Temenos: Our Little Town

The grape vineyard across the road

Our Little Town

After ten days back in southern Messenia certain realities are unavoidable. One is the tenuous infrastructure. In fairness to the region, the shortcomings are not much worse than those of Washington County, Maine.

Infrastructure meltdown in a Peloponnesian village can be a daily experience. For example, the demos (municipality) cut the water supply several days ago, without much warning. A quick trip to the Akritohori cafeneion confirmed my suspicions—the village was replacing pipes, which took about twenty-four hours. Fortunately, I keep multiple two-liter plastic bottles lined up on the stone wall, which warms the contents to a decent shower temperature on a good day. Also, I purchased eight-packs of bottled mineral water, even though I know that the tap water is safe to drink.

Twenty-four hours later, the water was restored. There wasn’t too much suffering in the interim. For those with electricity (not us!), temporary power outages occur almost weekly—sometimes for just a few minutes, other times for extended periods. Since we don’t know what we’re missing, we survive without too much suffering, aided by photovoltaic lights, inside and out, that provide a degree of independence.

Anemomilos: The big beach

Anemomilos from the church

The Big Beach

All of Greece has endured an unusually cool and wet spring. But here, in southernmost mainland Greece, where the sun shines 320 days a year, “cool” is relative.

I took my first swim in the cold ocean water on the first day I arrived, running through the olives groves and down to my “castaway” beach—only accessible by foot or boat. It involves a scramble through overgrown thicket, likely teeming with snakes in late May. I stomped my feet heavily and hoped for the best.

On the other days, when the sun was shining, I spent a few hours on the big beach, which is called Anemomilos in the middle and Mavrovouni on the far end. The Greeks mostly gather at Mavrovouni, near the concession stand—where coffee and cigarettes rule the day. The middle beach includes the same cast of minimally clad foreigners as well as a few Greeks.

A few days ago a large yacht, sixty meters in length, was anchored offshore. The app Yacht Finder identified it as the Adorno, flagged in Malta. It was bound for the Cannes Film Festival. The “tender,” at a mere twenty meters, is called the Adornaki (the “little” Adorno).

In a few weeks, some of the largest yachts in the world will follow suit. Last summer Jeff Bezos’s super yacht, with Beyoncé aboard, was anchored offshore, with security by several patrol boats for one of the richest men in the world.

Refining My Greek

Wherever I go, I carry my little black notebook, writing down new words that I’ve learned or the names of people I’ve meet. These get transferred later to my master files on the laptop, called New Words and New Contacts.

For me, writing has always been how I learn. Some people are visual learners, and I probably fall into that camp. For example, I paid the fee (παράβολο / paravolo) for my new identity card. So I wrote the new word in my little book then endeavored to use it several times in polite conversation. More often than not, it sticks in my head and is there for future reference.

Living with the Limitations

After nearly fourteen years, we still don’t have electricity (by design, for now) or hot water (lamentably), but neither of these deficiencies are show-stoppers. We have sufficient light in and around the house (photovoltaic) and those water bottles on the wall do heat up. Five or six are ample for a warmish shower on the back porch. But this method clearly mystifies the locals, who ask each year: “Still no electricity? Still no hot water?”

Well tended olive groves

=organic production: no spray!

The Old Folks

I take special pleasure in visiting our local cafeneion, where the old men and young farmers gather in the early evening for coffee and gossip. Yes, there are some women too.

A few years ago, while running through the endless olive groves that spill down to the sea, I met old Niko pruning a few of his three thousand olive trees: an eighty-two-year-old man, halfway up the tree, clinging to a sturdy branch with his left hand, a pruning saw in this right hand. We’ve become fast friends since. He is a beautiful person, with glowing blue eyes, a shock of gray hair, and an enthusiastic chuckle.

Last year he told me: “I was sick and the doctor said I needed major surgery.” He pointed to his lower abdomen. “I became despondent and stayed in bed for weeks. Then one day I visited my olive groves. The trees said to me, ‘Niko, why have forgotten us? We need you to prune our heavy branches so that we can produce in the fall.’

“And so I returned every day in May and early June. The trees healed me with their admonitions.”

Pork and chicken souvlakis

A few days ago, I met another octogenarian, a woman from nearby Methoni. We sat beside one another at my friend Niko the poet’s house. We chatted casually, then she looked at me and declared: “Ο κράτος ειναι μπορδελλο / O kratos einai bordello, which translates as: “The government is a whore house.” (I wondered to myself, is she talking my government?) “You know, Yianni, I’m a communist.”

I was temped to reply: “I’m a lapsed Democrat,” but kept it to myself.

In the endless olive grove, where I often run, every stick looks like a snake, and every snake looks like a stick. My hyper vigilance is limitless.

The Bachelor Farmers

Most of the younger farmers (in their forties and older) are unmarried. They work their orchards from sunrise until the heat of day informs them that the time has come for dinner (meaning, lunch) followed by a good siesta. My friend Niko, the poet, asserts that the siesta is more than a mere institution of daily life.

“The siesta,” he says, “is Mediterranean yoga.”

Two oranges every morning

I am negotiating with Vasillis, my immediate farmer-neighbor—he has over two thousand mature olive trees on the other side of our stone wall—to allow me to place a drain in the driveway that will empty into his field so our house won’t get flooded if we have another winter/spring like the one that just passed.

I know that he appreciated the gesture. Most others (the local neighbors) would have simply forged ahead without asking permission.

Being a good neighbor is important to me.

Greece (Olympiakos) Wins the European Basketball Championship

The other night I stopped in at the sweet shop, overlooking the oceanside and the hillside where our house is located, to charge my laptop and have a quiet beer.

There was nothing quiet about it. The shop was packed with chain-smoking boys and men--the women far too sensible to enter this maelstrom--pounding the tables as the Greek team defeated mighty Real Madrid in the championship final. Tiny Greece, a true underdog, prevailed. The village exploded, quite literally, with very loud homemade firecrackers and gunfire. It was unnerving. Unmitigated anarchy on the village streets, car horns blaring, more explosions.

I retreated at midnight to our little house in the olive grove, falling asleep to the sounds of revelry in the distance.

Good Fortune

Since antiquity and to the present day, having swallows build nests in your home’s eaves is a sign of good fortune. (They also eat millions of mosquitos.) I have been watching a family of swallows (χαλιδόνια / halidonia) explore the edges of our roof. I’m hopeful that good luck will reign in the year to come.