The summer solstice, the midpoint
of the year, has crept up on us stealhily, as it always does. They say that the
older you get, the faster time seems to pass—and that’s been my experience.
But for all practical purposes,
summer arrived in the southern Peloponnese six weeks ago. It hasn’t rained
appreciably since the end of March. And the bloom of spring has given way to
the parchment of summer, with a chorus of cicadas that begins with first light
and tapers off after midnight only to begin anew at dawn.
Exactly two weeks from now, I
will do a slap-dash clean up of our little house, put away the bedding, take a
last look around, then lock the door and head north to Athens.
I greatly miss my family and
parts—but not all—of my life back in Downeast Maine. Still, in short order I
will begin to dream about this place once again and lay my plans for a return
next year. Each year my stay is a bit longer. And that’s a trend I hope to
continue—if health, finances, and life circumstances allow—because I feel an
intimate connection to this place: the region, its people, the house, the sea.
This Old House
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Our oleanders in different colors
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| A lot of concrete for one day |
Each year I try to complete another
few projects that will transform this refuge into something more comfortable,
beautiful, and enduring. For us and for the next generation of family.
I have accomplished one heroic, bureaucratic
task—filing an official will with the court, so that our kids won’t face the
misery of acquiring a Greek property when I’m gone—as well as a few house- and
garden-specific projects.
The big project was fixing the
driveway entrance, which winter erosion has made untenable. A drop of five
inches from the asphalt road to the gravel driveway has wrought havoc to the front
end of my Citroen C3. This was remedied in the past week with a cement mixer,
54 bags (40 kilo each) of cement, 14 cubic meters of sand/gravel, and
hardworking Albanian father-and-son masons. Our house
checker-plumber-naturalist Dimitri helped in the mixing process; my
contribution was more limited; a bit of mixing but mostly the critical role of fetching
coffee and beer for my tireless workers.
Now the approach to the house,
off the main road, is safer and more uniform.
Next Year?
After twelve years of being
“powerless,” next year’s big undertaking will involve either installing a solar
array—which seems so intuitive but has its drawbacks, too—or applying for grid
power from the power company.
The first option may cost less at
the outset but more in the long run: there is the possibility of theft during
our absence, plus the cost of replacing batteries, and the limitations of even
a medium-size array: insufficient power for a heat pump (kalorifer,
which doubles as air conditioning). Of course, this could be supplemented with
a new two-stroke generator.
Power from the grid is also rife
with issues, not least of which is a monthly bill when we might only be living
here for two to six months per year. But the convenience, including the ability
to make the house a turnkey residence (for friends and family), might obviate
the up-front costs, which include installation of a least three or four poles
from the nearest house.
This is all something to ponder
on a cold Maine winter night.
Speaking Greek, Part II
Nearly everyone in Greece speaks
at least rudimentary English—with German, French, and Italian in distant second
place. Many speak English with greater fluency than most Americans, which is a
pretty low bar.
So when American friends ask the
question, “Will I be able to get around without knowing any Greek?”, the answer
is largely Yes. Even most signage is now bilingual: street signs, menus, maps,
and the like.
But if you own a house in Greek,
or for whatever reason plan to interact with the long arm of the state
(bureaucracy, police, construction workers, civil engineers, for example) then
a facility with spoken Greek is nothing short of imperative.
I could not imagine going to the
hardware store, the building supply yard, or the notary public without a basic
command of vocabulary, necessary phrases, and Greek’s unique idioms.
Also: cursing. If you can’t curse
in Greek, you have no right to be driving a rental car in this country.
One of my longtime habits, before
heading out on a likely Greek-speaking junket, is to arm myself with relevant
vocabulary. So, before going to the hardware store I’ll open my Greek-English
dictionary and assemble a plan of attack in the form of essential vocabulary.
The hardware store? “screw
driver,” “wrench,” “paint thinner,” “self-tapping screws.” The notary?
“penalty,” “delay,” “fine,” “duplicate copy.” The butcher? “chops,”
“minced/ground,” “frozen,” “gutted,” “lean.”
You get the idea.
All of these “new” words get
added into my little notebook, and then are later transferred to my laptop file
called “Greek vocabulary.” I am a visual learner, so this works for me. Say it,
write it, then us it in conversation. A sure bet for practical memorization.
The Sea
The ocean temperature, just a few
weeks ago, was “refreshingly cool”—our nearest shoreline is 22 kilometers away
from the deepest spot in the Mediterranean, which upwells cool seawater from an
astonishing depth of over three miles. Although the seawater temperature
increases each day, most Greeks pride themselves on not swimming until
late July or early August—which make the rest of us, who are less endowed with
warm weather, laugh just a little.
The Germans and Dutch are
accustomed to the North Sea and the Baltic Sea; and Downeast Mainers, living on
the Bay of Fundy, know warm water when the feel it!
Running adventures
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| Venetian castle of Methoni |
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| Ionian Sea: Steer right for Italy |
Thie morning I drove to nearby Methoni--about 10 km west of our home--to run around one of this regions three Venetian castles. They date from the early Middle Ages and were a stopping-off place for the "liberators" [sic] of Jerusalem.
My daughter Evyenia and I are officially "registered" (as Greek dual citizens) in Methoni. I explained that this obligates us to defend the castle against invaders (the Persian hordes, European tourists, whomever...), high upon the rampart walls.
Keeping in mind one salient detail: the last time the castle fell to the besiegers, the male defenders were all decapitate and the women/children sold into slavery.
These days, it is a small price to pay for an EU passport.
Downeast Meets Near East
As different as this place is
from our home in eastern Maine, there are also a lot of similarities—some good,
others less so.
Both here and back home—though now
the word “home” is open to definition--one’s personal safety from crime is
nearly guaranteed. (Although the big exception, in both places, is driving or
walking/running near the roadside). There are almost no crimes “against the
person”—this is, assaults and other forms of physical violence—and gun violence
(at least by comparison to the America’s murderous rampage) is minimal.
The air and sea are clean.
Industry of any sort is more than 100 kilometers away. And the flora and fauna—here
and in Maine—is exceptional for its variety and extent.
Every night we are surrounded by
the cries of jackals—not much different than the coyotes of rural Maine.
People often help one another,
expecting nothing in return. I like that about both places.
Resurrecting a 20-something
metier
In essence, I was born to be a
beach bum—but life has gotten in the way. Making a living, raising a family,
and that incessant “doing” of American life has colored a primary aspiration:
hanging out on the beach, reading, swimming, napping. Repeat.
Everyone’s a farmer
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| Organic remedy for ants--lime slurry (asvesti) |
In this part of Greece, southern
Messenia, everyone is a farmer. (Even those who might own a restaurant, a
tourist bling shop, a bike rental business). People here are seemingly born
with green thumbs and a decerning understanding of the natural world that
surrounds them. Some of this knowledge ancient, or based on myth and
superstition, which make it all the more real.
Here are a few photos from garden
and nearby groves.
Rock on the Pier
This year I’ve been asked to join
a few other aged rockers on the pier, for the annual village fundraiser. Our
mixed-act concert benefits the small village medical center.
Since I can’t play flute and
guitar at the same time—as part of the circus variety show—I have chosen the former
for my 15 minutes of fame.
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| Aging, feral rocker |
Here is a recent rehearsal for the big gig, with my
Australian friend.
