The Way Life Should Be

 

View down to Finikounda from the vicinity of house

The big beach--looking toward Mavrovouni

Dunes where the loggerhead turtles lay their eggs

The swallows dart between the village houses at dusk, graceful acrobats whose presence is a sure sign of the advent of summer in Greece. The human acknowledgement of the new season occurs on June 11. The bonfires will be lit on the beaches for Pentacost—fifty days since Orthodox Easter—and the children will jump over the flames and into the ocean, a measure of good luck (provided there are no missteps!) while the parents drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and recall their own youth from the comfort of the waterfront cafeneions. The joy and revelry is palpable.

 

Orange tree planted in 2014--now full of fruit

The signs of summer are everywhere: the raw power of the rising Hellenic sun, the clatter of cicadas in the afternoon heat, an indescribably beautiful cobalt sea—Homer’s “wine-blue Aegean.” The western horizon is lit until 9:30 at night, a final chapter of “afternoon.” And, too, there are the lumbering RVs from northern Europe, the scantily clad (or entirely unclad) beach beauties, the evening mayhem of one small village among many.

 

Boatloads of lemons from our trees

Our mountain village remains a few steps removed from chaos: it is a place of farmers and pastoralists, traditional hospitality, and, as we say back in Maine, “the way life should be.”

 

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Day 1 was consumed by taking care of business: meeting with the banker, the accountant, the civil engineer who is “legalizing” all of the unpermitted projects that must be made right via stiff penalties. It is one of the costs of home ownership in Greece. (The penalty for building an unpermitted porch roof costs about the same as the roof itself.) Someday I will give this house to my children, free and clear of encumbrances. Legalization is a process they might find insurmountable without basic fluency and an understanding of how things work.

 

The fakelaki (“the little envelope”) remains the currency of progress in a country that grudgingly leaves its Ottoman past behind. But not entirely. The tax farmers no longer appear on horses, with swords and fezes; they drive Mercedes Benzes  and are the heirs of this 400-year-long history of occupation and emancipation.

On an empty beach--Anemomilos

 

As my grandmother would have asaid: Οπιος φιλαει τα ρουχα εχει τα μισά (he who watches over his clothes, ends up with half). Which is to say, we all get ripped off by the state…eventually.

 

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I remain a lifelong daily distance runner. After fifty years of daily running, with over 100,000 recorded miles, there is no amount of snow, rain, or rough terrain that will stop me. Scorching heat, on the other hand, sure slows me down. Yesterday I ran an eight-mile, five-village mountain loop and neglected to bring a bottle of water. It was, after all, 8 a.m. when I started. Who needs hydration for a one-hour morning run in southern Greece? Answer: everyone.

 

The last mile up the mountain, from sea level at Loutsa, to 700 feet elevation at the house, was rather death-defying. There are two directions on most Greek roads, up or down. Add in 96 degrees F. (39 C.) and it becomes the stuff that strokes are made of. It was a grave mistake in judgment that I vowed to never repeat. Until this morning, when I did it again.

 

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The natural world in Messenia—the prefecture that includes Kalamata as its capital in the north and extends to the final tip of this southwestern-most peninsula of the Peloponnese—is profoundly rich. Now, as the moon rises, the endangered loggerhead turtles approach the beach at night to lay their eggs. These creatures, the size of a small rental car, are graceful swimmers. A patient soul, sitting quietly amid the sand dunes, witnesses a wonderful act of nature. If the buried eggs survive the foxes, the jackals, and the dumb tourists who can’t read the signs, a multitude of baby turtles will hustle down to the surf during the next full moon. Perhaps we will all still be here to witness this monumental effort of destiny's progeny.

 

Preservation itself is an emerging ethic among the locals, who recognize the fragility and wonders of this place. Forty years ago, the thought of Greeks picking up garbage on the beach would have been laughable. Today it is more like the norm.

 

The big beach  in nearby Finikoundais part of the European Union’s “Natura 2000” initiative, which protects and preserves pristine places like Anemomilos beach and others like it.

 

We are fortunate to be appreciative observers in this ancient land.

A brief homily on nudity. And righteous indignation

 

My high-school creative writing teacher advised that a catchy heading is useful for  drawing in readers—in this case, all five of them.

Finikounda village beach

 

Foreigners, North Americans in particular, are squeamish on the subject of nudity. As a group, they might refer to a certain section of the white ribbon of sandy beach as the “nudist beach”—which would be entirely wrong in terms of labelling. Instead, it is simply a beach where some people prefer—discreetly—to not wear clothes. Please, dear reader, where is the problem? Where?

 

Some modern sensibilities are shocked, outraged—including, perhaps, members of my own family. Many are so embarrassed by the human form that they become vitriolic in their opposition to any manner “clothinglessnes” This is what my kids, in their childhood, referred to as our “birthday suits.”

Think Motown: "Uptight, everything is alright..."

 

There is no showboating on this beach. Clearly prudishness can coexist with nudity on opposite ends of the beach—a kind of cohabitation that is respectful of traditional values, cognizant of small children, and wary of those adults who would rather not ponder the thought of once having had their own birthday suit.

Could it be that North Americans can only sexualize nudity? That the human form is something repulsive or best avoided?

All of which brings me full circle to a linguistic faux pas from an earlier iteration, eight years ago, when I spent the summer here with my older daughter. Several village friends seated around a table asked—thankfully, she was off with friends--what said daughter would be studying in university: athletic training. There was no precise word in my limited lexicon, so I chose a rather poor cognate: “She will study to be a gymnistria,” I said confidently. The entire assemblage erupted in guffaws and snorts of laughter. Again, a mere vowel error doomed me to public ridicule.

 

“Yianni, she doesn’t need a university degree to be gymnistis [a nudist]. Just take her to Anemomilos [the middle beach]” This is how we learn the nuances of language and expression.

 

A few weeks ago some folks from an inland village had set up a semi-permanent encampment, without sanitary facilities, on the protected dunes, a violation of the Natura 2000 designation. The threatened loggerhead turtles are laying their eggs now, so any disruption is a serious offense.

 

The campers, outraged by the nudity on the beach, called the Pylos port police, who promptly fined them and tore down their encampment. A win for the middle beach.

 

In antiquity, the human form was celebrated—usually sans clothing--not chastised, ridiculed, or condemned. The athletes who competed in the Olympic Games, for over 600 years, competed without clothing: track and field, wrestling, and other events occurred without such encumbrances. It put all athletes on an equal footing: no New Balance shirts, Adidas shorts, and the like. Sandals. That’s all. If you don’t like it, try another sport.

My mother reminded me once a story concerning my Spetses grandmother, who visited the National Museum in Athens. When she viewed a part of her own cultural heritage--nude sculptures from the 5th century BCE, she was said to have commented to a guard: "Can't they put some clothes on those statues?"

 

It took the early Middle Ages and with the advent of institutional Christianity the church condemned the human form. With a tidal wave of righteous indignation, moralizing, and priestly dysfunction they attempted to extinguish 2000 years of Mediterranean sensibility--destorying and disfiguring great works of art.

 

And look where it has left us today.

 

Clothed or not, the dash from towel/sunshade to the water’s edge—all of six steps—is excruciating in the midday sun. The sand/stone absorbs the fierce sun and holds it until sunset, scorching bare feet. Among other parts.

Grinning ear to ear in paradise

 

 

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