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.
----
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 |
