Greek Hospitality in the Peloponnese

Previously, I had written an entry about my stay in Greece, including all of my cultural observations, and comparative analysis. It sounds so mechanical, and it was. As I was reading through it to check for errors, I began to loathe my writing and yearn for how I was able to eloquently convey myself in previous entries. I couldn’t figure out what I had done wrong, what was different, and I realized after reading my latest published entry that I was beginning to slack, to lose connection to what I was saying. I wondered, is it because I had been so off balance? Am I that easy to read that even my writing shifts so that it reflects my current state of being? After reading it through, I found a lack of emotion that is unlike myself. I had been feeling many things, and finally the lack of time to process and reflect had caught up to me, and I could no longer label what it was I was feeling let alone channel it appropriately into my writing. Now, after some reflection, and a significant amount of solar Vitamin D, I can say without a doubt that when I think about my time in Greece I feel nothing but love, the feeling of being so loved that I am filled with joy and gratitude. Writing this new entry feels as though I have a means of paying homage to the culture that I love, and that has loved me back.

I was welcomed here, not into one, but two Greek families. I was invited to stay in a neighboring vacant apartment of one family, and also stayed with a cherished friend of mine, and her family, for a shorter period. During this time, I have felt such love. The Greeks reminded me of what family means, or should mean. Or maybe there is no proper definition of that – but they reminded me of what I want my family to someday be, and how I want to rear that idea and manifest it into existence… some day. I found many similarities between Greeks and some Latin cultures; they welcome you, feed you, take care of you, they give you what you need, and they expect nothing – except maybe respect. [Also a commonality, I noticed, is pride in music and dance – the Greek Kalamatiano versus the Latin Merengue – Juan Luis Guiera versus Dimitris Mitropanos.] In the Greek culture, like some Latin cultures, people earn love, gratitude, and honor by doing these things to take care of each other, and they do it with humility. It’s the reason the elders are so honored – the yiayiathese (grandmothers), papouthes (grandfathers), the abuelos (grandparents) – they are all honored. Not because they are old, fragile, representing what once was, a living piece of history – rather - they are strong, supportive, and they are caregivers until they can’t be anymore. The grandparents are all of these things and the foundation for the entire umbrella of family that they have created. Here, the grandparents take care of you, they get you a job, help you get or stay on track so that you don’t wind up in jail or sick, they feed you, and if all else fails, and you don’t need any of those things, then you join alongside the grandparents and do the same for the next generation. Grandparents are the reason many Greeks survived and now thrive in the financial crisis that is still going on. Even in history, long before a financial crisis, when crises were of morality and not of economy. Grandparents made this culture. How it has taken its form now. I’m sure every war, and every threat to religion has had a hand in it as well, but the people will always seek to be a yiayia and papou, for their names to be passed down to their grandchildren and for those names to continue on. Your name is worthy to be someone elses, and that is a great honor.

In the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding there is a seen when all of the family members are being introduced to one another, and all of the cousins names are Anita, Diane, and Nick. It’s funny, but if that were a true story (and it very well could be, or already exists somewhere in some version of it for real people), then the reason everyone is Anita, Diane, and Nick, is because of the grandparent generation of those people. Those must have been the names of yiayia, papou, and the nouno/nouna (godparent.) The grandparents in Greece display dazzling examples of how to treat one another, how to make monogamy work, thrive, and last – a rarity I’d say. The men might help in the kitchen, and they might help raise the children, and the woman might work – these are the things that vary according to the tradition of a family, not necessarily of a culture. But the woman, she certainly feeds, and she does so in a manner that is challenging and time consuming – so that the outcome is as perfect as it can be and love is inside. The men keep the family together alongside the woman, they delegate what is best and teach the children whent to yield and when to be passionate. The men always offer to help the wife with the food or the house, even though she has declined consistently for years, she feels more love from him just because he wants to help her. The men cool the car in the hot weather, even if only a second before the woman gets in. They do errands that she asks with no questions or complaints. They both simply do all they can to make and keep each other happy and peaceful, whatever that might mean. It’s not the distinct definition that Greek-American families had always portrayed to me. It’s simpler, allowing for independence but creating such love that each person chooses to deny their independence – that having this partner and making each other happy will fill them with more joy than independence can give. Its really beautiful.  I find that some Greek-American families hold onto this too literally. They taint the purity of it by lumping this mutual love and caregiving into a category of being “old fashioned” and then abiding strictly by the idea of what “old fashioned” might mean. They end up translating literally from action into action, rather than moral & emotion into action. To the benefit of the Greek-Americans, they have a church community that helps them to hold onto their culture with ease rather than desperation. I don’t mean to confuse Greek culture with Greek Orthodox religion, they are certainly not the same, but they are deeply intertwined from history to everyday traditions. For in Greece, the culture is the vessel fueled by the church, and in America the church is the vessel to sustain the culture.

During my stay in Greece, I was invited by the Eliopoulos family (one of the gracious families who took me in) to come to their trapezi. A trapezi is a gathering in the horio (village) of all of the family members for when the out-of-town family members come home. It’s a welcoming feast. In this case, we were welcoming the couple I was staying with, Sophia and Vasili from America, and their cousins Maria and Panayiotis from Athens. I was the only non-relative at the event (an honor for me), and it took several long conversations about me, in Greek, for Vasili and Sophia to explain who I was (how you know her? She is relative from America?), and why I was there (tell me every detail of her travels so I can fake spit on her for good luck and feed her since she might starve otherwise.)

I met all of the relatives. Papou Vasili, cousin Vasili, the other cousin Vasili, Theo (uncle) Vasili, Yiayia Margarita, cousin Margo, Thea Maria, and the few Giorgos and Panayiotis in between. I would never forget anyones’ names – that’s for sure.

We ate food caught, killed, or picked from the farm that yiayia has in the yard. The entire quarter acre is her own organic manifestation. The completely self-sustaining 80 year-old woman that she is, made everything from scratch using the garden, and cooked it in her wooden stove outside. Now this was Greek. However, there was no lamb on a spit, which I was told was because there was only one lamb left in the yard. I laughed, thinking that they were being ironic. But when I looked over the fence where the chickens were, I saw that it was true, there was only one lamb left. Better to save that for Easter.

The gathering lasted for 5 hours, and only ended because at 1am, yiayia and papou could no longer sit with their eyes open. I can still see both of them sitting next to each other at the dinner table with their eyes closed, while everyone around them laughed and drank. I was offered to stay the night, which I declined politely in Greek. We did drink several bottles of tsiporo, but its not often that I will have my own space to rest my head while traveling, so I appreciated being able to come home to that. After I declined her offer, Yiayia laughed and said a slew of Greek that I didn’t understand, followed by the sound and motion of spitting on me for good luck (without actual spit), and hugged me goodbye. I am generally able to get the gist of a Greek conversation simply because the people are emphatically charismatic. With my limited Greek, I said, “thank you for everything, nice to meet you, go with God.” I’m like a machine searching within the 40 phrases I know to figure out what is appropriate to sparingly convey my message. A lot of my phrases have to do with God because I learned from attending church. Doxa to theo!

On the drive home from the trapezi, between my fluttering eye lids, I began to think of how powerful it has been for me to stay with my friend and her Korkoulis family, and this the Eliopoulos family. There is such meaning and strength in every gesture that has been made toward me. I stayed with my friend, but the Korkoulis family didn’t know me. I stayed with my brother’s godfather’s cousins – surely they hardly knew anything about me! I never in my life felt so comfortable, instantly, and with complete strangers. But then, that is love, and those are the Greeks. I feel such gratitude and admiration for the ease with which these people have loved me.

In the following days Theo Vasili took me on a tour of his farm. Here in Kalamata he has a farm of cactus fruit, lemon trees, almond trees, a few pomegranate, and mainly – of course – kalamata olives. We walked around the property, and he pointed out everything. It seems the entire town are his family, “this is my cousins house,” “this is my nephews land,” “this is my other cousins house.”

We picked fresh fruits, and nuts to eat. The almonds were soft from the sun, and covered in a fruity protective layer of skin around the shell. When I awed at the work to be done, simply to eat one almond, Vasili just laughed and said, "I don't know what they do with them, I just grow them." Finally at the end of the tour, he brought me to a special plot of land where there were half a dozen different kinds of trees together, baby trees, overshadowed by one large lemon tree. Vasili told me that every tree was for a member of his family; his grandchildren, and his nieces and nephews children. The lemon tree was planted when his eldest grandchild was born. I noticed his pride and excitement in telling me all of these things. I realized that these weren't only trees, these were his family. I was meeting a symbol of his family in the form of bountiful fruitweilding trees.

Not far from there, was the oldest olive tree on the farm, over 500 years old. It was thick as if many tree trunks joined together. Vasili proudly told me, that this olive tree was planted when his great great great (etc) grandfather became a father to the next generation. And so started the tradition, the honor, the pride in it. Theo Vasili was glowing with light in his cheeks as he proudly took me through all of his life's work. 

Greece offered me many adventures and lessons. For example, one thing I learned about the Greeks is that they are in awe and want to share every bit of their agriculture and culture with foreigners - with me. While here, I received a few suggestions for where to go to see interesting sights, and invitations to join others as well. And one thing I was told to do, was to go to the top of the mountain overlooking Kalamata beach where Vergas Castle is - there I would be able to go to restaurants, and shop around. A relaxing lunchtime activity, I thought. So, one day - a very hot day - I took a 5 euro taxi to the top of the mountain where the castle was. I learned, immediately after the taxi drove away, that there was nothing to do, no people, only a small brick castle with a closed restaurant inside. I was stranded at the top of a deserted mountain in the hot sun, and it wasn't long before the closed restaurant's attack dogs started chasing and barking at me. Vergas Castle was beautiful for approximately 3 minutes. Time to get the hell out of here.

I had food and water, and so I began to hike down the mountain following the road. I didn't panic, because I knew at worst I would be walking for hours in the hot sun and sparingly use the litre of water I had with me. Not to mention, I got away from those miniature sized guards. After 10 minutes of walking, however, it began to feel like the scolding torture of hell. I went through an internal debate. What will I do? Will I bare it? Can I bare it? What are my options here? Call a taxi? I have no money, and don't know where I am. - The debate only took a moment until I decided, in this country that I love where everyone is so friendly and we all have the same religion, it may be a safe place for me to ask for a ride. So, decision made - I continued walking. When a car finally passed, I held up my thumb. Dear God, please let this be an international symbol for 'take me to the beach.' I said to the man, "to bano? Kalamata?" He asked in English, "you want to go to Kalamata beach?" I felt a great sigh of relief, and got into the car where he assured me that his dogs were friendly. The man was friendly and kind. I told him about my love for the Greek culture and hospitality, and he told me that in Thessaloniki, where he was from, the people are even friendlier, and that hospitality isn't as common between Greeks, only between Greeks and visitors. I told the man that he was my savior for picking me up, he laughed, dropped me off where I wanted at the beach, and bid me good luck on my journey. Phew. Greeks really know how to make an adventure out of nothing.

All in all, I am feeling pretty good about my first real hitchhiking experience. Please don't tell my mom.

Now, my time here is over. And as the sun went down on my last night after 10 days in Greece, I laid on the beach. I don't want to leave. Let me feel the burn of the sun on my skin one last time. Let me stay and continually be filled with the love of these people. I feel so loved and at home here, what happens when I lose this feeling? Or I forget myself? Save me. Take care of me. Keep me! I can be Greek!

But then, I remember, I did this for myself just as much as anyone else did it for me. I asked for this experience, and the Greeks – with all of their love and pride – gave it to me openly, and made it easy for me to take. In fact, they insisted I take. No, as happy, quiet, and at peace as I am, its time for me to move on, to see in what ways I will be touched and moved and twisted and turned in the next place. I just want to remember this moment, and keep this gratitude.

Thank you Greece and Greeks, you helped me refill my cup!