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| The village of Finikounda from our house on the mountain |
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| Not the road to perdition--but near it |
Last night I returned early from
the village and noticed strobe lights in the direction of Kalamata. The
airport, I thought. Perhaps it’s foggy over there. But then I heard the loud
booming of music and wondered if it was coming from somewhere in my own
village, which is a half kilometer up a winding road. Sounds travels long
distances in these here hills.
I learned this morning that there
was a wedding last night in Kaplani, one of the mountain villages that I have
been running through in the morning. Kaplani has a population of about 50
people.
One of the locals married off his
daughter and the sound and fury that I observed from my porch at midnight was a
wedding party. There were over one
thousand guests invited, a half dozen roasted pigs, and live music that
continued until 6:45 in the morning. This pales in comparison to Cretan
weddings, which can go on for days on end, and include firing handguns and old
World War II artilley pieces out to sea. They sure know how to have fun!
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Everyone’s old house has its
history and its legends, some have ghosts real or imagined. Our little house in
Akritohori has a colorful past.
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| From shack to sanctuary in 7 years |
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| Among the world's best sunsets |
It was built by a character—there
is no better word based on the area tales—who was named “Zapata” by the local
people. Zapata was from the German Democratic Republic (East Germany) and
arrived in Greece forty or fifty years ago, on the lam from the authorities. He
was either a federal judge or a member of the treasury department (the stories
vary) who had fallen afoul of the Communist authorities. Zapata’s real name
might have been Wulff or Wolff, according to the villagers.
To some he was a modern Robin
Hood. To others he was just another plan-Jane thief.
Zapata escaped from the GDR and
arrived in Bulgaria in the 1970s, then he found his way to Turkey where he
stole a boat and sailed it to Greece. Somehow he ended up here in Messenia, in
the southern Peloponnese, and survived by stealing and doing minimal work (like
the olive harvest in the fall), and perhaps some other illicit activities.
One of my foreign neighbors had
nothing but conflict with Zapata, who built an illegal hut either on or near
his property, which has a commanding view of the ocean. He stole little items—a
hoe here, a shovel there—and eventually my neighbor’s horse disappeared.
When confronted about the
disappeared horse (later found in the nearby market town of Horokopeio) Zapata
denied any knowledge of it. But a few days later he was seen walking the horse
through an olive grove and the game was up.
My neighbor had had enough. He
borrowed another neighbor’s backhoe one morning and flattened Zapata’s house,
giving him a few seconds to jump out the window before the cinder-brick walls
came tumbling down.
But that was not the end of
Zapata. He was given permission to lay the bricks for the structure that
eventually became our house. He continued his antics for several more years,
stealing boats, sheep and goats, and tools. Eventually he simply disappeared
and has not been seen since.
The locals say he would be in his
eighties if he were alive. Some speak of him fondly as a bandit-hero, others describe
him in foul terms as a smelly, garlic-eating old man with knotted hair and a
peculiar laugh.
There is actually a video of him
on the Internet, taking a bath in our pasture, with a large open fire burning
beneath the cast iron tub. He looks like the wild man of Borneo—scrawny, with
grey hair askew. Laughing and groaning in the near boiling water.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve taken
over as the new wild man—running through the mountains, showering on the porch,
playing guitar late at night, howling with the wild jackals.
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On the Greeks
I have always had a special
affinity for Greeks—after all, I guess I am one, first by heritage and since
2017 by dual citizenship. My daughter Nia is also a citizen of European Union.
We are braced to flee our first homeland as necessary.
I began my Greek adventure with a
first visit to sunny Hellas in 1973 and have continued to be drawn here right
to the present day. A love of life, an unflagging sense of community, a highly
spirited people with outsized opinions on every subject under the Aegean sun—I am
drawn, inexplicably, to it all.
Greeks are hard workers,
industrious people, with amazing accomplishments from antiquity through the
present day. So none of which follows is meant as an insult of
character—rather, these are observations of a fellow Greek (-American).
A noble people, the Greeks are hardly
without their idiosyncracies. There are many, but a few stand out.
Driving
Every Greek fancies himself (yes, this is gender-specific) a
highly skilled grand prix driver on the highways and the back streets. A Greek
cannot tolerate ever being behind someone on the road. It is a matter of honor
to pass and be in the lead, regardless of the road conditions—mountain
swithbacks, with 400-foot vertical drops and no guardrails; blind corners;
inclement weather. Nothing is too great a challenge. Everyone else’s driving skills are mediocre and
worthy of contempt.
Exercise
The days of the noble villager,
trekking over hill and dale with baskets full of gatherings or a baby goat over
their shoulders—are now mostly a thing of lore. For one, most Greeks (but
certainly fewer than ever before) smoke cigarettes with reckless abandon—one
after another, interspersed with strong Turkish (I meant Greek!) coffee.
For most Greeks, walking a few
hundred meters constitutes the most arduous of tasks but counts somehow as
“exercise.” The idea that someone would run or cycle—this is considered
exceedingly bizarre behavior. Even driving more than an hour at a time (we must
stop for coffee!) is excessive. Relax, sit down, take a break. Isn’t it time
for siesta?
Whenever I offer someone a ride
to a particular destination, if I were to find a handy parking space just 50
meters short of said destination, the comment is invariably: “you should drive
a little further and see if you can find a closer spot.” I have been with
people who have circled the block a half dozen times in order not to walk those
few extra meters. “Why are you parking so
far away,” they ask with dumbfounded exasperation.
Sun and sea
For Mediterranean people, it is
somehow odd that Greeks are terrified of the sun, which is why when they go to
the beach they end up at the cafenion within ten minutes. After all, they have
just exercised. Sitting on the beach is dangerous. While it is true that the
summer sun can be perilous, this caution is taken to a ridiculous extreme.
As for swimming, May/June/July
might as well be an extension of winter. Greeks, by and large, are the last
people to swim in the ocean. While swimming in June, my Greek friends ask,
“Isn’t it cold?” Sure, everything is relative—temperature included.
Getting off the beach and into
the cafeneion, for a coffee and a cigarette, remains a special imperative for
most—but not all—Greeks.
And despite it all, this small
nation has produced an outsized number of world-class athletes, especially in
the swimming and track and field events. Tiny Greece has won the European-wide
championship in basketball and in soccer (i.e., football).
Weather
It seems unbelievable, but in
recent weeks northern Europe and England has had a viscious heat wave. It has
been 40 degrees Centrigrade (about 104 degrees) in France this week, and many
have died.
I overheard someone say that it
would rain yesterday afternoon. In fact, there was a brief downpour—very
unusual, blamed on “climate change”—but today is it cloudless and in the
mid-90s by late morning.
At the local bakery, I asked the
woman behind the counter about the prospect of rain. Her answer falls squarely
into the ancient Greek sense of fate, μοίρα.
“They say it will rain in
Kalamata, but it won’t rain here. It never rains here in the summer. God has
forgotten about us.”
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Meltemi
The meltemi is a summer wind, known especially by ancient and modern
mariners alike, which blowσ
from northeast and across the wider Aegean, reaching 7 or 8 on Beaufort scale.
It is periodic and subject to change as the temperatures increase from mid-June
the mid-August. It is felt most strongly in the central Cycladic islands. It
can spell peril for even seasoned sailors.
The melteimi has arrived, blowing away yesterday’s humidity and
freshening the air. This morning’s air was especially delicious and light. But
the winds have definitely increased.
On the beach, the meltemi played havoc with my beach
umbrella, essential equipment on my last day encamped on the sand. A kindly
German neighbor—if not an engineer by trade, at least someone with real beach
experience—recognized my frustration and helped me rig guy ropes and bamboo
supports.
Leaving the beach at 2:30, I
tried to work in the briefest of siestas before heading in the heat of the
afternoon (5:30) for Kalamata.
The Kalamata 5K
Tonight’s race, which circled the
Old City of Kalamata, with its warren of twisting streets and the extreme heat
radiated by its asphalt, started at 7:30 p.m. After several hours on the beach,
I came home to take a short siesta and then—horrors!—I overslept, leaving
myself a mere 90 minutes to wake up, dress, and drive the one and quarter hours
to Kalamata.
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| Before the 5K start |
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| Age group winner--the old and infirmed category |
I drove like a crazed Greek,
passing numerous gypsy trucks laden with fresh fruit and vegetables, wary of a
flock of sheep or a stalled tractor at every corner. I parked somewhere in Kalamata (which was a
problem later in finding the car again) and sprinted through the Old City
looking for the starting line.
Sponsored by both the Kalamata
motorcycle police (who were everywhere on their jumbo BMWs) and my Greek
running club (Συλλογος Δρομεων και Υγειας Μεσσενιας—The
Union of Running and Health of Messenia—or ΣΔΥ for short), the event attracted more than 500 runners. The club
is actually quite large and it’s A team travels all over Europe for large
races, as well as within Greece. They have a neat website which lists all of
their upcoming events.
There has been something of
running boom (actually an exercise boom, more generally) in recent years. I saw
a group of at least 50 runners from ΣΔΥ at the Spetses Mini-Marathon last fall.
The gun went off and I did my best
to keep up with the lead pack, which seemed to be moving quite slowly. For a
brief moment, I thought maybe I should take the lead—wouldn’t that be a novelty
at age 60? The first hill, heading toward the medieval acropolis, and the ferocious
heat, quickly dispelled me of that notion. I dropped back to around fifteenth
place and held steady for the remainder of the race. I did notice a grey-haired
man a few strides ahead of me, caught up to him, said a wheezy hello, and asked
his age. He said he was 60—and added, “let’s run together.” (I agreed, in
principal, but passed him in the final 100 meters. Take no prisoners, my motto
like any competitive distance runner.) Sadly, gone are the days when I might
have tried to stay with the lead pack, even its periphery. Oh, the ravages of
time!
The event was mobbed with
participants, cops, and spectators. I took several photos, but not during the
race, fearful that I’d drop my camera case, which had my car keys and a little
cash.
Both before and after the race I
spoke with the club director, repaid my club dues, and was given a club race
singlet.
I managed to make it home in the
dying daylight—it was nearly 10 p.m. but still light on the horizon.
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Οπου ταξιδεύω, η Ελλάδα μου πληγώνει (opios taksithevo, e Ellada me pligoni)
“Wherever I travel, Greece wounds me.”
--George Seferis,
1962 Nobel Prize for Literature
My old friend Jane, who lives on
the island of Evia, reminded me in an email of one of my favorite quotes in
Greek literature, from the poem Mythistorima
by George Seferis.
The line speaks volumes about the
diaspora Greeks, the longing for their beloved homeland, and the hope that it
always be waiting for them.
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Καλο μηνα! Happy first of the month
An appropriate greeting and an
apropos way to say “goodbye” until 2020…or maybe again in 2019?
Off in the
buggy, heading north…
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| It's no joke...life is a beach! |
