Farmer friends

Today was officially Greece’s D-Day (that’s D for Default) but nothing in southern Messinia has really changed—people are friendly, the sea is inviting, the rhythm of life goes on. But there is surely some gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands.

-----

Jonathan’s farmer-neighbor, Yioryio, with whom he has become fast friends, arrived after siesta with his large Fiat tractor and mowed the far end of the lot. It was a violent spinning of chains, ripping up the cluster of thick vegetation and revealing another sowable section. What Jonathan attempted over a twenty-day period with a hand scythe—to everyone’s amusement—was accomplished in a matter of minutes.

Then his neighbor dashed home and replaced implements, returning to plow/furrow. He did a tremendous job of leveling the lot while bringing up another two tons (no exaggeration) of large rocks and boulders. Jonathan spent most of today’s post-siesta consolidating piles of stone, a Herculean effort for a guy with a bad back from the fallout of a recent (in Maine) car accident.

-----

One of Greece’s best friends in Europe, Jean-Claus Juncker, the head of the European Commision, broadcast an address directly to the Greek people yesterday on the subject of Greece’s Yes (Ναι) or No (Οχι) referendum about continuing with the bailout in exchange for more austerity concessions. One thing that the new leftist governement has right: Greece has endured enough austerity, and the results have been catastrophic for ordinary Greeks. Something has to give. They cannot continue like this in perpetuity. And the 500 pound gorilla in the room? Greece will never be able to pay off its enormous debt. The country produces almost nothing--there is shipping, of course (still the largest registered merchant marine fleet in the world), and olives. And the brightest of lights: tourism.

His comments, really more like pleas, raised many eyebrows. Juncker stated that Greece's PM Tsipras grossly misrepresented the nature of the final negotiations, failing to mention the compromises that the EU, the ECB, and IMF have offered Greece, and urging the Greeks to vote Yes on July 5. Juncker framed it this way: “Greek people, don’t commit suicide just because you feel like you are dying.”

The Yes or No vote resonates with Greeks, as it harkens back to 1940, when the Axis Powers (starting with Mussolini's prewar ultimatum) asked Greece to willingly accept the fascist occupation of their country. The response of the Greeks to a diplomatic cable was Οχι! (No!), and to this day “Οχι Day” is celebrated in October as a sign of brave resistance to the ultimate Nazi Occupation, a brutal episode in modern Greek history. So it is no small irony that the consideration of another No, seventy years later, is a point of pride if not self-preservation.

----

As Yioryio plowed the lot he uncovered and broke a neighbor’s water line, which ran through the middle of Jonathan’s lot at a depth of only 6 inches. The elderly farmer, who waddled over from his orchard, was utterly apoplectic, screaming and gesticulating wildly. He was so angry, in fact, that he began to cry. Yioryio whispered to Jonathan, “say nothing other than, ‘I’m sorry’” and let me handle it." A tense standoff ensued, which ended amicably enough, with a repaired water line and handshake..

---

Greek Language

After just a few weeks, Jonathan’s semi-fluent Greek has reemerged as a genuine fluency and an abilility to negotiate many situations, most good, a few (like with farmer neighbor) not so good. He has also, as one ought, adopted the body language, the gesticulations, they sounds of exasperation and joy, that are part and parcel of this ancient language.

Wherever he goes, he carries his τετράδιο (notebook) and copies down new word, often the most obscure but helpful vocabulary.

Afternoon Run

Wildlife—beyond the bars

The wildlife of Messinia extends beyond the waterfront of Finikounda, with its many cafes and bars. Just after siesta, Jonathan took a 7-kilometer run, heading down into a valley located just east of his house. It is a maze of olive groves, with one cental tractor path.

Suddenly, a dark canine flashed by at incredible speed, charging up a steep embankment with the acceleration reserved for wild hares or thoroughbred horses. It was most certainly a jackal, one of the now resurgent (but once nearly extinct) population found only in the mountains of the southern Peloponnese. It was a rare treat to see this creature.

On the way out—Jonathan deferred running deeper in this remote valley, lest Mr. Jackal traveled in a pack of hungry friends—he met the tall dark-haired man on the large green John Deere tractor who passes the house every morning. The two have waved at each other for several weeks, but had not met. Jonathan stopped and introduced himself. Low and behold, his name was Panayioti! Every male in southern Messinia is named either Panayioti, Dimitri, or Niko. Sure, there a small sprinkling of Tasos, Iliases, and Kostas, but they are few and far between.

Jonathan asked him about the jackal, wondering if he might have been right, and Panayioti said it was most definitely a jackal. He asked the farmer, “Have you seen any wild boars?” He suggested that J. keep his distance from these sometimes fearsome creatures. Several friends in the area hunt them at night (they are out of season now and are generally hunted in the winter) because of the damage they bring to fields with their incessant digging.

11:59 for Greecce

The Train Wreck Cometh

Greece’s slow-speed train wreck has just accelerated with the announcement, by the hapless Bolshevik prime minister--a slight exaggeration of his orientation, but not so far off--that a referendum will be held on July 5. The point, he says, is to ask the Greek people if they accept the terms of the International Monetary Fund and Greece’s European lenders—that is, more severe austerity measures in exchange for the release of 7.2 billion euros, which is needed to make an interest payment on some of the 300+ billion euros owed to the aforementioned. The prime minister, scorning neutral language, says something like this (a rough translation): “Should Greece continue to accept the humiliating terms of their European overlords, in exchange for a never-ending path of misery and desolation?”

The problem is that July 5 falls after June 30, a minor detail lost on Prime Minister Tsipras and his middle-finger-pointing finance ministry, Mr. Veroufakis (loving called “Baroufakis,” a not very nice epithet, by those who detest this pathological narcissist).

The announcement was made at 2 a.m. (obviously the banks were closed) and the assumption is that there will be a “bank holiday” until July 5, to avoid a currency run. The short of it is this: today long lines of Greeks and foreigners lined up at teller machines in order to sequester what little currency is left in Greece’s teetering banking system. Jonathan was told that in Athens the lines run many blocks, and the cash machines are going empty.

There are only two words to describe the current state of affairs throughout Greece: utter panic.

-------

But still, life goes on. People swim in the cobalt sea, sip coffee on the oceanfront, plan their summer holidays. But there is an undercurrent of fear and uncertainty.

One nasty consequence of the impending crisis is a significant increase in thievery in the form of house break-ins. The victims are mostly foreigners, said to be hoarding cash in anticipation of Greece’s default. There are various theories as to whom the thieves are—Bulgarians, Gypsies, Albanian gangs. The break-ins have been brazen, some occuring in the middle of day, some while the occupants are inside sleeping.

Jonathan, who would give the shirt off his back for anyone who asked, now carries the Messinian equivalent of a Louisville Slugger in his rental car—the home is remote, without lights, and he often returns late at night—and there is a near twin by his bedside. A few pry-bar marks on the rear window inspired him to set up some helpful, illustrative posters on the back window (a version of: “enter at your own risk”), and he has told all his farmer-neighbors to please keep an eye open. Everyone complies. The suggestion of human head on a pointed stick won favor in the local cafeneion.

This is a country that, historically, has the lowest crime rate in all of Europe. Bodily crimes, in particular, were largely unheard of in rural Greece. But times have changed and the changes are a result of a large migrant/refugee population that is flooding Greece, plus the “easy” targets of well-heeled northern Europeans on holiday.

None of this has colored his time in Messinia, but there is now—regretably—a much higher level of awareness and caution.

With that said, this remains the safest country in Europe, and this region among the safest in all of Greece.

------

Having expended some energy described the rainless Messinian summer, everyone was surprised by a tremendous thunder/lightning storm that passed through Greece in the last day. Many times, forecasts of rain have yielded no more than a few puffy clouds—while heavy rain falls as nearby as Kalamata (40 kilometers north).

Today was different. The clouds built and lowered as the day wore on, and Jonathan “escaped” the beach with five minutes to spare. A lightning and rain event like none other passed over the house. Your fearless correspondent huddled in the fetal position inside his little house as tremendous cracks of lightning literally shook the roof tiles and rattles the window. An enormous rain fell for twenty minutes.

Now the Mediterranean blue has been restored, the shutters are open, and the Greek summer has returned after the briefest of hiatuses.

----------

A Traditional Mountain Village

The mountain village of Akritohori (also known by its Turkish name, Grizi—aka “our village”) is everything that a traditional Peloponnesian mountain village should be: with narrow, winding streets that cling to the side of mountain, the central square with its cafeneion, a large Orthodox church, a one-room village school, poultry running wild in the streets, old women laden with their forage for goats. Finikounda, for all its charm and nightlife, would not easily earn the moniker “traditional.” First, as a village, it didn’t exist 100 years ago. Rather, is was the seaside settlement for villages like Akritohori and Lahanada, and was, in fact, called “Taverna” in the 1920s—by virtue of its one taverna. (There are more than dozen today, plus a range of bars, cafeneion, and touristy shops.) Which doesn’t mean that Finikounda lacks a world of traditional values amid the noise and bright lights. But there are hidden beneath the surface, or are found on the periphery rather than the center.

But Akritohori is another place altogether. What follows are a collection of photos taken in the village, where Jonathan attended the liturgy at Aghios Demetrios (St. Dimitri), the town’s church, which celebrates its panagiri on October 22.

Jonathan’s entrance into the large church was greeted with smiles and nods. He has, in a few short years, ingratiated himself with the villagers, who are kind, welcoming, and friendly folk. He is not another tourist, a well-heeled German living in a compound apart from the local community. He is, slowly but surely, part and parcel of this community.

He noticed a few familiar faces in the church, people he has seen at the Finikounda church and the Lahanada chapel. There was one women, in particular, around eighty years old, who is a vision of beauty, grace, charm, and wit. He blue eyes met Jonathan’s (slightly bloodshot) brown eyes and he nearly melted from the effect. Beside him, on the “men’s side” of the church, an elderly gentleman sat in one of the few chairs. At one point in the service, as the priest recalled those who had passed from this life, tears rolled down his cheeks. He looked at Jonathan for a brief and touched his hand. Again, the melting effect.

The old man, the old woman, the church bells, which echo across the vineyard that separates Jonathan’s house from the village proper—these are things that become etched in one’s mind, the very things that celebrate life with meaning and a profound sense of eternity.

Landscapes

Our little mountain village is called Akritohori, but it also goes by its Turkish name: Grizi. (The Turks occupied the Peloponnese for hundreds of years, until the late 1820s, when they were driven out by the Greek Revolutionaries and their Philhellene friends, mostly famously Lord Byron). People who live in “Grizi” are called “Griziotes.” At the village cafeneion, Jonathan was informed by the old men that he too could call himself a Grizioti.

Last night, as Jonathan prepared to leave Finikounda, the fishing village/tourist destination down the mountain by the sea, for what would have been an early night (i.e., just after midnight) he crossed paths with a group of Dutch friends, one thing led to another, and he found himself engaged in lively conversation until 3 a.m. Alas, another night of minimal sleep. Praise the afternoon siesta!

In order to capture the special beauty of this place—and remain nominally productive—one needs to wake early, before the intense summer sun renders humans nearly incapacitated by the intense and unrelenting heat. So, in that spirit, he was off over the mountain at 8 a.m., heading toward the market town of Horokopeio in order to complete a minor mission: find more trees to plant. Unsatisfied with the offerings there, he headed along the coastal road, in the direction of Kalamata, stopping at the large plant center in Neo Koroni. It is run by an acquaintance named Taki, a knowledgeable and helpful green thumb. In short order, Jonathan was following the winding agricultural roads back to Akritohori with five new trees stuffed into the back seat: two more kalamon (a table olive, known to Americans as the Kalamata olive), another avocado tree, and several more stately cypress trees. This is not the time of year to plant anything, but good friends will pick up with the irrigation after his departure, and like last year's plantings, this year's will soon thrive.

The property now boasts eight olive trees (six varieties, plus two wild olives—slowly tamed to produce fruit), two lemon and two orange trees, a pomegranate and a fig tree (both with fruit), a bay tree, and two avocados. In addition, the roadside is now lined with tall, stately cypress trees, interspersed with white- and crimson-blooming oleanders, several rose bushes, and an aromatic assortment of ornamentals: lavender, sage, mint, rosemary, and of course—this being Greece—a host of unidentifiable wildflowers. On the fringes, still, there is the hopeless tangle of thorny artichokes and unknown vegetation—mostly confined to far end of the property.Each day, with scythe in hand, the wild is tamed. Jonathan’s assumption is that that is the place where the two-meter-long snakes live. For this reason, those tall, leather boots from Maine—utterly counterintuitive in the Greek summer—are welcome footwear!

In short, this little κτήμα (ktima, property) is a microcosmic Eden of fruit and flowers, with room left for more (a palm tree, a banana tree?) and a vegetable garden to tend during his dotage.

----

Home by 10 a.m., the sun already becoming too strong for outside work, he nevertheless managed to dig five holes for early evening planting. The ground is baked hard and it required significant effort to wield a long-handled καζμά (kazma, pick-ax) in order to break the hardpan.

The reward was several hours on the big beach—tan lines be gone! his skin now resembles a pair of well-worn workboots in both color and temperament—a simple lunch of pitas, cheese, tzatziki, and tomatoes with kind friends in Loutsa, the beach nearest the house, and then the glories of an afternoon siesta.

----

Jonathan wastes no time in introducing himself to every farmer who tends his nearby fields. Everyone is so friendly and welcoming, but there is one “liability” and it is part and parcel of the intense hospitality that still lives in the rural Peloponnese. Shortly after each new introduction, the farmer returns with  several liters of olive oil, a few bottles of wine, a basket of lemons and oranges, or a combination of all of these. Last year our neighbor Dimitri dropped off two or three enormous watermelons every day.

Alas, had he a few pints of wild Maine blueberries, he would reciprocate the generosity in a heartbeat.

----

The Light

For thousands of years, poets have waxed on the virtue of the Mediterranean light. The light in Greece (until 10 p.m. in June) is indescribably beautiful, particularly in the late afternoon and early evening, as the pastels of sky, sea, and orchard witness a gradual transmutation with every passing minute, contrasts that are both seductive and heart-warming.

This part of Greece, southwestern Messinia--the southernmost tip of mainland Greece--is said to enjoy 320 days of sunlight every year (roughly the number of rainy, foggy days in the boreal rainforests of Downeast Maine), and often it does not rain here at all—not once—from late May until late September. The ocean reaches its apex of warmth in late October, and even the squimish swim until early December. Jonathan has several friends who swim every month of the year—because they are brave, or determined, or—like him—simply can’t stay out of the translucent sea.

It is no small gift to live in two of the world’s most beautiful places—the rocky coast of rural Maine, and the rocky (here sandy) coast of rural Greece. But there are obvious contrasts, and they are not lost on him.

Here there is a rich, unique, and dynamic culture: foodways, agricultural rhythms tied to a spiritual life, traditional dance, music, poetry, theater, storytelling, and an utterly dizzying ethos of hospitality. In short, “folkways” for which Downeast Maine is largely (but, surely, not entirely) devoid—this is sad, but true. Friends back home might disagree with this appraisal, find it unfair, arrogant, or even a bit mean-spirited. But that is not the intent. It is merely an observation based on close inspection and years of living in both places. Jonathan would never in a thousand years wish away his Downeast home—his dear friends there, the “culture,” the “folkways,” the very real expression of hospitality, even if these are few and far between.

------

Last night Jonathan and Chris, an English friend, drove to the nearby mountain village of Chrysokelaria for dinner at a traditional taverna. “Traditional” is one of those words that gets thrown around loosely, but this place is the Greece of sixty years ago. There are no foreign residents but there is the same welcoming spirit that one finds throughout the rural Peloponnese. The village is especially famous for its own pangiri (celebration) in late August. Chrysokelaria is a maze of narrow, winding streets, loose goats, laughing children, and church bells.

From the top of the village, the broad expanse of a vibrant village is evident, and the undulating hills slope down to the Bay of Messene, beyond which one might be excused a gasp or two at the prominent edific of Mount Taygetos, which, at over 8,000 elevation and still snow-capped, looks down on Sparta further to the east.

----

Jonathan’s pathological fear of snakes was reinforced five minutes ago. He opened a chest of drawers in order to find a map, and an enormous green lizard jumped out—then jumped back inside, cowering amid the maps and papers there. How did he find his way into this confined space? Jonathan ought ot feel very pleased to know that a bug-eating creature has taken residence in the house, but he recalled the story of an English friend, John, who opened his dresser early this spring and found a large, poisonous viper (called an οχιά, ochia) living amid his pullovers. Now there is a deep paranoia invading this little house.

Your correspondent calmly carried the entire, full bookcase outside into the field and opened every drawer. In short order, Mr. Lizard was off and running—but then, more alarmingly so was a scorpion. Jonathan had stuck his hand inside that very cabinet a dozen times in the past week. He might have found himself at the clinic in Pylos with a swollen arm.

Are there more lizards, geckos, scorpions or--heaven forbit--snake in this little house? There is some satisfaction/security in living in the loft, up a steep ladder. Nevertheless, the pint-sized Volkwagon is looking more like a bedroom!

Lingua Franca

Greek—the lingua franca of Finikounda

It is remarkable to be in such a cosmopolitan setting where the lingua franca is modern Greek. In the past few days Jonathan has found himself at various tables with Germans, Austrians, Dutch, English, and even a nice Bangladeshi man (named Nur), all conversing in Greek—some better than others.

Speaking of international residents: Jonathan learned about a Russian couple who are renting a friend's house in the village. They drove with their two young children from St. Petersburg to Finikounda, a truly remarkable undertaking.

Last night a young Dutch couple, who have been coming here for the past ten years, declared: “The area around Finikounda is the most beautiful place in the world. And we have lived on every continent in our lives.” Jonathan did not argue that point. This is a truly special place—not just only because of the raw physical beauty, the natural setting, the cobalt sea, the rich agriculture, but also for its residents, local and foreign alike.

----

Yesterday Jonathan was invited for lunch at his friend Yiota’s house. It was an incredible meal, one fit for a prince: oven roasted goat, homemade cheeses, an assortment of salads, pasta, baked zuccini, on an on.

Talk turned to the Russian oligarch—a Greek-speaking billionaire from the Pontus region of the Black Sea—who has a fabulous estate outside of nearby Koroni. He is apparently the righthand man to Vladimir Putin, and serves as an economist or economic planner. His peninsular estate is patroled by men toting Kalashnikovs, who do not take kindly to anyone straying too close. The owner has a 300+ foot super yacht, several private seaplanes, and a daughter whose 5-million-euro wedding reception is all the talk of the town. It all seems a bit incongruent in a country on the verge of default. On a bluff facing out to sea, navigators see an enormous Masonic symbol (the “eye”). There is an understanding that the “eye” sees everything, so navigators keep their distance. Putin himself is said to be an occasional guest.

-----

The still unresolved economic crisis, in which Greece lies in the crosshairs, has an enormous bearing on the summer tourism season, a sector that represents Greece’s only bright spot in a well of red ink. The lies and misrepresentations have scared off the northern European tourists, even many of the Germans who own holiday homes. Jonathan learned that one German family arrived at a hotel recently with a suitcase full of food! They had read in German dailies that there was the possibility of famine here in rural Greece. The concept of nothing to eat in southern Messinia is so utterly absurd, it boggles the imagination. There may be no money, there may be no work, but this place is the Garden of Eden for omnivores, with copious amounts of food, wine, and a range of delicacies to satisfy the hungriest person.

Beach, Food, and Panagiri--Saint John of the Oregano

Aghios Ioannis Rigani (St. John of the Oregano)

Each village has one (or several) Panagiria, religious celebrations that commemorate a church (or an entire village) named after a saint. Following the church ceremony there a celebration with food, drink, and music--at no cost to the attendees.

This morning's celebration was at a tiny chapel deep in the Finikounda valley, named Aghios Ioannis Rigani (St. John Oregano). Not coincidentally, the mountainsides are full of aromatic wild oregano. Most of the congregants enter the church and light a candle, stay for a few moments, and then go outside under the shade, where the Divine Liturgy can be heard, but in a cooler setting.

At the conclusion of the service, everyone heads out, where copious quantities of food and drink await them--a pick up truck with an entire roast pig arrived and is chopped into large hunks, and there are salads, bread, wine, and beer. All at 8 a.m.

Here are a few images, starting with a photo of the beach nearest to our house (called Loutsa), a mere ten-minute walk down the hill. And a new restaurant nearby that was opened by an Austrian chef from Salzburg who is making a go of it locally. The food was exceptionally if not entirely "Greek."

Gypies, tractors, and the (new) village idiot

The gypsies come down in waves beginning in the early morning, their archaic pickup trucks winding down the mountain above Akritohori (“our village”), gliding with their engines off, taking advantage of the two-kilometer descent in order to save a few pennies of petrol. The drivers usually cast a curious glance at Jonathan as they pass, a quick assessment of the foreigner and his property—the glance is reciprocated, and they quickly turn away. Eyes meet eyes for the briefest moment. There is a world of mutual misundertanding and apprehension from both parties.

Their cargo is varied. Some of the trucks are laden with melons (on occasion a few have rolled off onto the property, like manna from heaven), others are festooned with bundles of garlic, yet others carry live, caged poultry. The megaphones that are strapped to the cab roofs blare out a deafening litany of today’s wares, the prices, and testimonials to the quality of the goods.

---

Jonathan drove to the medieval town of Methoni yesterday morning, after a tortured visit with the accountant. Nothing is easy, predicable or logical in Greece. When one accepts this strange reality, life is easier. The accountant serves as an indispensable intermediary between the customer and the insufferable bureaucracy that plagues this wonderful country. No price is too large (but, by American standards, it is quite small) for expert guidance. In fact, it’s the price foreigners pay to navigate “the system,” whose elements change on a near-daily basis.

----

Jonathan is now contending for the recently open position of village idiot—along with a few dozen other souls—for the audacity of distance running during the forbidden hours of 10 a.m. and 7 a.m., when most reasonable souls are in the shade or napping..

-----

Here in southwestern Messinia tractors are ubiquitous. Everyone has parcels of land with olive groves or vineyards, and they are constanting tending to their properties, even as they run hotels, bars, cafes, and other establishments.

Tractors also double as primary transportation. It is not unusual to see entire families—farmer, wife, grandparents, small children—hanging on for dear life as these enormous tractors race down the main road to their destinations.

------

Last night Jonathan joined some English friends at Gardenia, Finikouda’s sweet shop, listening to several men play bouzouki, baglamas, and other stringed instrument late into the night (3 a.m.).

Beach with a view

Jonathan has made the best of the morning, before the heat builds, working on the house and the property. Yesterday he planted φασκόμηλο (sage) and λεβάντα (lavender) along the row with the oregano, mint, and rosemary that he planted last summer and which is now firmly established.

The biggest job of all, though, is "recovering" the far end of the property, which has been a thick tangle of wild artichoke, fennel, and host of identifable weeds, heavy brush, and wildflowers. With a borrowed scythe and wearing long pants, heavy boots, and a thick shirt he worked his way forward--the result was more plantable ground but also a myriad of bloodly lacerations.

It is now clear why his Cretan forebears wore heavy wool pants and thick boots even in the heat of summer.

-----

Last night life in the village picked up over previous days, but by the standards of previous years, there is far less traffic, Still every cafe table remains full until 1 or 2 in the morning, and several establishments are serving until 4 or 5 a.m.



At midnight Jonathan had the great pleasure--a marvel of technology--to have a video chat with his family back in America. Lucia was able to speak with several of her friends which elicited gasps of pleasure.

The morning work behind him, the beach beckons.

The End of the End?

With each passing day, as Greece’s impending default and exit from the European Union draws nearer, the sense of dispair and desolation increases exponentially. A mix of fear, panic, anger—directed at a government seemingly incapable of meaningful negotiation, but also at creditors who remain stalwart and uncompromising—dominates most conversations.

One friend, whose grocery story once earned 1500 euros a days pre-crisis, now brings in much less than 100 euros. He tells Jonathan that in three months he will have to close and move to Germany for work because he can’t afford to pay the electric bill. At least in northern Europe, he says, there is some hope for a future.

In Greece today, if you between the ages of, say, 18 and 40, the unemployment rate is nearly 50 percent. If you are age 50 or over, and currently unemployed, your prospects of finding meaningful employment—or any employment—is practically nil.

The son on one friend, working as a gym teacher, hasn’t been paid for three months. The fatehr offers an optimistic analysis: “They say he will be paid at the end of this month.”

------

And yet, the band keeps playing on. Last night the village cafes, bars, and restaurants, were mostly full, raucous laughter echoed through the cobbled streets until 4 a.m.—the doom and gloom marginalized, at least momentarily, by steady merrymaking.

And the natural beauty of this place is extraordinary, unaffected by the lunacy of international politics and financial brinksmanship. Wildflowers are in bloom (but abating as the heat builds) and the bird life is magical. Among the larger wild creatures that populate southern Messinia, Europe’s nearly extinct population of jackals has made an enormous comeback after having been nearly hunted to extinction a generation ago. In the evening, the howls in the distance are a unnervingly beautiful, like the coyotes of eastern Maine. An even fiercer mammal is the wild boar, the bane of farmers (they are prodigous diggers) and cars (weighing several hundred pounds, collisions are severe and so they are a real hazard for motorists, especially at night.

-------

Tomorrow marks the first day of summer. By any measure, though, summer has been coming to the southern Peloponnese for the past several months.

Look on the Bright Side of Life

Look on the Bright Side of Life

As D-day approaches—that’s “d” for default—there is a lot of hand-wringing throughout Greece. Here in Messinia, where there is a greater degree of self-sufficiency than in other regions, a sense of disbelief reigns. How can we pay off this load of debt? And yet, how can not continue to be a part of Europe.

Could Greece really establish the precedent of a member state leaving the common currency? The debate abot whether Greece was East or West, European or non-European, goes back centuries but was firmly settled in the early 1980s, with membership in the EU. Adoption of the euro, the common currency of the EU, cemented that sense of “Europeanness”—and with the common currency, a mere 15 years ago, came a meteoric rise in Greece’s standard of living. And with it, some reckless borrowing followed, establishing a quality of life arguably beyond this small nation’s means. The endemic political corruption and cronyism that always existed, now blossomed into a leviathan of black money. But as they say, it takes two to tangle: the creditors (mostly foreign) and the Greeks, ordinary and not so ordinary.

The new government, elected a mere five months ago, promised to change all of this. In fact, the promises (a characteristic of politicians the world over) became extravagant after five years of austerity: they promised that civil servants would be restored, pensions would maintained at former levels, and the entire mass of debt—more than 300 billion euros—might be written off through “tough” negotiations. The new government fancied itself David, going into battle against Goliath.

Regretably, the generous election promises have collided with reality, fomenting anger, distrust, and radical thinking on both ends of the political spectrum.

Now, with twelve days until a massive debt payment comes due, the European Central Bank’s financial pipeline closed tight, a default seems more likely than ever. So Jonathan was mildly amused when he turned on his portable radio and heard a Greek rendition of “Look on the Bright Side of Life,” the darkly humorous Monty Python tune—a happy tune about pending disaster.

And disaster it will be—perhaps not just for Greece but for all of Europe and even the entire world. How can the actions of a nation of 10 million people impact the planet? Your correspondent will leave that answer to the economists and simply repeat the fearful message.

-------

The new leftist government—a motely collection of hardcore communists, socialists, and hanger-ons—is lead by Prime Minister Tsipras, the Bolshevik in Chief. Along with his Oxfrod educated finance minister, the erudite narcisist Veroufakis, the trajectory is clearly one of utter ruination. This inexperienced team of political-economic theorists is hell bent on poking their collective fingers into the eyes of their very best friends in Europe. Reducing a 500 euro pension by 50 euros (in essence, the European Central Bank and IMF’s partial solution) extends the suffering; however, some pension is better than no pension, and this is where Greece is heading. Civil unrest will follow shortly thereafter.

Should Greece default, it will be plunged into the dark ages, erasing forty years of development and modernity in order to make a point. The problem is that no one seems capable of articulating the point.

-------

The crisis and impending drama notwithstanding, life goes on in the village. Jonathan was greeted heartily in his not so grand entrance on Tuesday morning. A group of a dozen men and boys, all surrounding a café table, saw him approach and hooted and hollered. (Naturally, the boys asked in one chorus: where is Lucia!) One friend offered a (breakfast) beer but Jonathan favored a coffee and some small talk.

The village is quiet, a result of the ongoing crisis in general and the approaching precipice in particular. Still, the Greek airforce has sufficient petrol to continue its training runs—in ancient propeller-powered one-seaters—over our little house and surrounding villages, an early morning buzz that blends nicely with the rising tide of cicada song, the blare of passing gypsy fruit/vegetable trucks (“strawberries, fresh strawberries, 3 euro a kilo….”), and the passing motorbikes whose occupants are often texting while biking. But by 10 a.m., the little orchard where this house sits nestled is quiet, but for the cicadas and the conversation of distant goats and sheep.

-------

“How will you spend your days here?” everyone asks. The truth is, Jonathan’s days are full—working on the house, clearing the ktima (property), watering last year’s fruit trees. And, fo course, swimming in the cobalt blue ocean. Earlier today, Jonathan negotiated with a farmer about bringing his tractor for a shallow plow around the fruit trees.

There is a small cloud in the sky today: a fleeting puff of white, an abberation in an otherwise spotless horizon.

---------------------------------

There is no finer—or culturally meaningful—gift than that of olive oil. A staple food of the Hellenic world for thousands of years, a primary trading item in the Mediterranean basin, a signal of prosperity and plenty, this nutritionally complete food is often given to strangers and friends alike as a offering of welcome.

In the late morning, Jonathan visited his friend Niko, who has hundreds of olive trees throughout the valley. The gift of 2 liters of organic olive oil was much appreciated. A few days earlier, his friend Yiota made a gift of cheese—a one-kilo wheel of hard goat cheese called mizithra. It is heavily salted and very dry, perfect for a house without a refridgerator.

Back in the hood---welcome to Messinia

Jonathan said farewell to family and departed Spetses on the morning car ferry, a lumbering vessel name “Katerina” that for many years—perhaps too many--has plied the crossing of the Saronic Gulf that separates the island from the eastern tip of the Peloponnese.

Before weighing anchor, the ferry waited for the daily water tanker to arrive from the mainland.

Spetses has always been a relatively dry island, the artisean wells no match for the water needs of tourism, agriculture, and the myriad ornamental plants that festoon the many villas and second homes.

The water is pumped up the mountain and stored in large tanks, which feed the main town via gravity.

---------

Jonathan followed the serpentine road that leads from Kosta (the small port on the mainland) toward Nauplion, Greece’s first capital. From there, the road bends west through the Argos plain, passing the turn for the Neolithic cave of Franchthi—one of the oldest sancturaries inhabited by humans in all of Europe, and a destination during his archaeology student days—then past the ancient Mycenean citadel of Tiryns. The Argos plain is the home to hundreds of thousands  (quite literally) of oranges trees, which stretch on both sides of the road as far as the eye can see. Riding with the air conditioning off and the windows open, the fragrant bouquet of citrus and wild thyme has a pleasantly narcotic effect—with nuances of sage, wild oats, and flowers of every kind.

Driving through rural Greece, one encounters surprises at every turn—like the party of firefighters, each on his own ATV (called 4-wheelers in the States, and aptly names gourounia, or “pigs,” in Greece), with red lights flashing and sirens. As a firefighter, Jonathan was bemused by the prospect of his own department arriving to a brush fire, a pack of whining ATVs, their lights flashing—but lacking that one critical component: water.

If one ever entertained exercising his or her competitive driving instincts in a rental car, a glorified riding mower (with a horn and radio) will help dispense such notions—Jonathan was practically run off the road by every BMW, Mercedes Benz, or other high-end car that approached from behind from posh Spetses. He counted his blessings when he arrived safely on the National Road, heading south through Tripoli, with a stop in Kalamata for groceries. The well-stocked super market is patrolled by security personnel donning bullet-proof vests, which puts the Greek “crisis” into a entirely new perspective.

------------

Heading south from Kalamata, through the maze of agricultural roads, past endless groves of olive trees, Jonathan felt like he was coming “home” in the best sense.

The little house was much as he left it with Lucia last July—thanks mostly to attentive friends, who check it weekly, water the trees, and keep the veritable jungle of undergrowth manageable. Much to his delight, Jonathan found olives, pomegranates, and figs on his trees, and the citrus (lemons and oranges) are in early blossom.

The murmur of cicadas, the distant call of goats and donkeys, the steady breeze through the olives groves in which this little house sits nestled, all provided the most wonderful backdrop for a well-deserved siesta.

-----------

Jonathan spent his first evening with the Greek family from whom he purchased the old, delapidated agricultural building, which has now become a family home--and the consummation of a long-held dream.