I sit alone in an old stone house on the edge of an olive grove. The deafening calls of the cicadas build to a crescendo with the rising heat, punctuated by a yap or two from a jackal deep in the thicket. The fragrances of lemons, oranges, carob, and wild oregano wafting through one screened window and out the other. It is indescribably delicious.
This is a splendid little
paradise, a serene corner of nature far from the maddening crowds, the tourist
riff-raff, the overly amplified bouzouki, the kitschy shops, the strident
conversations of the cafeneions. This is the essence of peace and tranquility.
It is broken by the cruelest of speakers,
lashed atop a gypsy truck: “We have garlic, the best watermelons in the village,
plastic chairs for your house, live birds.” Two swarthy men stop outside our
gate. Our eyes meet, we smile at one another, and in short order a long string of
woven garlic is hanging from my porch. They ask for four euro, I give them
five. And a liter of cold water.
Then the quiet returns momentarily, overtaken by the sounds of this endless olive grove that falls down to the sea.
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In the interest of economy, I
make the most of the trees laden with lemons, oranges, mandarins, figs, and
pear. The pomegranate and the avocado want a few more weeks, the almonds even a
bit longer. But the blessings of this place, the profundity of the natural
world, it all comforts and offers a kind of perspective on a life well lived.
I tell the old men that I
desperately need a nap (siesta), an escape from the powerful midday sun. In
true comic-tragic form an elder offers a message: “Son, some day you will sleep
forever. Today you must live.” I nod in agreement and return home for siesta.
And a bit of random composition.
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I arrived in Athens 48 hours ago, wedged between a very fat man and very talkative women. Quintessentially American. I am somewhat less verbal than when I last visited, in October.
But in short order, I forge
ahead, making the usual gratuitous mistakes of grammar and syntax in a second language,
a folly which endears me to my elders, my farmer-neighbors, and the children
exiting the one-room schoolhouse. Never fear a verbal blunder—the advice of my
first Greek teacher—and so I throw myself into this ancient-modern language, as
usual, reckless in my will to articulate any idea. Even ones I could not
possibly render in English, my first language, which I’m still learning.
“You speak such good Greek for
a foreigner,” they say, deflating my efforts momentarily. I tell them that
I am so happy I could “fart,” which is one mere vowel away from “cry,” but my
confidence elicits such pleasure in the small collection of old men. Then I
forge ahead, with one of the many parables or expressions that my dear grandmother
bestowed on me. (“He who watches over his clothing ends up with half,” that is,
everyone gets ripped off in the end. Or, “A house without a Yianni [my Greek
name] has no success.” And on and on.) They laugh at hearing expressions from
their own grandmother’s era.
They tell me, “you are such a
good boy,” which, at age 63, defies the basic principles of relativity.
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In Athens, I had the great pleasure
of visiting with wonderful old friends, folks I met as a bright-eyed, twenty-year-old
archaeology student in Athens in 1980. We have strengthened our bonds over the
past 42 years. Each visit reminds me of the power of friendship (φιλια), like hospitality (φιλοξενία), an ancient tradition from a
storied land.
Yesterday I drove through the
Peloponnese, from northwest to southwest, a long diagonal, leaving Athens in
the morning, and arriving in the southwestern tip of this great peninsula. It
is a peninsula that became an island with advent of the Corinth canal.
There is a surreal quality in putting
a key in the door of an old house after a seven-month absence, expecting snakes
and scorpions to pour out onto the porch. But the joy of arrival far outweighs
the fears of the creepy-crawly world.
I am reminded immediately of the
German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer: “Every parting gives a foretaste of death,
every reunion a hint a resurrection.”
It is clearly time for siesta.
And then a kind of resurrection in the village down the mountain.
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