Nia
and I set off from Athens in the little red buggy, which we’ve christened “Carmin,”
a bright red VW “Up.” This particular model, at a paltry 1200 cc, has the determination
of a fully charged golf cart. Clearly a right-lane-only rental vehicle. Like an
early space craft, every last ounce of luggage counts, especially when climbing
the mountains near Tripoli.
Driving through Athens traffic on just a few hours of sleep, I relied heavily on my 19-year-old navigator/copilot. Once we crossed the Corinth Canal and were heading south, my comfort level increased—the Germans built this highway for the 2004 Olympics, and it a feat of engineering prowess that rivals any major infrastructure project. The mile-long tunnels through 5000-foot mountain passes defy reason.
In short order the sights, smells, and sounds of rural Greece wafted through the windows—steep cliffs dotted with caves, the aromatic mountain oregano, the bells of goats and sheet on the hillsides. We passed the rich vineyards of Nemea, the high plains of Tripoli, and vast swaths of empty lands.
Sadly, the evidence of this summer’s horrific wildfires became evident after passing Megalopoli and descending toward Kalamata, with its millions of olive trees. In certain sections, the scorching was absolute: entire olive groves, pine forests, and scrub land reduced to cinders.
The fires in the southwestern Peloponnese came within 5 kilometers of our house, destroying sections of the nearby village of Vasilitsi—houses, orchards, livestock and farmland. All gone. A landscape of unimaginable devastation.
Thankfully
(and surely by design) the vast valley of olive groves leading down to the Messinian
Gulf were protected by the heroic efforts of the fire service, joined by a
dozen or more countries, which loaned the Hellenic Republic water-suppressing
aircraft and personal. Other parts of Greece, in particular Greece’s second
largest island, Evia, were a total loss. Evia’s millions of stremata (quarter
acres) of pristine Aleppo pine are gone forever. It is a cultural, natural, and
human loss of incalculable proportions. Dozens of villages depend on the forest
for the pine resin collection and processing, an activity that extends back
into Antiquity. What will these people do without their primary source of
livelihood? There will be many abandoned villages there in the coming years.
The
memories of that place, where I lived on and off in my early 20s, remain intact
but the heartbreaking reality of the present day is unavoidable.
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Opening
the door of a Greek house in the rural hinterland, one that has been closed up
for 23 months, presents a host of non-surprises: dead scorpions, spider webs,
and dust. Most of it cleaned by our good friends in advance of our arrival, but
enough to keep us on our toes. Are there any snakes in the house? Are there oxchia
lurking? They are the most poisonous snake in this particular paradise. I asked
Nia if she could drive to the Pylos Medical Center for antidote should I tread
on one of these creatures.
“Sorry,”
she replied, “I can’t drive a standard.” The solution: don’t step on a snake.
So
we looked under the beds, in the bathroom, in the cabinets, in dresser drawers—a
gingerly examined house.
Our
pasture yielded the best surprise of all: ripe pomegranates, dozens of oranges
and lemons, ripe figs, avocados. And just enough grass to encourage steel toe boots
over flip-flops.
After
unloading, we dashed down to the big beach, more than a half-mile ribbon of
white sand looking out toward Libya, hidden beyond the horizon. We giggled like
excited children swimming in lukewarm ocean water with a perfect clarity of thirty
or forty feet. You could literally see a one-euro coin from the surface.
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The
hospitality in rural Greece—reminiscent of the way life used to be in Greece
forty years ago—is astounding in its extent. No one knew we were coming. But
within a half hour of our arrival, villagers passing in cars or tractors screeched
to a halt outside our gate—resisting the standard kiss on both cheeks, greeting
us with fist bumps, offering us clusters of ripe grapes and the promise of
fruit, produce, olive oil, and local wine in the coming days. The kindness, the
joy in their faces, the many questions about our lives, our families. There is
a genuine kindness that is heartwarming and (sometimes) a bit overpowering. Our immediate neighbor,
Dimitri, said to Nia: “You should know that your father is my good friend.”
It was a sweet thing to say. And the feeling is reciprocated.
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But
unbridled hospitality can be hard to accept on just a few hours sleep. So we
snuck into the village the back way, after sunset, partly disguised with our
face masks. We were able to pick up some food and slink away undetected.
Avoiding the gauntlet of bars and cafeneions, where everyone must buy
you a drink. We are saving our official homecoming for a few more days.
Covid
is a big part of the conversation. We were sure to let everyone know that we
were fully vaccinated. People asked why so many Americans remain unvaccinated.
One friend asked, sarcastically: “Are there many Americans who also think the earth
is flat?” And, today at the cafeneion: “Do you think the fascists will take
over your country?” How do you answer a question like that? The best I could
conjur: “It could go either way.”
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We
drove to the old bastion of Methoni, a major launching point for the Crusades,
a place infused with Venetian, Turkish, and Greek influence—all at the same
time. Methoni’s castle, besieged for a decade by the Ottoman Turks in the
l500s, finally fell to the Turks, who promptly beheaded the 20,000+ defenders,
sold the women and children into slavery, and then Turkified the Venetian
architecture.
The
Ottomans met a similar fate at the hands of Greek warriors 200 years later.
What
goes around comes around.
Our
penultimate stop was our nearest beach, Loutsa. I vowed to keep my daughter off
the nude section (her request, not mine). So we found an empty section far at the other end, set up
camp, and were soon joined by the naturist contingent—all very friendly folks.
Then
lunch at the beachfront taverna: a traditional village salad, kalamari and
fries, and a plate of homemade tzatziki.
Then
siesta, glorious siesta. The secret to a heroic and long life.
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