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| Pondering the impossible: A last look out to sea |
After an impossibly late last night (I crawled in at 3:30 a.m.) I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 and went for a last run and swim at Anemomilos--the big beach. The ocean was so placid this morning.
Then I packed up my things, cleaned out our little house, and set off for "Gotham"--the great metropolis of Athens.
Until next year....Temenos 2024.
There is a lovely rite of summer that occurs in Finikounda. The garlands from May Day are gathered, placed in a pile on the beach, and lit into a large bonfire.
The children gather on the beach--while the parents watch from a safe distance, sitting on the verandas of the establishments that dot the waterfront, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes--and the elders watch as the child leap over the flames and dive into the ocean.
Doing so is said to bring good luck for the summer that has arrived.
An attitude of gratitude
As my time winds down here in
Messenia, the sadness surrounding departure is replaced by feelings of profound
gratitude—for this beautiful place, for our special friends, for a simple but
lovely and traditional home (forever in progress), and most of all for the kindness
of strangers.
Not a day (nor perhaps a waking
hour) passes when I fail to meet someone new—Greeks and Albanians, foreigners,
first-time visitors who are in thrall by this place.
Yesterday I had a reflexology appointment with a village friend, Katerina, who imparted incredible energy in a 90-minute session. While she couldn’t “fix” my dislocated pinky finger—now all the talk of the cafeneion, with bagged ice melting down my sleeve—the therapy session did wonders for my back, neck, and general disposition.
In the evening, I sat with a
large group of mostly Australian Greeks—laughing and exchanging stories until 2
a.m. The feeling of paraea (company) can be all-consuming on a veltvety
summer evening by the oceanside. I met several more people (German, Austrian, English, Greek) who live within shouting distance of our little house, nestled in an olive
grove, or atop a promontory with a long view of the Mediterranean. I have a
dozen invitations that I cannot possibly act on. Not this year, at least.
I was up and running by 8 a.m.,
before the heat really intensified. Parking at Anemomilos beach (to avoid climbing
back up the mountain) I ran deep into the Mangiotiko Valley, which has the EU’s
“Natura 2000” designation. Passing the last of the cultivated olive groves and then heading into the wilderness of this pristine place, I encountered an array of wildlife
in just 12 kilometers of running: a family of wild boar (including one angry 200-pound-plus
papa with fearsome tusks), two jackals, a pine marten, a Peloponnesian golden
eagle, and my greatest nemesis: a huge tree snake. They are said to be “harmless.”
Tell that to the Marines.
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Gimme shelter
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| Small is beautiful |
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| New window grates to keep the riff-raff in |
I find that I don’t need much
here: a roof over my head, a loaf of fresh bread, with a basket of tomatoes,
cucumbers, and peppers; a kilo of local village wine; a towel but not necessarily
a bathing suit. Life is good, indeed.
Life is good in Maine, too. I can’t
help but say that, fortunate soul that I am. And my family there, whom I miss
very much.
The scourge of the West
As I lay on Katerina’s massage
table, our conversation turned to what’s “wrong” with Greece. The thing that’s
wrong is the scourge of the West, the evil triumvirate that has crept into and
sullied traditional Greece and is slowing consuming it.
Fear. Anger. Loneliness.
I suppose it’s easy to get philosophical while you are horizontal on a padded massage table.
Central casting
Olive trees, the great central characters of this region, are individual personalities. Many of them are hundreds of years old--graceful like dancers frozen in time.
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| Olives trees that are older than all of us combined |
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| Road become path becomes thicket |
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| Summer hath arrived! |
Making friends of strangers
Yesterday I met an old man named Niko at the Lahanada cafeneion. He moved back to the village after 50 years of living in Montreal. “This is paradise,” he proclaimed with arms outspread as far as they would reach, looking down the hillside of olive groves leading to the sea, where the cherry-red sun was setting. It was an embrace of his world—and he meant it.
He bought me a coffee and we chatted
for at least an hour. “We need people like you, moving back to Greece—not off
to Germany or Holland. Bravo, son.”
In the early morning I heard the familiar
clicking of a hoe in the olive grove behind our house. A tall thin man was working
the trees, cutting away invasive olive shoots and pruning the lower branches with
a hand saw.
When I came back from the beach
at 3 o’clock, the sun blazing overhead, he was still working away, but now he
was at the edge of our fence. I was certain he was Albanian—these are the folks
who now do most of the heavy lifting in Greece.
“Hello, sir. Are you thirsty, may
I offer you a drink?” He nodded wordlessly. “Would you have a cold beer?” His
face lit up and he offered a toothless smile.”
I handed him the beer over the
fence and he squatted, Turkish style, in the shade of an ancient olive tree.
His Greek was very heavily accented but we were able to communicate. He had lived
in Greece since 1993.
“You work very hard,” I said.
“If you want to eat, you have to
work.”
He told me about his life in
Albania. He was one of a dozen children, raised in abject poverty.
“My mother and father were
agricultural laborers. They worked from before the sun rose and until it set. For
one day’s work, we would eat a piece of bread. Wild greens. Rarely any olive
oil. Never any money. It was all communist mafia then, if you complained you
got shot. So we worked and the government took half of what we grew. They were
swine.”
He told me his name, but it was
one of those impossibly difficult Albanian names, with lots of consonants but
no apparent vowels. I endeavor to remember names—they are entered dutifully into my
little notebook—so I felt no small regret in not hearing or understanding his
name. So I called him “friend” in Greek.
This morning when I woke I heard the
hoe behind the house, circled behind and said, “Good morning, friend.”
“Well, hello Yianni.” He had
remembered my name, but I could not pronounce his.
“How many sakoulas (bags)
of olives does a tree like this yield.”
He held up his hand with four
fingers.
“How old are these trees, do you think?”
“All of these seventy trees are
at least 300 years old, maybe even older.”
He told me that he was 54 years
old (a decade younger than me) but he looked around 80. A life of labor under
the Mediterranean sun ages the body. But his spirit seemed alive and vital.
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Four legged thieves
“Chris, you won’t believe what happened
last night!” I said excitedly to my English friend. “Someone must have climbed my
fence last night and stole my shampoo and conditioner off the table behind the
house.”
Chris laughed, doubting my narrative.
There is an abundance of wildlife
here—the big creatures, like wild boar and jackals, but also a host of small
mammals: rats, mice, and pine martens (κουνάβη/kounavi).
“I am 99 percent certain that your
shampoo was nicked by a four-legged creature. Last year we watched two rats working
together to steal a bar of soap. One rat grabbed the soap and then flipped itself
onto its back, clutching the bar of soap, while another rat grabbed his mate by
the tail and dragged him off.”
I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved
that it wasn’t the Gypsies who stole my shampoo.
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| A pool 300 meters from beach? How stupid |
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| Too much money for words |
Ancestoritis
Greece has long suffered from a
phenomenon known in Greek as προγονοπλεξία/progonoplexia
or what might best be translated as “ancestoritis.” That is to say, when
you live in a nation credited as being the foundation of Western Civilization
(literature, politics, philosophy, science, mathematics—culture in general) you
have a heavy burden to carry as a modern citizen of an ancient land. Especially
when northern Europeans call you “poor” and “backwards.” I added this one to my
little notebook.
For 400 years, long after the
demise of the Classical World—i.e., during the “modern” period—Greeks lived in a vast
multi-ethnic empire: the Ottoman Empire, which had crushed and extinguished 5,000 years of Greek
civilization definitively in 1453.
The resulting second-class
citizens (Greeks, Jews, Armenians, Syrians, Egyptians) suffered immeasurably,
with daily indignities and violence. This long period of domination, which
ended after the Greek Revolutionary period, in 1832, left an indelible mark on
the nation and its people.
Greece is uniquely situated, geographically
speaking, as the crossroads of Europe, Asia, and Africa.
Today a φοβο συνδρομο/fovo syndromo (fear syndrome) persists as it
applies to the Turks, Greece’s powerfully aggressive neighbor to the East.
In 1912, my Cretan grandfather returned
to Greece with about 100 fellow Cretans then living in New York City. They
fought and expelled the Turks from Ioannina, a storied place in northern Epirus, fighting
mostly with curved swords (scimitars) against a well-armed foe. My grandfather’s twin brother,
Constantine (Kosta), was decapitated before his eyes.
This is a legacy that is not
easily forgotten.
Before the fall
Yesterday afternoon I ran through the olive grove behind the house, onto a rough gravel road, then onto a very narrow path that criss-crossed down to my favorite beach--accessible by boat (only) or by cliff (my choice).
With the beach to myself I enjoyed a long swim in my birthday suit, then got dressed and ran along the far less perilous shore trail back to Loutsa beach--before the big climb (600 feet of elevation in less than a mile) back to the house.
On the "easy" return I stumbled and fell hard on the rocks and dislocated my pinky finger--it was 90 degrees at the wrong angle, something I had never seen before. I suddenly and instinctively grabbed my finger and yanked back into the socket, which was mightily painful for a moment but necessary.
Subsequently, after returning home, showering, then driving to the village cafeneion, I administred village first aid: ice and ouzo. Then more ice and ouzo. Then I drove to see my nurse/friend Dora at the Finikounda sweet shop by the sea. She recommended taping the fingers together for the night. And more ice and beer.
The pain disappeared until this morning. Now I can't close my right hand. But, I can still hold a guitar pick!
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| Koudouni beach--all mine for a swim |
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The Power of Place
Lately I have been reflecting more on the power of place. It has been something of a theme for most of my adult life. Now I realize that where I am to a large degree defines who I am.
Two decisions in my lifetime centered around place: leaving New York City at age twenty-eight to remake my life in coastal, rural eastern Maine. There I had the good fortune of meeting my wife and then raising a family. In Downeast Maine I cultivated a garden and friendships, and became part of a community.
Then at age forty-nine, our family picked up and moved to Finikounda, in the southwest Peloponnese, for a one-year sabbatical. Not really knowing what to expect.
The similarities of both places—Downeast
Maine and Messenia, Greece—are uncanny and yet often so different.
Maine and Messenia are largely rural, traditional, and sparsely populated places. Both sit astride an open ocean and are backed by thick forests, agricultural land, mountain landscapes, and wide open spaces. Both places have unique characters—and characters aplenty.
The word “pristine” might apply equally to rural Maine and to rural
Messenia. Visitors “from away” constantly remind us of how privileged we are to
exist and make our lives amid such beauty. The natural world is abundant, with
a dizzying array of flora and fauna.
And of course there are
differences galore, but many of the same problems and threats to the status quo—some
enormous, others subtle.
Over-development, exploitation, and a fast-changing character typify rural Maine and rural Greece.
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| Please go away |
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| Primed to be wrecked by wealthy people |
Both places
have been “discovered,” first by the intrepid, and more recently by big money,
bad attitudes, and those who carry reckless behavior like excess luggage
What lies ahead
In a little more than a week, I will return to that dysfunctional plutocracy called the United States. By all accounts, the nation is still run by the greatest body of self-serving half-wits--i.e., Congress--ever known.
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| Vote early and often--then off with their heads |
I try not to dwell on this part
of what lies ahead. In the days that remain, I complete various tasks on the
house; visit with friends; spend time swimming, running, and strolling the
village at night. I continue to meet new people—locals and foreigners alike.
The act of discovery and rediscovery still manages to populate my imagination.
The tragedies of migration
Two nights ago I sat with a friend who is a head nurse at a local medical center. She told a group of us that she had received a call at home by "the authorities" at 3 a.m. asking how many body bags were available. The caller indicated that more 500 might be needed.
It is the same story repeated, but on an unfathomable scale. A rickety fishing boat, only twenty meters in length, had departed with over 700 migrants from the coast of Libya, bound for Italy, had gone adrift at sea, about 40 miles from Methoni. Aircraft had detected a hundred men on the deck, but there were several hundred more--mostly women and children--below deck. The boat capsized and sank and the fear is that more 500 migrants have perished. Only a few dozen peole were rescued alive.
Since this tragedy was so nearby--40 nautical miles from Methoni--people are beside themselves with grief. My friend D. offered more information a day later and broke out into tears. "How could this happen," she asked. "We have a Coast Guard, there are frigates in the Ionian Sea, airplanes had been monitoring this ship for days."
We sat together for a few minutes and talked our lives as first responders, the death and carnage we have witnessed up close--blood, guts, suffering, the whole deal. It was a moment of commiseration for the two of us. In the course of our conversation, while describing being level-headed in truly awful situations, I learned a new Greek word: ψυχραιμία (psihermia), which means "composure." Firefighters, ambulance attendants, and frontline nurses cannot survive for very long without it.
These were Syrians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Africans. They had paid about $15,000 each to board this death trap. They were not the poor, but the highly educated--doctors, teachers, and tradesmen--who had the resources to pay for this perilous journey. They are fleeing civil war, corrupt government, and, most of all, climate change that has made the Sahel unlivable for humans or animals.
It is a tragedy on an epic scale. Greece has declared a three-day period of national mourning. It made me think of the United States. When have we ever "grieved" the loss of migrants crossing our southern border?
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| Anemomilos beach, Finikounda |
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| Not too crowded (!) |
Trip to Koroni
After my morning run and a swim on the big beach (Anemomilos), I continued applying urethane/stain to the wooden parts of the veranda, then I set off in the rental buggy for Koroni, another large town with a well-presevered medieval castle.
On this peninsula, which comprises most of the prefecture of Messenia (or Messinia), there are four large Crusader (Venetian) castles. I call them “Crusader castles,” but they are very old citadels located on high ground, built and rebuilt since antiquity, from around 2500 bce (Mycenean or Bronze Age) until the early Middle Ages (Venetians then Ottomans…then Venetians again, then Ottomans…again, then Greeks in 1832). They all bear the signs and accoutrements of multiple civilizations, layered one upon the other. The castles are in Methoni, Pylos (where there are two), and Koroni. There is also a castle in the center of Kalamata, the queen city of this prefecture.
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| Morning run on the dunes--avoiding turtle nests |
Barber of Koroni
Since the onset of Covid (early 2019) I have had my hair cut all of three times. Dimitri the barber of Koroni has been my man. We talk about life while he cuts about one half inch every twelve months. It is worth the 10 euros just for the conversation.
After my hair cut I strolled up to the Koroni castle, whose crowning glory—aside from the highly engineered Venetian ramparts—is the Monastery of St. John, which is populated by a “heretic” sect of the Greek Orthodox Church.
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What is the totality of their “heresy”?
They are palaiometroloyites, meaning they follow the old Roman-Byzantine
calendar (the Julian calendar). And for these monastics they have contended with the h word for a millennia, scorned by
the mainstream church, and historically abused, violated, and attacked. In raiding parties, priests and monks would be dragged about, the beards and hair cut off--the ultimate indignity for a monastic.
You would never know this dreadful history by the
current state of affairs. Populated by a half-dozen nuns, all in their 70s or
older, this is one of my favorite excursions in our area. The abbess remembers
me by name, asks about my wife and children, and treats me to a cold glass of
water and some loukoumia (aka Turkish delight—a contradiction in terms,
unless you seek a beheading, at least historically speaking).
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| Nuns' quarters |
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| The iconostasis of the chapel |
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| Christ Pantocrator |
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| Koroni harbor |
After entering the church, located within the
walled compound, I lit a candle for my family, and said hello to the monastery’s
founder—or at least to his skull, which sits in a bejewelled wooden box by the
narthex. The faithfully prostate themselves and kiss his boney skull for good
luck. I just said “yiasou, adelfo’’—hello, brother—and called it good.
There are some incredible views from atop a crumbling staircase in the middle of the compound. It is nearly 120 feet high, with no railings at the top, nowhere particulary "soft" to land.
In 2009, a visiting Kalamata monk told us that they would push the “uncooperative” monks off the edifice in the good old days. He smiled, chuckled, but might have been telling the truth.
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Belonging
I first came to this region in
2007, scoping out a place to bring my family for a yearlong sabbatical. We all
came in February 2009, utter novelties to the villagers. Who comes to Greece with kids
in the middle of the winter?
We bought the old wreck in the olive
grove in 2013 and began, haltingly, the renovations whose course was dictated by the two horsemen: time and money. Today we have a little sanctuary
that we call “Temonos,” like this blog. Temenos, an ancient Greek word, means “temple”
or “shrine,” but for our purposes if takes on another meaning: “sanctuary.” And that
English word best describes it.
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| Last year's stone work |
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| Sage, lavender, and flowering oregano |
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| Very productive Navarro orange tree |
Over ten years I have ingratiated
myself with the people of this little mountain village, with its broad view looking
southwest across the Mediterranean. It is the most southwestern point in all of
Greece, a place of unparalleled beauty, and with a population that has retained
its sense of tradition and hospitality in most every way imaginable.
I have more friends here after
ten years than all my friends of a lifetime combined, mostly Greek but also quite
a few foreigners.
My poet-friend Niko refers to
Finikounda (which is not our village, but part of our orbit) as the United
Nations of Finikounda. Just about every European nation is represented here,
from England in the west to Russia in the east; the Scandinavian countries to
the north; and all the other Mediterranean countries. Everyone seems to agree
to get along, which makes for a rich hybrid culture that is otherwise firmly
based on the elements of life in rural Greece.
Surprises
A day doesn’t go by with some
kind of surprise or curious encounter. Yesterday I was driving down to the house
from a midmorning visit to the cafeneion. I noticed in the distance an
old women dressed in black, carrying a woven basket full of recently cut greens
and vineyard prunings. She was a particular vision of rural Greece: A little
old lady dressed in black, perhaps mourning a lost husband or family member.
As I slowly approached her, I
noticed that she was wearing a black tee-shirt with large embossed letters.
The words on here shirt were as
clear as day: “Fuck New York City.” It was one of those moments when I thought about stopping and taking a picture, but I just couldn’t stop laughing.
Was it a statement of principle,
or a gift from some errant grandchild who regrets an earlier emigration? She obviously had no idea what it said, but had been wearing it for years.
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The Cement Mixer
That monstrosities of modern
civilization, the cement mixers start running at first dawn, a distant hum that
echoes through the valleys. It is a reminder of the extent to which this area
is being developed. New homes—mostly oversized villas being built by foreigners, but also
some swanking, stylishly small stone hotels—are popping up everywhere.
Fortunately our area is zoned for
agricultural purposes, so we feel protected from this ongoing trend.
