Final Days and Final Thoughts--Temenos 2018

Race Recovery—A walk to the monastery

The island of Spetses is home to two monasteries, a veritable “us and them” of Greek Orthodoxy. Our family’s monastery (with some exception) is called Ayion Panton and it is located on a high point looking down on the village and distant mainland to the north and toward the rocky peninsula called Kouzano—the former family homestead—to the east. The nunnery is home to about thirty nuns who adhere to the mainstream Orthodox Church.

The “other” monastery—what would institutional religion be without “the other”?—is the Old Calendarist monastery, also a nunnery, which was defiantly built on a slighter high slope, looking down on their heretic brethren below. The Old Calendarists, like the Russian Orthodox and a few others, follow the old Gregorian calendar, which the church supplanted in the Middle Ages with the Julian calendar. (For example: Christmas on December 25th versus Christmas on January 7th.) A few outliers in the family have supported the new (that is, old) monastery.

In defiance of my tired, post-race muscles and tendons, Peter and I walked straight uphill to Agion Panton. Months earlier I had promised my sister Dyan, sick with cancer, that I would make this journey, lighting a candle for her and asking the nuns to remember her in their daily petitions.

The friendly abbess with the angelic countenance opened the chapel. We spent a few minutes in the candle-lit space. Before we left the sister sent us off with holy oil (derived from the olive tree, not the snake) from the Panagia’s icon along with a cotton swap that had been rubbed against the monastery’s thousand-year-old saintly relics. It is intended as the applicator of the oil for the ailing. The abbess cataloged the miraculous cures offered by the saints and the Virgin Mary.

Another great force--gravity--took us on our bikes along narrow streets back to the hora (village).

Cycling Tours

The next day, our last on Spetses and in total defiance of my tired limbs following a hot and hilly 25-km race, we rented mountain bikes. We used our pedal power to visit those relatives we had not previously seen. In fact, in a mere five days, we managed to have coffee and sweets with all of my grandmother’s nieces and nephews, who are much younger (80-something) first cousins of my mother. Everywhere we visited we were treated to boatloads of traditional Greek hospitality.

While I am not quite the long-lost relative from the New World, I am a novelty for my very frequent visits (since 1979) and determination to keep the family connections Old and New World alive for at least another generation. I have cultivated relationships with my Spetses (and also my Cretan) family over the past 40 years. Each time I visit it is a minor homecoming. And an affirmation of the ancient tradition of unbiased, genuine hospitality

Our trusty mountain bikes also took us to two very different beaches for our last swims—during the midday to Garyfalos, the little cove tucked behind the Paleo Limani (Old Harbor), and at sunset to Ligoneri, another private strip of pebbles, where we swam in the gentle swells as the sun set electric pink into the western horizon of the Saronic Gulf. 

Our last supper on Spetses, as it were, was at The Clock restaurant, which is so capably run by my second cousin Yioryio. In fact, I have a half dozen second cousins who live on Spetses, and as many again who live in Switzerland or Leeds (UK) or in the metropolis of Athens. It is so gratifying to have made these connections with my grandmother’s Old World home and our family that still lives there.

In some ways, I feel like that last tenuous bridge to our Greek heritage—knowing the family history, immersed in Greek culture, history, and folkways, and speaking fluent modern Greek. It is a connection that I’ve tried to impart to my own children, so that they may one day know their cousins—thrice removed.

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A Circuitous Drive to Athens

We said our thank you’s and our goodbyes to our hosts, Uncle Kyriakos and Uncle Yianni, and took the slower (but not the slowest) ferry across the channel to the village of Kosta on the mainland, where our car was awaiting us. With all four tires.

A very circuitous and stunningly beautiful road took us through the eastern Argolid to the ancient site of Epidauros, the best preserved theater of the ancient world. The theater is amid the ruins of a large center that formed in the pre-classical world. It lies astride the Sanctuary of Asklepeion, who was the healing god from antiquity and the mythical father of modern medicine. For more than a thousand years, Epidauros drew medical professionals, the ailing, and  pilgrims from throughout the ancient world. It was also a site for the ancient Olympiad, with a well-preserved stadium and a running track.

After the demise of the Greek classical world, the Romans maintained, expanded, and protected this site, which continued to flourish until the barbarian invasions of the fourth and fifth centuries ad.

Our drive back to Athens included stops with a fantastic views at Modern Epidauros—which is east of Ancient Epidauros but north of Old Epidauros, place-names designed to make driving especially confusing—and then a brief view of the canal at Corinth, an engineering marvel of yesterday. The canal was a building project conceived at the end of the Archaic period (c. 600 bce), continued during the Roman occupation (with 5000 Jews conscripted for what was very likely a non-volunteer task), and finally completed a little more than a century ago. It is still in operation, used by smaller vessels wishing to skirt the long voyage around the southern and western Peloponnese on their way toward Italy and points west.

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Athens

We returned the rental car in the vicinity of the Eleftherios Venezelos airport, using the new Attikis Odos to defy worst of the motor madness of Athens. One wrong turn tooks us to a very sketchy gypsy neighborhood, followed by a course correction back the rental company office.

Thanasi fetched us from Mesogeio, the great metropolis’s hinterland that is separated from th  city proper by the long mountain called Himmetos, and then ushered us back to the hillside neighborhood of Kesariani, where our right-sized Air B&B apartment (complete with hot showers!) awaited us.

The following morning, our last day in Greece, involved a frenzied tour of downtown Athens: the changing of the guards at the Parliament, a hike down Ermou Street (Athens’s version of Fifth Avenue, with its tony shops and lively street life), and into the Plaka, the old city surrounding the Acroplis and its many archaeological sites. I played the armchair classicist, reaching back forty years into my College Year in Athens curriculum, trying not to anaesthetize Peter too badly with my pontifications, ruminations, and (in)expert opinion on all things Greece.

After commiting a mortal sin—not joining the multitude on the Acropolis proper—we enjoyed a relatively leisurely tour of the new (2009) Acropolis Museum, a splendid display of Greece’s 12,000-year history of art, architecture, and cultural artifacts. The museum is unsurpassed and one could spend a week touring its vast collection. Alas, our three hours provided but a taste of Greece’ immense, rich, and brilliant history and legacy.

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The Last Supper and Epilogue

If nothing else (but there is much else) Greek life is all about community, friendship, and highly animated human interaction. So our last night—dinner with dear old friends: Thanasi, Koula, and Akis—was indeed gratifying and special.

We walked through Kesariani, dodging the unrivaled anarchy of cars, motorbikes, scooters, and hustling pedestrians, arriving at a new outdoor restaurant that specialized in that neighborhood’s own heritage: the Greeks of Asia Minor.

In the early 1920s the diaspora Greeks of Asia Minor (more than 1 million Greek-speakers who had lived there for several millennia) were forced overnight to flee Turkey for the safety and relative civilization of the Greek mainland and islands. Those Asia Minor refugees who were not slaughtered by the Turks ended up in several Athens neighborhoods, such as Kesariani, and several of the restaurants there feature a special type of Greek cuisine from the “East.”

We ate and ate until we could eat not more (52 euros, with tip, for five of us) and managed to waddle back to our apartment for our last night in Athens.

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Epilogue

Greece left its permanent mark on my heart and soul forty years ago. If obsessions are a bad thing, this one is an exception.

Each trip to rural Greece is a reinvigorating exercise, one that reminds me of the power and value of a cultural heritage that is rich, varied, and still full of genuine surprises.

For my travel partner Peter—his first trip to Greece, his first trip overseas—that special feeling washed over him from our first day and was both enriching and memorable.

We are grateful for this travel experience. And already Temenos 2019 is on the wine-blue horizon.

There is always more to come from sunny Hellas.

Mini Marathon Results

Spetses Mini Marathon: Results

Jonathan competed in the 8th running of the Spetses Mini Marathon, an exceptionally challenging, 25-kilometer circuit around Spetses, a once-quaint island in Greece’s Saronic Gulf, where we were the guests of my mother's first cousins, my dear uncles Kyriakos and his brother Yianni.

All of Greece is mountainous, hot and dry. Spetses is no exception.

It was a cloudless morning, low 80s F. at the start, high 80s by the finish. Any shade on the course vanished within a half hour of the start. The nearly 600 participants headed west along the narrow coastal road. I was especially cognizant of the heat, the hills, and the rugged field of Greek and international runners. I went out easy and settled into a small pack of runners well behind the leaders but far ahead of the throng of middling runners. Peter stood by stoically, waiting to pick up the pieces or toss me into the wine-blue Aegean--or both.

Cautiously passing the 10K in just under 46 minutes on the up-and-down switchbacks—a veritable bobsled course without the snow—the mid-pack diminished to three Athenian Greeks, a German, and an Englishwoman from London. She ultimately finished 45 seconds behind me. 

Just ahead of the 2nd woman overall

The candy girls at the finish--nothing short of inspirational

I tried like hell to catch anyone with grey hair, but there were no 50+ runners in sight. My sight proved faulty...perhaps because I'm 50+.

I passed the 12 km mark in good form, endured the steep climb to the 20 km mark, and switched to survival shuffle mode, leave the Englishwoman behind on a steep ascent toward the town. Alas, I lost contact with the three thirty-something Greeks, was passed by a very fit ~ 55-year-old Greek man, and then the Englishwoman caught back up to me near the perilous stone steps toward the final turn and finish. Chivalry might have demanded letting her pass, but the 55-year-old came back into sight and I accelerated one last time in an attempt to reel him in, finishing 10 seconds behind my quarry but less than a minute ahead of the Englishwoman.

The cafes were packed with screaming spectators as we charged over the deadly cobblestones.

Final results—I finished 30th overall, 4th in my age group (a disappointment because I was leery of cramping and might have finished 2nd with a bit more focus). I was so cognizant of self-immolation that I took a cautious approach.

101 pounds of fun--and 30th overall

I did meet one goal: I broke the two hour mark (1:58:48) and felt satisfied with the race overall.

Among the few post-race surprises was receiving nourishment from the candy girls, scantily attired young women handing out sweets—I was oblivious to the fact that older men should never take candies from strange young women.

Peter—my lucky charm, support crew, and camera man— took some great photos and both a start and finish video (see the latter, below).

After picking up the proverbial pieces (and watching others finish) we were off to the awards ceremony, another long ocean swim, and a late afternoon hike to the monastery—where I would light a candle for my family and especially for my beloved sister, who is fighting the good fight.

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The Big Swim(s)

The three-day Spetses Mini Marathon began on Friday with a variety of kids events—500 and 1000 meter runs, short swimming events—and continued in earnest on a crystal blue Saturday morning with the premier open ocean swimming events : 1500, 3000, and 5000 meters, the latter a long haul to the mainland and back again. There was some chop and a fair headwind, making an utterly heroic event even more challenging. Peter and I watched in some wonder, along with several thousand other spectators.

The 5-kilometer swim included several hundred fit men and women, modern-day gods and goddesses. The leaders swam three abreast until about 100 meters from the finish. They stopped, conferred, and finished in a tie, ascending the beach with locked arms. The two women finishers, not far behind the lead men, did likewise. This was an unfamiliar act of sportsmanship.

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Summer has resumed after a short hiatus of cloudy skies, sometimes rainy weather (unheard of in September, unlikely in October). The ocean temperature remains in the high 70s, the daytime air  temperature in the mid-80s. Downeast Maine will be a shock to our mortal consciousnesses—in a little less than a week.

We spent the midday walking through the Old Harbor, admiring the many yachts, some traditional fishing craft called caiques, and a handful of super yachts, multi-million-dollar vessels flying flags from Greece, Malta, France, England, and other home ports.

Peter and I have sought information on the building of a traditional caique, though most of the old timers have passed the baton, which was promptly dropped by the new generation and the  desire for less expensive plastic boats.

Our stroll took us to a quiet cove called Garyfalo (“Carnation”), where we swam for several hours at least a half mile into the open ocean. The water is warm and buoyant and has an incredible clarity. As we swam the Niarchos family helicopter flew overhead to their private island. We could only conclude that life is tough—but probably not so much for them.

A pasta feed tonight and then the big event tomorrow. As ready as I will ever be.

Spetses and the Mini Marathon

Peter and I crossed a broad swath of the Peloponnese on Thursday, stopping in Nauplion, Greece’s first capital, for a brief tour of that city’s imposing acropolis called the Palamiri. Built by the Venetians in 1714, it was completed by the victorious Ottoman Turks, who themselves were ejected by an elite force of Greek revolutionaries in 1822. This vast and seemingly impenetrable edifice is emblematic of the struggle for modern Greek statehood.

Our trusty VW carried us through the eastern Argolid and down a steep descent to the port town of Kosta, where we caught a high-speed “taxi” across the narrowest stretch of the Saronic Gulf to the small, pine-clad island of Spetses.

Much has changed since I first arrived here in 1979, a young student of the classics and archaeology living alone in Athens. Spetses was my weekend refuge from one of the world’s great cities. Today, regretfully, it is a refuge for Greece’s jet set—my grandmother’s quaint, underpopulated island is now a heartlessly bustling place, replete with $100-million-dollar yachts, astonishing villas, fancy bars...and the locals, who endure it all stoically. This is someone’s idea of “progress.”

And yet much of the island’s special character and beauty—which is so nicely described in John Fowles’s masterpiece The Magus—remains in evidence.

We were warmly received by my uncles Kyriakos and Yianni, treated as guests in their oceanside hotel. Through the years I have maintained a special relationship with my mother’s younger first cousins, who treat me in a princely fashion.

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The object of this visit is my participation in the Spetses Mini-Marathon, a highly competitive 25-kilometer road race, 5000 meter open-ocean swim, and festival of endurance athleticism. The island’s population will increase by nearly 10,000 souls before it all ends on Sunday. 

A lack of sleep and too much eating has resulted in a slight reversal of my “edge” but otherwise I’m ready for this incredibly hilly course on Sunday morning. The last time Peter served as my support team, over twenty-five years ago, I won my first marathon in a very credible sub-2:40 performance. My goals are less lofty on the cusp of age sixty—and yet the competitive juices are already flowing.

We spent the day on tour, circling the island on scooters, stopping at several of my favorite beaches. We swam inside the famous cave of Bekiri, where your skin glows in luminescent blue; passed the evidence of the devastating 2017 forest fires; viewed Goldfinger-like villas with heliports and super yachts; and ended our day at the island’s highest point, the Old Calendarist nunnery, where I lit a candle for my dear sister Dyan who is struggling in a battle with cancer. I think she would take some comic pleasure in knowing that her baby brother is praying for her at a “heretic”institution.

An early dinner and a vain attempt at sleep in the din of the town, where the restaurants serve patrons until 2 am or later.

Until Then

This year’s blog remains devoid of photos owing to to some technical failures on my part. A host of fantastic images will be added after the fact, so please check back.

Our time in Messenia, the southernmost point in mainland Europe, draws to an end. Regrettably, the weather has deteriorated as the fall rains have come early. While this is manna from the heavens for the local farmers, who only begin the all-consuming olive harvest after a period of rain, it is a disappointment for winter-weary Downeasters in search of endless summer.

Still, the ocean temperatures remain in the mid-70s and the sun comes and goes between the sprinkles. We swim three times a day, drawn to the ribbon of blue as if by some unstated force.

On Monday I had a formal windsurfing lesson—Peter’s gift to me—with a Slovenian instructor. Undeterred by my novice skills, I provided endless visual entertainment to the handful of be

beach goers populating this 2-kilometer long ribbon of white sand. By the end of two hours of determined effort, I had made some halting progress...to be continued next year.

The olive harvest has begun in earnest, owing not only to the early rains, but because of the devastating cyclone that pulverized the coastline last week, and the dreaded dakos, a flying insect that attacks the fruit near the end of its growth cycle. The latter has plagued Mediterranean olive production in recent years. Nevertheless, the millions of olive trees on the horizon in all directions will produce an ocean of rich, green olive oil. The world’s best olive oil, hands down.

Yesterday’s overcast inspired Peter and I to take a backcountry tour through several dozen mountain villages that time has forgotten, navigating the narrow warren of twisting roads, past infinite olive groves, through a terrain of stunning and unspoiled beauty. Peter was especially drawn to the unique stone architecture, taking dozens of photos along the way.

Tomorrow we will leave this southern promontory of Europe and cross the Peloponnese diagonally, bound for the region of the Argolid and our ultimate destination—the Saronic island of Spetses, where my maternal grandmother was born in 1899.

On Sunday I will compete in the Spetses Mini-Marathon, a 25-kilometer circumnavigation of the island. This is Greece’s second-largest road race (after the Athens Marathon), drawing over 6000 participants. I will be skipping the 3,000 meter open-ocean swim from the mainland, which represents another event within the event. This being in the interest of self-preservation at the tender age of 59 1/2 years young.

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Saying goodbye to southern Messenia is always difficult. This a special place, as my friend Peter has learned. The hospitality, the generosity, the exceptional culinary tradition, pristine ocean, and my many dear friends both Greek and resident foreigners make it so dear to me. Our little house amid the olives groves, the cobalt Mediterranean, the narcotic aroma of wild herbs, the bleats of goats and sheep, the nighttime cries of the jackals, it is all so singular and lovely—these memories will sustain me for another long, cold, dark Downeast winter.

Until next year.