times now not to do this! What if we let everyone do this? The site would be destroyed and people would get badly injured!”) and Panayioti with his retort (“Yes, sir, I agree with you one hundred percent and respect your love for this site. I love this site, too. I just need to climb up here now…”). More whistles, more pleas from Yiorgio, and then the final face-off, in the Asclepeion, the sanctuary of the healing god.

By now it was raining steadily. Panayioti had given us his umbrella and he walked beside the altar and stood with old Yioryio. The two were highly animated: “Listen, tell me your name Mr. Guard,” Panayioti asked gently.

“Why do you need to know my name, you won't listen to anything I say!” The elderly guard was clearly exasperated.

“Because I want to be your friend. I want you to understand that I love this place as much as you. Look, I’m not a professional photographer. I’m not taking pictures of these people for money. They have come all the way from America to see this place. They need to have their trip documented very carefully—not just a picture of people in front of a column.”

“I don’t care what you’re doing. You can’t just go anywhere you like!”

“Listen Mr. Yiorgio”—Panayioti had managed to get the guard to say his name—“I’m an olive farmer, just like you. I’m a Messenian, just like you. And this is our site. We have an obligation, a sacred responsibilty, to preserve it and protect it. Your job is to keep people from climing all over the marbles. And my job is take perfect pictures. So these folks can go home and show their friends, who will then come here themselves.”

We watched the old man and Panayioti walk off together in a downpour, speaking intensely. “What are they doing?” Lucia asked. We caught up to them twenty minutes later. Jonathan took Panayioti aside and asked if the old man was giving him a hard time.

“No, no, no! He is a very good man. He loves this site. I wish all the guards in Greece had his passion, love, and knowledge of history.”

A few minutes later, out of earshot, Jonathan approached the old guard. “I’m sorry if our friend, who we only just met today, gave you a hard time.”

The guard replied. “Oh, no, don’t say that. This Panayioti is a very good boy. He is a Messenian like me. He loves our culture and our history and he will protect it. Just like me. We’re both just simple agrotes (farmers) who are proud to be Messenian.”

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Samarina

At this point, the girls were shivering and Manny had that perennially hungry look on his face that serves as the ten-minute warning sign of a deeper, approaching discord.

Panayioti said: “Follow me on a short-cut back toward Kalamata and we can stop at a twelfth-century chapel in the village of Kalogeroachi.” Earlier in the day we had talked of visiting the chapel, which was built on a plundered classical sanctuary to Apollo—Doric columns supporting the apse, marble lintels in the knave. We took Panayioti up on his offer and followed him along a maze of country roads. Clearly we would never have found the chapel at Samarina on our own. We were greatly rewarded by the detour.

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We returned to Finikounda just after dark, slightly chilled and thoroughly exhausted but feeling very fulfilled by the experiences of the day.

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Sunday: A Liturgy and the Scirocco

Jonathan and Ann were able to rouse Evyenia for Sunday liturgy but Lucia and Manny were lost causes—they were still sleeping when we returned home from church at 10 a.m. but the promise of “breakfast” at the sweet shop on the waterfront proved sufficient motivation.

A full gale--a fierce scirocco blowing from Africa--dominated most of Sunday, but the five of us nevertheless packed up and headed to the big beach, finding shelter in a sand dune. We flew the kite, built some sand castles, and Jonathan played his guitar. It was a lazy Sunday—and a perfect end to our week.

[Video: Riding Video 2

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