More to say

 

Hiding in the vineyard

 

Naturally there is more to say after fifty days spent in Greece—but the combination of late nights, early morning runs, and extreme heat have tempered my muse, and quieted my ramblings.

This morning I had coffee with my old friends Dimitri and Yioryia, whose daughter Vaso was my daughters’ first (and only) Greek teacher. Calling people the “salt of the earth” is another careless use of one of those flabby American idioms. But it applies to them especially, for they are kind, generous, stewards of the earth, and friends to all. Dimitri and I share a love of language, poetry, history, and lore. We first met in 2009 and have remained stalwart friends ever since.

Dimitri and I spoke about the magic of the evening sounds in rural Messinia: the cries of the jackals, the yaps of the fox, the mournful song of the evening owls.

One owl in particular captures my imagination. It’s song is not very owl-like, more of a long, high-pitched peep. I inquired with Dimitri about this bird.

“Yianni, it is the sound of the γώνη [yioni], our smallest owl.”

He then looked out over his pasture, with a broad view of the cobalt Mediterranean, still and peaceful in the early morning, and turned back to me.

“There were two twin brothers who were so deeply committed to one another. The first brother lost his horses and went out in search of them. Days passed and the brother never returned.”

“His twin, who was deeply saddened at his loss,  became transformed into the yioni, and at night he hides in the cover of the olive trees and calls mournfully for his lost sibling. He cries 'peeeep, peeep' but the brother never returns. And yet he keeps calling for him each night.”

Dimitri turned and our brown eyes met. And he added: “This is the story my grandmother told me long ago. It is one I will never forget.”

Nor will I.

 

The fruits of my labors--a concrete pad

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 Those of us privileged kin who claim the middle beach, festooned in our Maker's birthday suits, stroll a few hundred meters in each direction in search of signs of the protected loggerhead turtles, the caretta caretta, who lay their eggs at a point where the surf ends and the dunes begin, a place with an unusual range of flora and fauna: mounds of wild, purple oregano; flowering thistle; small snakes, beetles, and a multitude of wild bees. 

A home away from home

In a few days I will close the door of this little house and head north to Athens. I am holding out hope for signs of a turtle nest, easily found by following the flipper marks that run perpendicular from the surf to the dunes. The loggerhead lay upwards of one hundred eggs at a depth of 36 inches. A few survive the mad dash to the ocean's edge, escaping the foxes and the sea birds.

We circle the nest with bamboo to keep others from treading on them.