Has it really been a month since we arrived for summer in the village? Impossible for me to believe, but it’s true. Freed from the activities of our usual lives—school, carpool, piano lessons, meetings, deadlines—our routines are determined not by the ticking of the clock but by our bodily rhythms, our needs and desires. Hence, the days blur from one to the next and time slips by so quickly. Now that it is hot (96 is the high forecast for today), the routine is at its most basic: We wake, we eat, we swim.
When it grows too hot to remain on the beach, even in the shadows of the olive trees that line it, we return to the cool shade of our apartment to eat lunch and rest again, the afternoon sound of the cicadas our background music. In the shadow of the orange tree in our little garden or the cool of their beds, stripped of all bedding but sheets, Jasper and Sylvie spend the hottest hours of the day. They read, they doodle, they doze. Then, when the sun sets, they come alive, returning to the sea, spinning through the village on their bicycles, or joining a match of street soccer. In Greece in summertime, we stay up and outside much later than we ever do in the States. How can one leave the beauty of a warm starlit night, the sweet scents of nixtolouloudo (evening primrose) and jasmine perfuming the air, especially when the rest of the village has also come to life?
In between the swimming and cooking and washing up, in between the joys and challenges of parenting, I squeeze in work, or try to. Truth be told, I’m not accomplishing much. Our skin has become nut-brown, our hair blonde, and my wallet and bank account nearly empty. So be it. we’re in Greece and that seems to be the way things are here for many these days.
Which explains why, when we arrived in the village in May, nearly everyone I talked to would answer my question, “How have you been since I last saw you?” with a stream of references to the economic crisis. One day I ran into a friend, a mother of two children about the same age as my own. She put it this way: “For everyone in Greece, it’s a struggle. We pay higher taxes, we pay for things we didn’t have to pay for before—school books for our children, medicine for our parents—and on salaries or pensions that have been slashed. It’s difficult, but if you live in the village, you’re lucky. If you live in the village, you can survive.” And then she gestured to the enormous garden she shares with her extended family.
“I can plant potatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, tomatoes. Between our garden and our trees (meaning her olive trees), I can feed my children. My people in Athens can’t.”
Indeed, for the first time in decades, hunger has become an issue in Greece, particularly in its urban centers. But in the village, while people worry about the state of their beloved country and about their children’s futures, there is also a common belief that if they remain here they will be just fine. My 91 year-old friend Panagiota Hiotis agrees. She lived through the Axis occupation of Greece, through the Great Famine, and through other difficult times. Over a simple lunch at her home last November, she told me, “No matter what’s happening in the world, not much changes here. We tend our gardens and our olive trees, we make our cheese and our bread. We gather wild greens. We live the way we always have. Some times are leaner than others, but we survive them.” For those who have divested from the local economy and the region’s subsistence-based lifestyle—for example, as one friend did by selling his land and investing in the stock market—things are not this simple. But for many, they are. For many, Panagiota’s words ring true.
Perhaps the most obvious crisis-related change I have seen here is the amount of space in the village devoted to vegetable gardening. It’s grown, considerably. Where there were weeds, there are now potatoes. Tomato plants climb bamboo canes in a once-empty lot overlooking the town beach. In flower beds alongside houses, beans and pepper plants grow among the flowers. A friend revived the garden plot his father kept 20-some years ago beneath the village aqueduct.
In addition to the gardens, there are apricot, orange, lemon, almond and fig trees, grape arbors and groves and groves of olive trees. And then there are the wild edibles—greens, bulbs, oregano, thyme, chamomile. In other words, food is everywhere. For this reason, the village—perhaps like other rural communities throughout Greece—is about the best place I can imagine being whilst weathering the economic storm.
I don’t plan to write about the crisis much this summer. Nor will I write about the elections. There are plenty of people who write about both, and with much greater insight and expertise than I could ever muster. But now that I’m in the flow (thanks in a large part to my dear friend/ex-husband’s arrival–he is here to visit the children), I will write and post regularly. As ever, thanks so much for reading. Please stay tuned for more!