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

You Can Call Me Ray, or You Can Call Me Jay, or You Can Call Me Ray Jay Junior

Midsummer Night Celebration

Midsummer Night is a celebration in Finikouunda. At 9 p.m. (it is light until 10 p.m.) a great bonfire was built on the beach and the children--hundreds of them--jumped over the flames and rolled into the surf. It was great fun to watch.

What Is My Name?


Over several years I've learned to respond to multiple names.

To my Greek friends from 2009: Tzonathan
To my new Greek friends: Yianni
To my European friends: Yann
To my friend Niko: All of the above, plus "Yanno."

Call me what you like. Just don't call me Late to Dinner.

Hope I Die Before I Get Old

The topic of ocean depths emerged in the cafe yesterday. I sat with a few local fisherman and I "bragged" with some smugness about Downeast Maine (the Bay of Fundy), with its highest tides in the world.

"And how deep is the ocean?" asked Taso. The truth is, I don't really know, so I hazarded a guess.

"It can be over a thousand feet deep in the Gulf of Maine."

I noticed a few eyes roll and some hissing and snickering.  Is was like the chorus from a Greek tragedy.

I was told (and confirmed it) that there is an ocean canyon,  25 nautical miles east of the island of Sapienza (which we can see from house), which reaches a depth of 5,120 meters--that's approaching 16,000 feet of depth.

Carry enough anchor chain, sailor!

A few miles off of Pylos, there is an international research center in physics, with a telescope located at a depth of over 4,000 meters that peers into outer space. The mission is to locate neutrinos in the galaxy.

Give Me an Excuse

If Donald Trump becomes president, I am moving to Greece.
If Hillary Clinton becomes president, I am moving to Greece.

If Bernie Sanders becomes president--by some act of Divine Grace (e.g., Hillary chokes on the vileness of her own pathological lies, her ill-gotten wealth, her complicity in war crimes and in her husband's perfidy and unveiled violence against young women), then I will stick around to be a nominal part of the solution to our nation's malaise.

But I'm not holding my breath.

Everyone (everyone) asks me in Greek: "Can that moron actually become president?"

Which moron are they talking about?

Everybody Must Get Stones

Yesterday, in the heat of the day--ill-advised as it was--I spread 4 ton of crushed marble by hand on the driveway, spread with a stiff metal rake and broadcast from rubber totes.

Fuel efficient and large enough for the entire family--including Yiayia

Today, with a borrowed wheelbarrow (a veritable innovation!), I moved the penultimate pile of rocks that have been turned up by our neighbor with his plow. Our stone wall, marking our rear border, is now over 125 meters long.

It feels as though I am enduring one of Hercules's mighty tasks. I have never worked at something so hard with such good effect.

Only two tons to go!

Pig in a Pick-Up

Morning Run

I have been threatening to wake early, drive to the A.’s house, and run the loop through the valley, which is a bit remote but thankfully flat. Also, a large ridge to the east blocks the sun in the early morning, offering a modicum of relief from the morning sun.

Morning run through the valley

App;roaching the end of the valley

Fields of grape vineyard and olive orchards

Sweating it out in the bee yard

Going to bed at 2:30 or 3:00 a.m. isn’t so bad if I can sleep to 7:00 or so. And then having a short siesta in the late afternoon is the ticket to higher conciousness. But this morning, on the otherwise quiet main road that passes our house, there was a terrible mechanical racket at 6 a.m. A young woman heading down the mountain to Finikounda—obviously to some job or another—stopped in front of our house. Her vintage mixhanaki (scooter) had died precisely in front of our field, and she was turning over the kick start repeatedly. Like most, she coasts down the mountain to save petrol, but she engaged the transmission to slow her descent and likely ruined the transmission. I couldn’t endure much more of it, so I went outside. She was nearly in tears: “My father will kill me,” she predicted. Sometimes in rural Greece such pronouncements can be more than merely metaphorical. I tried to help her for a short while, offered my driveway as a place to park her bike. “No, I’m waiting here for my father.” I retreated back to the loft and attempted some more sleep. In the meantime, the father came. He yelled at her continuously for twenty minutes and then the two left. The bike still sits there, on the edge of the road.

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I drove to our friends’ house, parked my car, and set off for a twelve-kilometer run through the depths of the valley, with extra loops tagged on. On the return loop, I passed the tiny chapel called Aghio Yianni Rigani (St. John of the Oregano) and noticed that they were preparing for the annual panayiri. A panayiri (there is nearly one every day in some nearby village) is a celebration connected with a patron saint or an icon connected to a chapel or church, sometimes remote and inaccessible like this one. This particular chapel is opened once a year for the celebration. Knowing what I might miss, I dashed home, showered, and changed into halfway decent clothes.

The Pig in a Pickup---the Celebration of Saint John of the Oregano

I beat it back to the chapel, driving my long-suffering rental car over some desperately unmaintained gravel roads to the depths of the valley. A this point, the springs and shocks are reaching their useable life.

There are nothing but olive trees, grape vineyards, and enormous hawks patroling with their penetrating screetches. The service had just finished (I lit a candle inside as everyone pouring out of the claustrophic space) and the food and drink arrived: a whole roasted pig in a pickup truck; sanctified bread from the altar; a few plates of cut tomatoes and cucumbers; an old lady distributing beers; and an old man distributing wine. The entire celebration is paid for by the dimos (municipality), as are all of the panayiria, and there is no cost for the celebrants.

Porks, beer, and wine—at 8:30 a.m. Everyone offers the same greeting—chronia polla—“a long life!”

Another valley chapel, name unknown

Pig in a pick-up

St. John Rigani

Most folks remembered our family from 2009 and again in 2012. They know, too, that we are renovating an older, humble stone-brick house. Many folks inquire about Ann, Manny, Lucia, and Evyenia.

There is one woman in particular who is magical. I remember her from the Finikounda church in 2009, and she has not changed one iota. She exudes a kind of grace and beauty that one often finds among widows in a rural village. The truth is, I am just a little bit in love with her. She must be about 80 years old, but the extraordinary beauty of a twenty-year-old lies just beneath the surface. I don’t even know her name, nor does she know mine. As I was leaving she said, in broken English, which surprised me: “Please bring your wife and children next summer. They are special to you but we need them to celebrate with us.” I was felt so moved by this comment—after three hours of sleep and 12 kilometers of running, and several glasses of Kosta’s wine: “it is the best of all in Finikounda, without chemicals”—that I felt an enormous wave of emotion wash over me. “Yes, I promise you, next year they will be here.”

On the way home, I stopped at the building supply yard, which also serves as an olive oil factory. The storage vats hold thousands of liters of oil and look like a petroleum refinery.

Enormous olive oil storage tanks

Building supply and olive oil factory under one roof

 Before I could pay old Yianni, he said: “What can I treat you to? Please have a glass of wine with me. It is the best in Finikounda.” (The competition is fierce!) By now, it was 10:00 a.m. and the summer sun had risen over the ridge. The heat is punishing, the evening hum of cicadas has risen to a chorus of incessant, defeaning chirping.

Now it is 10:00 a.m. and I’m ready for a nap.

On Turtles, Nudity, and Nationalism--Oh My

Can't find my way home

Traditional Life

This is a conservative, traditional, and still largely religious society—the nudity on the beach and a few other trappings notwithstanding. Finikounda, the main village, survives in large part—but hardly entirely—on a tourist economy, with many cafeneions and shops geared toward visitors. But even here, a vibrant traditional life exists close beneath the surface--for those willing to recognize it. Tradition is manifested in expressions and attitudes, in foodways, in turns of phrase, in the nuanced gestured of hands and faces.

Can't get there from here

The Loggerhead Turtle

The dunes behind the big beach, called Anemomelos, falls under the European Union’s “Natura 2000” designation as a place of special natural significance. The sand dunes, aside from the wide diversity of plant and animal life, is a place where the threatened loggerhead turtle buries its eggs, usually at night. People on the beach—Greeks and resident foreigners alike—will ring the “egg zone” (a divit in the sand about two meters wide) with bamboo to keep unsuspecting beachgoers from treading on them. The usual predator, however, is the ordinary fox (and sometime the African jackal and the wild boar, once threatened and now ascendant), who dig up the eggs and eat them.

Path from the ocean to egg laying site

Turtle eggs

The loggerhead turtle can grow as large as a enormous platter, more than a meter or more across.

A slow snake--too slow for comfort

With a Little Help from My (Albanian) Friends

I mentioned to an English friend my wish to disappear about 10 ton of rock and cement debris that was “fallout” from the house renovation. I piled it all at the back of the driveway two years ago, with the help of Yianni's JCB.

My friend arranged to provide two Albanian laborers and a dump truck. In a matter of four hours of backbreaking work, the entire mess was cleared away, doubling the turning radius in the drive and otherwise “beautifying” the property.

These two men worked ungloved in the midday heat (+ 100 degrees Farenheit), loading the truck three times, breaking apart seveal enormous 500-pound boulders with sledge hammers so that they could lifted into the truck. Wathcing how they approach rocks is telling: a quick flip of the rock--never, ever putting underneath--and a fast scan for scorpions and snakes. I have adopted the same method of self-preservation..

One of these men was stung by a scorpion of the chest (unusual and perilous) last spring. He was rushed to Pylos medical center, where he received three shots of antidote. A sting so close to the heart can be dangerous if not treated quickly.

My Bee Buddy—An Unproven Theory

My American friends T. and K. have observed a sort of phenomenon on the beach, which has been borne out by my own experience. When one arrives on the beach, an extremely large bee-like creature (hummingbird size) appears out of nowhere. It flies around one’s encampment for hours, chasing away wasps and other aggressive flying insects. It does not sting or otherwise harrass the beachgoer, but seems to protect them. My friends have doubled this little flying acrobat their “bee buddy.” And so it is—I now have my own bee buddy. Who’da thunk it.

Guarding the castle gastes in nearby Methoni---Turks be gone!

Castle with boutzi at the end--a medieval jail used for executions then...and weddings today

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Who Was That Masked Man (or Woman)—The Rise of the Fruit Fairy

Someone has been leaving small amounts of fruit—sometimes figs, more often lemons or oranges or apricots—on my porch most afternoons. This kind soul, whom I have not yet met, remains a mystery. I hope to have the opportunity to reciprocate…with something.

More Birds in the Sky

This region of southern Messinia is on a major migratory route for birds that transit from North Africa to points east and north. There is no shortage of a fascinating variety of winged creatures.

The Greek air force, stationed in nearby Kalamata, oftens flies their own sorties over the beach—in propellor-powered training aircraft. It can sound like the Battle of Britain, but there are no casualites (thankfully). Nevertheless, the very suggestion of warfare and the accompanying human discontent is enough to make one want to dive deep into the aqua blue.

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So perhaps it is the climate, or the amount of sunshine, that creates our human dispositions. This unproven theory might explain why people on the 45^th parallel (e.g, Downeat Maine) are generally surly, irritable, and discontented…as well as addicted to their various vices and often unremittingly angry. I can’t help contrasting this with the people of coastal Messinia—despite suffering years of austerity and unemployment and hopelessness, a genuine levity prevails. It is nearly impossible to describe without experiencing it firsthand.

The Construction Yard

Following the disappearance of the rock debris from our driveway, the space is ready for some χαλίκη (haliki), the quintessential pea-size marble stone that is used locally on driveways and walkways. (It also serves a security purpose---at night, it would be impossible for someone to approach your house stealthily, as it makes quite a noise underfoot.) I stopped at the construction yard this morning to order five cubic meters of this stone. I made the request to Yianni, the affable owner of the construction yard.

Beyond the vineyard, looking home

Full of  figs

No apricots...yet

As with most establishments, the standard question is asked: What can I treat you to? Out comes a carafe of homemade wine, a platter of cold pork, and a bowl of sliced cucumbers.

It wasn’t quite 9 a.m.

Equipment Failure

The notion of equipment failure, as it pertains the beach, conjurs the thought of a lost bikini top for some Americans. In my case, it was the loss of the all-critical beach umbrella. As I floated 100 meters offshore, oblivious to the rising wind, my beach umbrella cartwheeled down the long beach, a pirouetting of my most important piece of beach equipment (well, a close runner-up to the 1.5 liter water bottle). The fear that this thing would skewer some unsuspecting sunbather motivated a fast sprint a half kilometer down the beach, in said “birthday suit,” in an attempt to intercept this colorful projectile. A final dive and tackle—mission accomplished.

Now said umbrella is a shadow of its former self, but still useable—with twine, duct tape, and a prayer.

Beach Attire…Or Not. That Is the Question

Count the people, umbrellas, and vendors on the beach

It is worth reiterating, as a kind of preamble, that this is a conservative, traditional rural society. And yet, there is a long history of nudity in Greece—especially on the beach. It would be entirely mistaken to suggest this is some kind of Western innovation, foisted on the poor Greeks by well-tanned Scandinavians.

The very word “gymnasium” has the cognate gymnos/gymnoi, meaning “naked.” (My apologies to the linguists among us who might feel obliged to adjust my grammatical observations.) The ancient games of Greece (Olympia, Delphi, Corinth, etc.) were performed nude—particularly the track and field events and wrestling. So it is not such an enormous intellectual/philosophical/cultural stretch to suggest that nudity might indeed have its place on the Greek beach. Some might dispute this theoretical continuum from ancient to modern--but not on my beach!

Ironically, I suppose, American sensibilities—in particular—suffer no shortage of outrage at God’s preferred form for us humans. (Most Americans, in fact, would be surprised to learn that YMCAs and YWCAs featured nude pools—same sex, mind you—up until the early 1950s, when the long reach of McCarthyism destroyed the final vestiges of sensible behavior in our retentive society. Google it if you doubt it! McCarthyism, sadly, is alive and well in 21^st-century America, masked as it is by sickly righteousness.)

I say “ironic” because we live in a culture where American sensibilities cast a suspicious eye on the very thought of even private, non-exhibitionist nudity. Why ironic? Because for all our prudishness the "culture" (quotations are needed here) continues to objectify women and girls, sanctions sexual violence on television and on the big screen, and promotes, fosters, and furthers a long history of sexism, both overtly and and subtlely. And yet we cannot tolerate so much as a bare breast on television. God forbid! The righteous simpletons in our midst—evangelical, fundamental crazy Christians are on the top of that heap—speak out of both sides of their hypocritical mouths. Whatever happened to the likes of Jimmy Swaggart or to James Baker--our beacons of religiosity?

Sorry folks, this is a family-friendly blog, devoid of beach photos. (In fact, it is indeed a creppy world--even the folks at Google are stealing my phoots--so the only "human" photos are of me, your hapless correspondent---thankfully, fulled clothed.) There is no oodling and oddling on the beach, just a quiet, respectful coexistence. It is not unusual to see entire familes—Momma, Pappa, brothers, sisters, grandchildren--lazing sans loincloth, celebrating God’s subtle gift of creation's glorious form.

Don’t forget about your birthday suit. It is the one you were born with. It is a point of pride, not shame.

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The preceding diatribe notwithstanding, most people (Greeks and foreigners alike) are quite aware of the local sensibililities, traditions, and taboos. So there exists a kind of invisible Rubicon on the beach, several hundred meters on either side of a central point, that beachgoers respect.

It is far too hot (105 degrees by 1:00 p.m.) to have such arguments…or to fantasize about much more that sunshades, sunscreen, and a cool drink. Lighten up, folks: tan lines be gone!

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Walking waist deep in the surf and then plunging like a missile into the deep---ah, what pleasure to glide down, down, down…where the water changes from cool aquamarine into rich cobalt, eyes open to the underwater world, the fish scattering. I feel a curious smile emerge, an underwater smile, and then rising quickly for that first breath of precious air. And to repeat the experience again and again…it is an indescribable pleasure.

Citizenship

Get dressed. Splash on some cold water. We are on to more pedestrian subjects:

As of May 5, 2016, my daughter Evyenia and I have become citizens of the Hellenic Republic. Our older children, Manny and Lucia, may follow suit with a bit more effort on the basis of their father’s newly acquired dual citizenships. The hoops through which they must jump are not too high or hot. Their mother, Anna, will pursue her own course, pursuing European citizenship on the basis of her Italian (Sicilian) ancestry. (My challenge to her: become an Italian citizen, and I will learn Italian as my fourth language, which counts the mudflat Maine dialect). In the end, with some luck, all five of us will be bonefide dual citizen--ready to flee at a moment's notice. In either direction.

This comes at precipitous time, as England has just voted to leave the European Union. The consequences for our English friends with houses in Greece remains uncertain. Last night I offered myself as a one-man adoption service to those whose status and resident aliens is threatened. I am taking no marriage proposals.

For me, this is the culmination of a forty-year-long goal and the product of a steely and determined effort over the past five-plus years. In Greece nothing--absolutely nothing--is simple or clear cut. In some ways, it is the challenge of contending with a post-Ottoman bureacracy that is most heroic of all.

Fishing pier in Methoni

Citizenship, with all its rights and privileges, is something most folks take for granted--Americans perhaps more than most. For the desperate and diverse collection of migrants pouring into Europe, many of whom are now stranded in Greece, it is the Holy Grail of their very existence.

Pause, dear friends, if you might, to reflect on what it means to be a citizen. Never take this for granted. Be proud of your nationality (or nationalities), whatever is--or they--are, while avoiding the ugly trap of nationalism. For nationalism is the most vile of –isms, the birthplace of countless wars and righteous suffering inflicted on others.

First Week in Finikounda

Our Lonely Planet

The travel guide The Lonely Planet names the Peloponnese the number one destination in the world for 2016. It comes as no surprise to anyone who has spent any time here. The diversity of sights—modern and ancient—of topography, ocean frontage, villages, monasteries, Mycenaean, classic and Byzantine sites, a diversity of pastoral settings—it is truly dizzying. It would take several lifetimes to see it all.

Heading seaward from the village of Kamaria

I have the good fortune of living in two of the most beautiful places in the world—Downeast Maine and southern Messinia.

In some ways they are very much alike: unspoiled, with natural splendor, full of a wide range of flora and fauna. Niko suggests, on some authority, that the Peloponnese boasts a greater diversity of flora/fauna than anywhere on earth: there are a multitude of species--mammals, reptiles, insects, and plants.

But natural beauty aside, the Peloponnese outmatches Downeast Maine on nearly every level, including the diversity of its human residents. It is unfair and perhaps a bit unnecessary to judge one against the other, but the following questions, asked of both places, provides a clear sense of the differences:

What are the traditional foods and how are they prepared?

View toward Finikounda from our mountain village

What are the traditional dances and can most people perform them?

What about the traditional music, poetry, crafts, and folkways?

How many traditional fesivals (panayiri) occur per month?

The Peloponnese is steeped in a three-thousand-year-old culture that is dizzying in its complexity, richness, and vibrancy. And then there is the human element: People are light-hearted, generous, honest, forgiving, and full of animation, laughter, and gratitude for this special place. But, of course, like everywhere there are exceptions to the rule--if just a few.

Traditional food of Downeast Maine? Whoopie pies and dry fish dinner?—argh. (It would be enough to make a local gag. The locals might describe Maine food as “halia”--disgusting) Beverages (Budweiser? …I’ll concede: apple cider is our “traditional” beverage). But answers to the other questions yield very, very little in the way of substance. A cultural neutron bomb might have fallen on Maine in the mid-1950s, such is the cultural sterility of the place. 

Music

Music is everywhere in the southern Peloponnese but the instrument with the greatest distinction is the clarinet. One commentator on last night’s radio show, coming from Kalamata, suggested in the most florid terms: “The clarinet is an appendage of the human soul. Is is the voice of God speaking to humankind.” My friend and musical comrade Lee will understand this more than most.

Other instruments include the quintessential bouzouki, but also the baglama (a small cousin to the bouzouki), and a variety of percussive instruments—including the horns of animals, the nails of goats (a kind of rattle), the accordion, and others.

The Battle of the Bugs

I woke at 3 a.m. and noticed a very large sarandapodousa, a gruesome forty-legged slitherer with fierce pinchers. I dispatched it with a hard sandal; but even broken into pieces it continued to writhe with a menacing wriggle. To use the American idiom: it grossed me out. The thought of this creature crawling up my naked torso at 3 a.m. was sufficient motivation to visit the plant store in Finikounda at 8 a.m.

Mr. Organic Gardener was prepared to buy the most toxic poison known to humankind—not just as a safeguard against the twilight creature's bretheren but to discourage all manner of snakes and scorpions from entering my house. (I learned, upon closer inspection, that there was an entry point in the bathroom for these critters—which I promptly sealed with a bead of plaster.)

Cheerful Efi, the plant shop owner, suggested a less toxic solution and sent me packing with a two-kilo bag of sulfur power, which I spread along the perimeter of the house. So, against my better judgment—and fears—I have remained 100 percent organic.

H-O-T

The next time I hear my Maine friends complain about the summer heat Downeast, I will laugh with cruelness in my hardened heart. They have no concept of what “hot” really means. The forecast for the next week calls for temperatures between 38 and 42 Centigrade (that’s 95 to 106), without a lick of humidity. Any outdoor work (in my case, collecting tons of rock turned up by the tractor, watering fruit trees, light house maintenance) must cease by 10 a.m., lest one become the victim of a stroke or cardiac arrest.

T. and K. loaned me a beach umbrella, which serves as a remarkable innovation for a determined beachgoer. Still, there is the issue of walking (i.e., dashing) from the sand dunes to the water, which is excruciating at best. The plunge into the Mediterranean is an utterly delicious tonic to the heat.

Southern Messinia (and western Crete) are the hottest places in all of Europe. Temperatures in the high 80s in November, even December, are not unusual. It is also the sunniest place in all of Europe, with about 320 days of sun per year. This is about the same number of days of fog in Lubec, Maine.

On the subject of fauna. The last resident population of African jackals (the Peloponnese’s version of the Maine coyote) are increasing locally. Each night as I lie in bed the familiar howls come from the valley below our little house, and they are answered by a chorus of village dogs. It goes on uninterrupted all night and is music to my ears---the lovely long howls, the call and response of canines, wild and domestic.

A Most Beautiful Place

We have all experienced the curious paradox, wherein those who live in a beautiful and special place often overlook those attributes. In Downeast Maine I often gasp at the raw beauty of the environment, and yet this is often lost on the locals. Sometimes we never see our backyard for what it really is.

Here in Messinia, the opposite is true. People who have lived here their entire laws marvel at the splendor of their home environment: they comment on the sunrise and sunset, on the very texture of the ocean, on the quality of the light and the essence of the land. It is a kind of perception, a profound appreciation, that is reiterated by the many resident foreigners. The shared appreciation brings these varied nationalites together in a common homage to place. When a local person says “this is the most beautiful place on earth” these are not mere platitudes but a deep love and understanding of what makes Messinia indescribably wonderful on so many levels.

The Bunker

Rocks around the clock

This house is a veritable bunker, the Greek equivalent of the Alamo (with domestic trimmings), constructed of stone, brick, mortar, plaster, and marble dust. It might be my first choice for a last stand, as the Ottoman hordes rise up from the nearby ridge, curved swords in hand, babbling their prophetic, menacing, intolerant nonsense veiled in a piety that sees fit to abuse women and children and for which Western notions of pluralism and democracy are laughable concepts. 

Who needs electricty, really?

In point of fact, this region suffered incredible violence and humiliation during the turkokratia (the Turkish occupation), which lasted 400 years. In the end, and with the help of the British, French, and Russian navies in the nineteenth century, the people rose up heroically and drove out the loathed occupiers following one final scortched earth policy, led by brutal Egyptian mercenaries in the 1830s. People like my friend Dimtri and countless others, speak of the Turkish occupation as if it happened yesterday—the abduction of women and children, the flattening of villages, the vileness of public executions, a policy that took no prisoners, destroyed land and homes, and stole crops and stores.

Ελευθερία η Θάνατος – Freedom or Death. This was the rallying cry in my grandfather's patrida (homeland) Crete. He left Manhattan in 1912--to which he had only arrived a half dozen years earlier--and returned to Greece with one hundred fellow New York-area Cretans, including his twin brother (my great-uncle Kosta) to fight the Turks, ultimately expelling them from Ionannina and points north. My uncle Kosta was decapitated by sword in battle--and papou never let his grandchildren forget the atrocities perpetrated against his generation. After 400 years of brutal occupation, they expelled the loathed Ottoman Turks. The Turks are a fine and noble people, culturally and historically attached to the Greeks for more than one thousand years. Sadly, under the new Turkish sultan, the elements of intolerant and extremism are ascendant pnce again, owing partly to the West's unwillingness to make any principled stand.

My grandfather's story is an example that freedom-loving people the world over might learn from. Today’s “eastern menace” has been replaced by bankers, bureacrats, and politicians. (Although the eastern menace is now rising its ugly, Paleolithic head once again.) But the fearless rallying cries for freedom and dignity, on both sides of the border, remain valid in the twenty-first century.

This blog has self-conciously avoided politics, but some things must be stated bluntly. My country supports vile dictators the world over--in Israel, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, the real axis of evil. We are long past the point of being principled peoples with democratic values. Something has to give.

Freedom or Death! People in the West ought to learn the lesson of the suffering endured by the Hellenes and overcome their careless attempts at accommodation with people who will never, ever “integrate” or abandon the Stone Age in favor of basic decency and humanity. It is indeed time to “get real," a concept lost on our so-called leaders in the West.

Approach of the First Day of Summer—Technically Speaking

Althought the calendar states that June 21 is the first day of summer, the reality is that summer begins here in early May and ends in late October, or even as late as December. The ocean reaches its apex of warmth in October—it is bathwater by then.

The heat unfolds a fragrant aroma of wild plants. My favorite is the wild fennel, which, at 105 degrees, wafts across the land and is positively intoxicating.

Never accept de-feat

Hospitality (Φιλοξενία)

Here is the question that one hears upon entering the village: Τι να σου κεράσω; What can I treat you to?

Notions of traditional, rural Greek hospitality were born three thousand years ago. It is a manner of being that is unparalleled anywhere in the world. And for a nation suffering under the heavy weight of austerity (everything taxed at 24 percent; unemployment at 27 percent) it is hard to comprehend the depth and magnitude of hospitality. It is one of the main factors that make this place indescribably wonderful.

Sand dunes at Anemomelos Beach, house on mountainside

View of house (foreground) from Dimitr's vineyard--a Greek summer pastoral

A day doesn’t pass when someone (many someones)—a café owner, a restauranour, a vague acquaintance—isn’t offering me a gift or other: a cup of coffee and a sweet, a tin of olive oil, a bag of oranges and lemons, cheese, fruit, eggs, wine. It is astounding and a constant display of kindness and selflessness.

These are remarkable gestures of generosity, with no iota of quid pro quo, no ulterior motives. Such magnanimity is as delightful as it is universal.

A few nights ago, Panayioti from the sweet shop refused payment for a drink and a sweet. When I persisted in paying, he was visibily hurt—as though it was a rejection of his hospitality. It is a cultural faux paix that I shall not repeat.

Every Picture Tells a Story, Don't It?

I promise less text and more photos--but I can't resist pounding this little keyboard. Please, dear friends, I have no pretensions of literary genious. This is mere therapy and righteous bluster from your hapless correspondent, and litttle more.

The Morning Run

It is 8:15 and already the heat is punishing. And yet there is no better time to run (except perhaps at 6:15 a.m.), so I set off on the Methoni-Koroni road, heading up the mountain.

A runner or cyclist has two choices: run up the mountain for a few kilometers--a steady ascent with not a single flat break--then turn and descend, as if on bobsled course, with hairpin turns every 200 meters. The other choice, obviously, involves putting the "easy" downhill section first, which is clearly the wrong choice. The regret is delayed.

On the return leg, with the long views across undulating olive grows that stretch to the cobalt Mediterranean, I see a familiar face in an olive grove near our house. I shout out a greeting and stop for some animated conversation. (All conversation in Greece is animated--replete with a vocabulary of hand gestures and facial expressions that have become second nature after so many visits over so many years). The man, a rugged well-built seventy-year-old named Kosta remembers my name (first and last) from our brief meeting the year before. "Yeia sou, Yianni. How is your family? Where is this wife of yours and the children? We want to treat them all to drinks at the cafe!" I assure him that next summer, come hell or high water, I will bring my dear family. They have not yet "met" their spitaki (little house) in the olive grove.

It is remarkable, a word that does not understate the obvious, that every single villager--all 130 of them--knows me by name. They know my story. They are curious...and, yes, they are busy-bodies, rumor mongers, and often as small-minded as they are big-hearted. Such are the paradoxes of village life.

In full disclosure: this blog reference Finikounda frequently. It is the larger fishing village, a point of reference at the base of the mountain, but it is not our village. Ours is a sleepy mountain village, populated mostly by elderly folks, steeped in tradition. An agricultural hamlet kept alive by a smattering of foreign residents (mostly German), Akritohori (or its Turkish name: Grizi) has no signs of mass tourism. As for infrastructure, there are lovely stone walkways with metal lanterns, a large and rather imposing church, a one-room school, and the village cafeneion in the plateia. Beyond this, there are the sounds and sights of a tradional Greece that is vanishing at an alarming rate: braying donkeys, old women dressed in black, men sipping their Greek coffees and playing their beads in the shade of the plane tree.

I am a resident of Grizi--as the locals say, a Griziotes.