Another End of Another Beginning

The Last Gasp

Last night I set off with to two young English friends for a ride through the mountains at sunset. It was an incredible farewell circuit, with an awe-inspiring vista at every turn.

View down to Finikounda from Lahanada--Schiza island in the distance

Lots of fresh avocados for the pickin'

Bananas in July

Mosaics in Methoni

Sapienza island and the Venetian kastro (Methoni)

Name that creature?

Balcony with a view of the Methoni castle

Dinner with a view

Same dumb smile--but I mean it

Chapel outside of  Evangelismos village

In village of Perivolakia, looking west

A veritable ocean of olive orchards in Messinia

House on the mountain, out of view

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Should I Stay...

If I stay it will be trouble,
if I go it would be double.
So, please won't you let me know,
Should I stay or should I go?
                             --The Clash

A sunset cruise--from Akritohori to Yameia to Kaplani and then down to Grizokambos

Above the house, looking southeast

The house is hidden away in an olive grove

Bigger than the palm trees Downeast

The village of Yameia, just above Akritohori--a nice hike or cycle loop

Paralyzed by enthusiasm...and whatever else

Ran out of property but not stones!

Mostly straight--the apricot tree, that is

Pikrodafni--aka oleander

Tomorrow Today

Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

The quintessential selfie: view toward Finikounda from Lahanada

Rain in the summer—it is a blessed event for everyone, even for the foreigners who “lose” a beach day. For the farmers (everyone is a farmer, even those with hotels, restaurants, cafeneions, and campgrounds) it represents an inexplicable joy. It is an equally rare and welcome event from May until September.

Everything and anything grows under the Greek summer sun. Just add water.

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Spyro the Albanian gardener and I worked side by side in the field, from 8:00 a.m. until 10:30 or so. As he dug out saucers around the trees I finished the moving the very last pile of rocks (gathered last summer). Now my dry wall extends from the mortared wall near the house all the way to the road. It is a sight to behold, a wonder of incremental labor, and a curiosity to my Greek farmer-neighbors (“why didn’t you pay some Albanian to do this work?”).

I was made for hard labor—so it was indeed a labor of love.

Darker than dirt

Wreckless under the Sun

I have now wrecklessly dispensed with all manner of sunshade: no umbrella, no cabana, the shade of the beach scrub pines offering scant protection. I run my 10 kilometers up the mountain (and down again!) each morning, swim a half mile, then nap in the afternoon. I am the unrepentive little brown monkey (“you look like an Arab” commented an English friend), an aspiring middle-aged Greek Tarzan…an old dried fig in the making.

The Friends I’ve Never Met

One attribute of living on the Methoni-Koroni Road (aka “the new road”—which almost no one uses) is the fish bowl effect. No one can pass (the gypsy fruit trucks, the whining scooters, the farmers in their pickups and tractors) without casting a glance toward me and my undertakings and then waving if I’m outside. I return the gesture. Often it is the same passers-by every day. At this point, it’s like we’re old friends,,,that have never met.

A few mornings ago, while walking along the Finikounda waterfront in search of a tiropita for breakfast, a few men at the cafeneion—people I have never met—commented:

“That’s quite a long stone wall you’ve made.”

Another: “You are doing nice work with your trees.”

And another: “You should be wearing a hat.”

They invited me to sit (“”What can we offer you?”) for a cup of coffee and some conversation. I always say Yes, which is why going to the waterfront, especially in the morning, lays waste to my earnest plans for the day.

Aqueduct, my friend: Medieval Venetian water supply to Pylos

The Routine

So what’s your routine, I’m asked. I’m not really prepared for the question, which seems like a challenge to defend my poor use of time. I stumble with my reply.

The truth is my routine has evolved as the weeks have passed. Now, in the final week, it goes something like this:

Wake at 7 a.m. (after going to bed at 3 a.m.) and run 5 to 10 kilometers before the sun strengthens.

Engage in some modestly useful task: watering, clearing brush, painting/varnishing the shady side of the house.

Head to Finikounda for a spinich pie or some fruit.

Arrive at the beach by 11 a.m., set up a shade or cover (when sensible)

Read, swim, snooze, cruise the dunes—until the heat becomes oppressive, even for me (2:30 or so) then pack up and head home. A single beer or a glass of wine…and nap (siesta).

Wake at 5:30 and drive up to the village of Lahanada, where a dozen English meet for "tea time"-- a beer or two at the cafeneion. The conversation is lively, humorous, and pleasantries are shared with the old men, the Albanian laborers, the yiayiades, and whoever else is passing through.

I return home by 8 p.m. I bring in the morning wash, play guitar, read, and then drive down to Finikounda by 9 p.m. A sweet, a coffee, meet some friends and decide where to eat my one daily meal (sometimes simply souvlaki, sometimes a complicated meal with a dozen friends that doesn’t end until 1 a.m.).

Then I sit with my friend Niko, a poet, a philosopher, a criticial thinker with an open mind and a big heart. Others join in on the conversation. It is quiet, civilized, and always engaging.

By 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. I’m home again, lighting a kerosene lantern, sitting on the porch, awed by the clarity of the starry night. Every night I see at least two or three shooting stars. The Big Dipper spills its contents on the silouette of horizon.

With the hum of cicadas, the distant howls of the golden jackals and the replies of the village dogs—it is a magical time of day. I'm not ready for it to end.

Lunch Under the Eucalyptus Tree

Over the years I have made so many good friends here. Yesterday I was invited to have lunch with a family at their campground, under the eucalyptus tree by the ocean. The table included the husband and wife, who are my age, their three adult children, a half dozen grandchildren, a doting grandmother, and a collection of friends.

Taki gets a faraway look: “Yianni, this is what makes life special and meaningful: our families. Here in Greece we are struggling, but we have something that can’t be taken away from us: the love of our families, of our culture, history, language, the beauty of the place. We are close, connected, involved in each others’ lives. Your drama, your pathos, is our drama, our pathos—and this has been the way for generations. I believe that Greece is the most beautiful country in the world. I believe that this is the most beautiful place in Greece. I would not choose to live anywhere else in my life.”

Don't Give Up the Fight

Tsapi Beach

Tsapi

Traveling 4 kilometers east of the house, nearly to the mountain top before the long descent to Koroni, a winding track leads down to Tsapi, which is little more than a settlement on a protected cove. There are two tavernas, both run by women named Maria. (The usual question: Are you going to Maria's or to Maria's?).

Maria's (#1's) husband, who I met in the village the week before, invited me for kamia parea (some company) and for a drink. In addition to the lively conversation, I was given a five-course lunch, including fresh kalamari, a cold cheese salad, oven roasted eggplants, fresh bread, and stuffed zuccini flowers cooked in an egg-lemon sauce. When I  tried to pay, the owners refused. Maria said, sternly, "my husband says you cannot pay."

 I sat with Gioyio and his friend Panayioti and they spoke about the usual subjects--their ktima (property), the state of their olive trees (each had over 2,000 trees), goats, pigs, and turkeys; the insanity of Greece's austerity measures. And, of course, our children.

The track down to Tsapi

View from my table

The beach at Tsapi

The little chapel on the beach celebrates its panayiri tonight, Hundreds of people set up on the beach, listening to live music, and eating roast pork--a free offering from the community.




More Food, Fun, and Images

The perrenial blooms of the oleander

Finikounda harbor

You can get everything you want at Niko's restaurant...

...or at Dimitri's restaurant

The Countdown

The Countdown

“You should have stayed two months, Yianni.” Yiota wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. But I miss my family—so I feel conflicted. We should all suffer such happy conflicts.

Mid-90s at 10 a.m.

The first four-fifths of time here was spent in a frentic attempt to consummate the citizenship and a European passport; clean up the field and build a stone wall; and finish some light improvements on the house. Now, with a week to go, it’s time for less work and more fun.

What a transformation in a mere three years. My family will be impressed and have a clearer understanding of why I am so drawn to this remarkable place.

Not the Lamborhgini I had in mind

The One Meal

Much like sleep—four hours a night, catnaps on the beach, a one-hour siesta in the heat of late afternoon—eating occurs in fits and starts: a banana and a coffee for breakfast, 2 liters of water on the beach, and then a large meal at 10 p.m., when the temperatures have dropped and the appetite builds. You can’t walk by the dozen or so village tavernas and not be hungry.

Pork souvlaki, chips, tomatoes and tzatziki

Dimitir's "pikalia" (assortment) of appetizers--the "papoutsaki" (stuffed shoe...eggplant) to die for

Lord of Finikounda

Forced to eat dessert--against my better judgment. Loukoumades

Dinner a few nights ago at “Dionysios,” on the waterfront, was unparalleled—a commentary repeated for nearly every meal. Dimitri reeled off the evening offerings, which lead to a not-so-unusual request. “Can I have a platter that features a little bit of everything?” He was happy to oblige. The pikilia (assortment) included cheese-stuffed baby eggplant, fried cheese (saganaki), gigantes (giant beans cooked in tomato and olive oil), briam (mixed, oven-cooked vegetables), fried zuchini, and whole peppers stuffed with goat cheese and herbs. A half-liter of rose from the family vineyard (the second half liter compliments of the owner), grilled homemade bread…and the the main course: lamb kleftiko (lamb cooked in sealed parchment paper with vegetables.

Dessert (also on the house) was loukoumades (fried dough balls with orange blossom honey and pickled orange peel). It was time for a nap...

Cost with tip: 15 euros. I have died and gone to heaven. Every night.

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Down the Dark Alley of American Politics

I promised not to stray into the ugly realm of U.S. politics. And yet…

I have ordered my Impeach Clinton tee shirt. Order now while supplies last! It should be a bestseller come Christmastime. It looks like Hillary will become the president of the United Snakes of America, to quote the great Nina Simone. Like Bill before her (a pathological liar enriched by the establisment) we can only hope for the worse.

Compulsory Military Service

All young men in Greece perform compulsory military service. What once lasted 20 months, can now be completed in a mere 9 months—not too onerous for a character-building exercise.

I will astound and confound my fellow progressives by suggesting that we need the same in America. It ought to include all men and women, regardless of social class, gender, age, or race, and be unavoidable--no service, no federal student loans (or some such caveat). For those constitutionally opposed to warfare, the service can be in the parks service, education, the arts---just about anything would work.

For those inclined to a more martial experience, offer them a small stipend. And everyone is liable to call-up through age 45 (as in Greece).

Why not take some ownership of your citizenship?

Such service, as here in Greece, might reduce the chance of reckless military engagement. If the wealthy and the privileged, the scions of corporate America, and of the political establishment, were to face the prospect that their precious sons and daughters might face war---war would never happen. It is just a theory.

I was born with a plastic spoon in my mouth.

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Last night, before the sun vanished into the western Mediterranean, I visited Panayioti the beekeeper and honey merchant, not far from our house. I bought 4 kilos of orange blossom and pine honey blend—an utterly intoxicating flavor--to bring back to Maine....as the bear destroyed our hive. He and his wife and I enjoyed a coffee and a sweet on their porch and discussed the business of beekeeping. He has 275 hives on the mountainside. I felt a bit foolish talking about our two hives. He has promised to take me and Ann to his apiary next summer.

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Nearly all of my British friends were in the village last night, their eyes cast on the screen for the quarter finals in the Euro 2016 championship. Mighty England was defeated by diminutive Iceland in a fanastic and historic game. The moans, the groan, the cries—the long-suffering British have suffered two defeats in five days: the Brexit and then being vanquished by a nation no larger than Liverpool.

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Early this morning I ran down the mountain to the Loutsa Campground by the sea. I spoke with P. about the prospect of us sharing the cost of electricity—we will need at least 6 poles, at some cost, to reach our houses.

“What can I offer you,” he asked when I arrived. “Would you like a beer”? It was not quite 9 a.m. and the prospect of running back up the mountain was daunting. I deferred and enjoyed instead some fresh-squeezed orange juice.

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Tomorrow morning I will pick up S., the one-handed Albanian gardener, who will help me work on our fruit trees, olive trees, and avocados. He is a master gardener who does the work of four hands—and he is such a very sweet soul, with a generous smile and a friendly demeanor. His daughters and our daughters were friends in the local school in 2009.

The Albanians, who have been in Greece since the early Middle Ages, by and large, are honest, hardworking, decent folks—but are often treated like our Mexican laborers: distrusted, castigated, and used as scapegoats for all the nation's woes

I am gratified to give him some work and to share his company for a morning.

Mostly photos...and fordibben politics

A Smattering of Photographs

View from near our village church, looking west toward Finikounda

A positively hellacious thunderstorm, with a month's worth of rain, rolled in from the west yesterday. It had been predicted for nearly a week. The advent of rain, sustained rain, is a godsend for anyone with a garden, not to mention a few thousand olives trees. And while it meant a beach day forgone, the cool air allowed for one final push in rock removal. And to replace several ceramic roof tiles on the peak of the house. Happily not a drop entered the house.

The Great Wall of Yianni--nearly to the road

The heavy rain also served to pack down the haliki (crushed stone) that I spread around our drive at great peril during the heat of the afternoon. It was about 104 degrees F. during this undertaking, but the end result was well worth the effort. Now two cars and park, and a tent or caravan can be set up for overflow visitors.

A stoney driveway--a place to park our guests in the future

But the best "innovation" of the week, buried in a large box of camping equipment, was the beach cabana. Properly anchored it won't blow away and provides the essential shade needed for extended beach visits. A nice place to nap between swims.

Copa-Cabana! Home away form home...

All Politics Are Local

As much as I might like to avoid the topic of politics---godforbidden U.S. politics--a few news items and sundry queries in the village about the state of our presidential election leads me down a perilous path.

Here in Greece there is a political astuteness that is a wonder to behold, one that is far beyond the perceptions of most Americans. For one, the citizenry actual gives a damn.  People understand without much coaching that the "problem" is the banksters, the lawyers, and the career politicians--not "the immigrants," the "liberals," nor the "welfare state." Most Greeks feel a constitutional obligation to shout from the ramparts. Opinions are in no short supply.

So, in that spirit, shall I pontificate...just a bit?

Americans are lemmings with two feet. How else can we explain that our so-called "progressives" could possibly think that Hillary Clinton serves the commonweal? Or that Donald Trump (if you are right of center) could be the darling of conservatism, however you define it. Clinton has enriched herself with the complicity of her fawning acolytes, Wall Street, and corporate American (including the military industrial complex). She is vile: my opinion. Donald Trump, the quinteessetial narcissist, whose own fortune has been built on the shoulders of hard-working, honest-living American workers--while bankrupting several of his businesses at taxpayer expense, is equally vile. For different reasons. But the same end.

It is an utterly pathetic state of affairs--and yes, it is repeated in most of the first-world's democracies (Greece being no exception). Americans likely deserve what they get: twiddle dee (Clinton) or twiddle dum(b) (Trump). A plutocracy of the Left or the Right---all baked in the same kitchen. by different cooks.

"But stop," say my so-called progressive women friends. She is a woman! This is historic! (Margaret Thatcher, the enemy of labor and progressive values, was a woman too.) Clinton is unmitigated disaster for the progressive cause, cut from the same cloth as her perfidious husband.

But stop, say my conservate friends. Trump is "saying what needs to be said." Racism? Misogyny? Scapegoating?

Long live the 19th-century Russian anarchist Mikhail Bukharin, communism's first ardent enemy: "I shall continue to be an impossible person," he stated, "so long as those who are possible [Clinton-Truump...or fill in the blank] remain possible."

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Like many among my generation, we are inclined, yet again, to choose between the lesser of two evils. Never again, I say. This time I will vote for what's his name, the Libertarian candidate. Less government, fewer intrusions in our private lives, the elimination of the nanny state in favor of something simpler, more just, and less prone to corruption.

Clinton plans to throw a few more crumbs at the nanny state--"let them eat cake!"--while ensuring that her well-heeled friends in the 1 percent are secure from any resurgent Occupy Movement. Clintons buddies are ensconced behind their gates communities, oblivious to the reality of working people. Yes, she talks the talk--but she never walks the walk..

Trump believes in nothing, absolutely nothing--other than his own beautiful reflection in the pool of life.

Is "nothing" better or worse than "something"? I'm really not sure.

Escaping the Village

Getting out of Finikounda at night, at a reasonable hour, even when it's pouring rain, is all but impossible. I either have to walk in the darkness on the beach, and then double back to the car park, or dare to walk up the main street: a veritable gauntlet of cafeneions, restaurants, bars, and sweet shops. "Hey, Yianni, it's only 1:30, come sit down and have a drink with us. What can we treat you to?"

A Quieter Place

I woke to the sound of the village church bell, at 7 a.m. I promised myself that I would attend the morning liturgy. As so I gathered myself, and hustled up the hillside.

I walked into St. Demetrios just a bit bleary-eyed, and stood throughout the service. Generally, in rural Greece, the women stand on the left of the church, the men on the right. Aside from me, the only other males were the priest and the cantor. I tried to take up a lot of space on the men's side, and not be noticed (Ha!).

A curious observation. Usually the tractors and other farm implements begin their morning racket at 7 a.m. Today there was silence. But as soon as the liturgy ended, as if on cue, every tractor, rototiller, weed wacker, chainsaw, and farm implement started in one loud chorus.

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It's Getting Better All the Time