If one is Lucky, a Solitary Fantasy can Totally Transform One Million Realities

Brilliant Sea view in Kalamata

My big, gorgeous, lonely, Greek House may not be getting a lot of physical attention these days, but it has been getting a lot of virtual attention! Through this blog!
Twenty-two posts with over 10 thousand views, which may not seem like a lot in the blogosphere, but certainly more than I would have ever wagered.  Plus, the ultimate compliment... a request to do a public reading! Wow. 

This upcoming momentous event will be held in a chic Montreal boutique bookstore and I am flattered to learn that I am slotted in with  two seasoned travel bloggers.   I thought perhaps if you were to categorize this blog maybe real estate or even memoir.  Hmm, travel blog...why not?!

A little bit shocking, really, to be asked because as a very close friend said to me, "why would they ask you?  You're not a published author."  Well, he is right and his comment practically took the bloom off the rose, but he is unaware of the social reach of blogging and just between you and me he doesn't fit the right demo anyway, lol. 

The organizers have requested that I read excerpts from four blog posts and one from a new one that has yet to be posted. 
They've given me their four selections:
"My Greece is the Taygetos Mountains"
"Where's the Street Wise Hercules to Fight the Rising Odds"
"The Reluctant Employer Part 2" and
"Perfect Imperfections"

Funny that they chose these posts because they actually are some of the more popular reads!  They range between 225-475 views.  I'm glad they selected for me though, because it would truly be a difficult task.  Every word, sentence and paragraph resonates deeply with me and it would be like picking a favourite child. Oh, please tell me which posts you like best.

Now the fifth selection poses a problem.  I have six posts in draft mode and I'm not sure which to put a finish on.  To be honest...I've kinda lost my muse.  My brain is scattered with too many incomplete thoughts and feelings and emotions.  

You see, it wasn't long ago that I wrote about how my Greek House wasn't touched by the pressure of the country's or even the world's economics and politics, but I was naïve.  I had pulled together a dream team of builders which resurrected it from its questionable start and had wrapped their collective arms around it, to shield it from unsavory characters and nurture it from its past neglect. 


But all that flurry of activity around my house has come to a grinding halt due to tumultuous circumstances beyond my control and it has weighed heavily on my chest.  And once again, it has been sadly neglected and with its faulty window installation has become damp and cold.But I remain passionate, warm and enthusiast and perhaps this opportunity to present this personal journey live, is what I need to encourage my muse to reawaken.  And to tell a personal story that readers can relate to, is what a writer, any writer, published or otherwise, strive for!  I'm beyond flattered!

I guess that when you share some of your own pain, difficulties, and setbacks, and then show how you recovered or learned a valuable lesson, you become more real and human to your readers and  allow them to see the person behind the computer.
 

leaky window

For example, one of the current setbacks are the faulty windows.  Now, I'm not an engineer/builder, but I need to understand why the windows leak.  I will research it and find a reason and when my mihanikos begins to offer his professional  take on the situation I can meet him in the middle and I'll be coming from a place of understanding and basic knowledge.   It's not that I don't trust my mihanikos, I do,  he's just not on site all the time,  but I need to always be a step ahead.  I am my father's daughter after all. You see, I can accept failure, I can't accept not trying.

Which brings me back to finishing one of the six posts that await in the drafts file.  I could do a part 2 to an existing post or better yet, a Directors Cut!  Actually, in my wildest of thoughts, I  dream that this blog gets optioned for a movie like Julie and Julia. LMAO!  Hey, like the immortal Maya Angelou said, "If one is lucky, a solitary fantasy can totally transform one million realities."

Well right now my reality is a bit like fantasy.  I feel little like Carrie Bradshaw, from Sex and the City, when her new book just gets released and you see her reading from it at a book launch in NYC.  Ok, a bit of a stretch...its not a book and its not NYC...yet ;)



Perfect Imperfections

Perfect.  What a deliciously alluring, seductive, tempting word.  Purrfect. A word that Eartha Kitt owned and would growl out on demand of which I've had the personal privilege of hearing.  In most cases, perfect, is hard to achieve, almost impossible.  We can only strive to be perfect, always falling short for most, and for the rare few, just out of grasp.  But is it really something to aim for?   And for which part of your life do you pour all your energies in to perhaps reach perfection? Wealth, health, relationships?  Something's got to give, right? 

Well, this house is certainly not perfect.  Except for this ceiling.  There is nothing more perfect than this ceiling.  Ok, I may be exaggerating...the house location is perfect and the view!  Lord have mercy, the view is beyond perfection!  But I had no control over that.  My father did, and he chose perfectly.

Every piece of the coffered ceiling  was cut and placed by hand, no prefab mouldings here.  A true coffered ceiling of this calibre adds the best of architectural details and elevates the worth of the house.  There can be no flaws in its geometry and I threatened Boufeas (my mihanikos) that if there was it would be horribly obvious and would have to be taken down at his expense.  He was leery at first because he said that this was a Greek house not an English house and we don't install these types of ceilings.  Having taken him again outside of his comfort zone and having to admit that he never erected one, he cleverly discovered that our foreman, Dimitri, was quite the expert on coffered ceilings.  Perfect.

I always admired the look of a coffered ceiling and how it truly does finish a room and make it grand.  The house's main floor high ceilings presented me with a rare opportunity to indulge and completely surrender to this fantasy.  It was a true labour of love, as most all good things worth fighting for are, and in this rare instance resulted in pure magic!  It was worth the wait and the cost.  It is by far, the best feature of this house.  When I finally saw it this summer, it took my breathe away.  Success!

And isn't it funny that when you want something real bad, you start seeing it everywhere!  Like a new car that you're thinking about purchasing and you see it at every turn. As many times as I've visited the Acropolis, it wasn't until this last visit that rocked my world.  As I looked skyward up the long length of the doric columns, I was delighted to only discover, you guessed it, coffered ceilings! They were suddenly everywhere! Up high running across the top of Parthenon and various other temples on the grounds, and pieces of it, down low on the ground, on its sides.  Despite dissenting voices, I couldn't help but grin and giggle as I stood there and relished that my house indeed was as Greek as it was going to get. Heh, Heh...perfect.

Am I a bit of a perfectionist?  Perhaps.  And as a culture, we tend to reward perfectionists for setting high standards and trying to meet them which is addictive.  And while I said that the ceiling is perfect, I also admitted that the house is not.  Success in some areas and failure in others.  Perfection may always equal success,  but will success bring you perfection?  Arianna Huffington was in Toronto recently launching her new concept called, the Third Metric, at a fundraiser for Women's Brain Health Initiative.  And while I do admire her willingness and ability to reinvent herself, something that I always strive for, I find this concept of taking success to another new level, a little abstract and pedantic.  Nevertheless, something she said resonated with me.  That "failure is not the opposite of success." 

 



I immediately thought of my hot yoga/fitness practice.  While its great for slowing down my monkey mind and building physical strength (success), I am otherwise absolutely horrible at it (failure).  Try as I might, I will likely never be able to do  the scale pose asana, the peacock asana, the standing splits or any kind of splits!  But I have learned to at least make an authentic attempt and reflect inward.  Trust that wherever you are in your pose, that is exactly where you need to be.  Imagine that in your minds eye that you are performing the pose/asana perfectly. 

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius

and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

Marilyn Monroe

I am learning that perfection doesn't have to be something that everyone sees, but rather a feeling a connection, to something or someone.   And that we treat it as a rare gift, because it sustains us and feeds into other parts of our lives.  It makes us feel more normal, more creative, more inspired and more strong.  Trying to live an authentic life is way more difficult than yoga asanas and building houses, but I am learning to try and be successful in smaller portions and aspects of life.  I am learning not to fear failure because its not the opposite of success!  It is after all, our imperfections that we relate and bond with one another. It is how we handle our failures and weakness that makes us truly great.

 

I close my eyes and imagine that my Greek house is perfect.  I imagine away the pergola, the window wells, the retaining walls, the front door, the kitchen door, its illegal status and that there is no window on the west side of the house.

I love my Greek house... and all its perfect imperfections.

 

Can the Apple Fall Far from the Tree?

Never thought that I'd find myself doing tequila shots in an orange grove, in Kalamata, with my 84 year old Uncle.  But there I was, dusting the shoulders of the bottle, a long forgotten gift, while my Theo (Uncle) fetched the lemon and salt. 

"Να ηρεμησεις" (Na ee-remisis), To calm yourself, and then you'll tell me what happened on the Mountain" he said while he cracked the seal of the 35 year old bottle and I wondered if tequila ages well.  "Kοιτάξτε εδώ, θείο" (Key-taxte edo, Theo) "Look here, Uncle, let me show you how the Mexican's do it."  He was playful and eager. He mirrored my image, with a grin on his face, as he licked the salt, took the shot and sucked the lemon.  He chuckled after and sat forward to pour us both another.  I love him. 

He would have been an awesome father.  He and his wife were never able to have children.  And why is it that the people who have the best dispositions for children often are the ones that end up childless?  A cruel puzzle the universe imposes. 

Theo Yianni (John) is my mother's second eldest brother.  Pericles, the eldest of six children from the Parthenios family died 5 years ago.  A gentle soul with a loving heart, shockingly handsome and fiercely patriotic, also remained childless. 

They both fawned over me when I'd visit and lived the Greek expression that they modified, " το παιδί της αδελφής μου είναι δύο φορές παιδί μου".  "The child of my sister is twice my child".  As a young girl, I never felt more loved and cared for and cherished.  And I most certainly returned their affections.  We were three peas in a pod...now only two. 

There is no doubt that Theo Yianni has mellowed over the years, but his opinions and loyalty is unwavering.  He may be 84 but he stands tall and straight with no stagger in his gait.  He has the thickest mass of white wavy hair and the laugh of a young man going on an adventure. 

He said to me, "that while your father and I tolerated each other, this Verga house he built  was really a gift to me. He made a mess of it and who else would come and try to fix it...but you, my Katerina. I pray that Boufeas takes forever to finish it." 

My eyes swell and I feel so comforted and protected by those words.  And yes, he is the only one that calls me Katerina, my third name, because he simply likes it best.

After the third round of tequila shots, between laughter and tears, he presses me to reveal what exactly happened on the Mountain.  "It's like you've seen a ghost or a monster!"  I felt like such a child as he held my face and pleaded with his eyes for answers.  I went to my dad's Horio, his village and Theo Yianni was right, I encountered a red-headed monster. 

I had an afternoon suddenly available to me.  I was supposed to be in Athens shopping for a kitchen, but it didn't turn out that way, regretfully.  But I was excited when I told Theo Yianni that I'll be heading up the Mountain for a drive and to visit the grave of my dad's brother Nikita.  The drive up the Taygetos was joyful and lighthearted and I relished all the familiar twists and hairpin turns that  it has to offer. 

But the afternoon turned tragic, once I encountered her...my father's doppelganger.  I felt like I was 12 years old, vulnerable and small. As she hollered and insulted me just like my father did. She made up bizarre situations in her head about how poorly she is treated by the family and how I caused my father's cancer and what I'm doing to the Verga house is scandalous and that the names of my children are disgraceful. WTF.  She has turned into him...perhaps she has always been like that.   And I turned into jelly as her expressions and words and glances and hand gestures morphed into my father. It was as if he was standing right there. I froze in horror. And then ran from her. And while doing so I broke the heels of my shoes.

To steal an expression from a close friend, "I pressed the delete button" about a thousand times  as I was driving down the mountain.  My father's sister has now been...deleted.

Theo Yianni was empathetic and had a rebuttal for all the nasty comments she made.  But he asked a very sage, very pointed question, "You are no stranger to this kind of verbal attack, you are an exceptionally strong, confident woman....tell me why you are trembling? You know none of what she said is true, what revelation have you had?"  And there it was, the answer, it just tripped off my tongue, like its been waiting there on its mark for the starter pistol.  "I'm afraid I'll turn into them...him! Will I?"

He sat back and while I waited for his response, I felt relieved.  The unspoken was spoken.  I know that I am related to them, but how can I possibly be?  I feel so different, I feel most times like I don't belong.  I looked up at the orange trees with its boughs full of fruit and thought, can the apple fall far from the tree?  Or in this case, the orange?  lol. 

Theo Yianni has never said an unkind word about my father, ever.  So when he offered his answer it was the classiest most respectful response and a little shocking.  "You are like him.  You have skillfully pick the best parts of your father and that is what makes you.  And you have taken the best parts of your mother, your sweet nature...its what every parent hopes for."  "Now, let's go see your scandalous house, it always makes you happy!" 

Father of the year, I say...or Lifetime. Some are just born with it.

Earlier that day, the window and doors arrived from Athens and likely they had been installed.  I was aching to see it. There was about two hours left of sunlight to an already long and eventful day. And it seems that whenever I come to Greece, I have the most...enlightening experiences.  lol. 

We drove silently up the winding road to the Verga house.  I welcomed the calmness that driving provides me and the security of my Theo next to me.  As we pulled up to the house and parked we both just sat there for a moment and stared at it.  It was magnificent.  He held my hand and said, "It has your energy and spirit."  And with those words, the events of the day just disappeared. 


We didn't except to find anyone working at the house so late in the day and was surprised when the foreman, Dimitri, greeted us at the door.  "You have windows and doors.  What do you think?", he asked proudly.  "It's finally a real house", I said.  And then he reached into his pocked and held something out to me and rather coyly asked, "would you like the key to your house?"  I beamed at Dimitri and held out my hand. 

Theo Yianni was grinning from ear to ear, as I just held the key by its end to examine its uniqueness.  "Kαλοριζικο, Katerina mou" (Kaloriziko, good-root or luck my Katerina).  I was silent.  "Well, I'm off" said the foreman, "be sure to lock the door when you're done."  Stunned, I thanked him and only wished that Peter Boufeas was here to share in this delightful moment. 

We toured the house and checked all the new windows and doors. There were a few minor errors, but I knew that Boufeas would take care of it in a New York minute.  Besides we were both so delighted with the outcome and Theo Yianni was quite impressed with the quality and I was happy that he approved.    I handed him the key.  "You lock up the house for the first time Theo."  His chest puffed up as he reached for the key. 

As the key turned and clanked 6 times, I imagined shutting the door and dead-bolting the earlier events with the red-headed monster.  I imagined dead-bolting out all the negative, toxic and unrelenting memories that this house once represented.  The next time I come I will unlock the door and my children will run through it, clearing out any leftover unwanted ghosts, with their laughter and joie de vivre.

And I'm ok with where the apple has landed.  It has fallen far enough away from the tree...this Verga house was built after all on a mountain side. LOL.

 

Well, it certianly looks like a "capsule"

I'm increasingly obsessed with how time keeps moving faster as I get older.  Once again, it's Spring time in Greece and as the country blooms with colour and beautifies with natures tremendous gifts, so does my house in Verga.  It's turning into a jewel.  And with each day that passes it continues to blossom and will likely be done by end of July.  While I'm in no great hurry, time certainly seems to be. 

Four years have come and gone since my father's death. It seems that when he passed the days just seemed long and tedious, filled with endless tasks.  Now the sun rises and sets with such briskness that it leaves me winded at the end of the day, wishing it would slow down.  All I want is more time.

Time for what, exactly?  Time for adventures and experiences that are indelible. Indelible not only to me but perhaps, with any luck, to others as well.  A life well lived, with no regrets.  Full of faults, of course, but admired for its gumption, ambition and regardless of any fear factor, made an effort. 

And you know what?  That's how my father lived. 


This house that my father built over a decade ago and was left as a shell, with all its problems, was indeed a direct reflection of his endeavours as a whole.  But there must be more to my dad.  At least I have hoped and prayed that there will be more. 

So I've embarked on a memory finder mission.  And it all started with the concept of a time capsule.  Yup. Some call it a cornerstone, others a memory box, but "time capsule" is the preferred vernacular.

The idea is to consider an item, whether real or contrived, that reminds them of Steve, dad, and then place it in the time capsule.  My brothers think it to be a fine idea and once I told them, they have been busy chatting with family and friends about what they should put in.  Then we'll find a day either this Summer or Fall, to all congregate at the Verga house for a memorial of sorts to place the time capsule in the ground.

In my mind I have envisioned a quiet sunset moment, family and friend gathered around the open time capsule, each holding a memory of Steve in our hands.  Then one by one, with great laughter and joy, we place that memory in the capsule.  Idyllic. Poignant.  Sentimental.  And STUPID!  What was I thinking!  Anything involving Steve is never that tender, or gentle or just...easy. The time capsule turned into a time bomb!

Early on before I involved the brothers, I asked Peter Boufeas, my minhanikos, to set aside a spot in the ground near the house to place and bury the time capsule.  I told him that it will be a small, rectangular box, 19.8 x 18.2 x 10.3 inches, made out of composite material that can withstand large temperature fluctuations (-40F to 250F).  Easy to seal, watertight, lightweight that can be buried with no fuss.

No such luck.


My older brother really showed an interest in this project, so I thought to hand it over to him to run with.  He decided that the time capsule that I wanted, which would come from a company that specializes in time capsules, wasn't good enough.  So without further consultation, he went off and had one designed and built in a matter of days.  No one said he wasn't a doer.  What resulted was nothing like I had described.  In fact, it's the complete opposite.

Steel time capsule

"Well", I said to him, "it certainly looks like a...capsule".  "How on earth will you get this past customs?  It looks like a missile...a bomb."  Well, if his time capsule doesn't start WWIII at customs, it certainly started one at my house that afternoon.  Sigh. 

It's made out of steel and weighs a ton.  Seriously, I broke out in a sweat just moving it to take this picture.  lol.  It will require a gasket that my brother says will be hot silicon glue. On site?  Who is going to facilitate that?  And when you place the items in the cylinder, you can't view them after because its stacked.  And how do you bury it? 
 Vertically??? But, it will be water tight and endure temperature changes....oh and of course, a nuclear bomb.  



Steel time capsule open

My brother and I had a cold war for about a week after, but I've come to terms with it.  He left it in my foyer as punishment for being ungrateful.  lol. He did paint it to make it look nice and purchased archival sleeves, pens and paper.  I know what he did came from a good place.

The only problem I have with it now is that it's triple the volume than the original small discrete box.  What will we fill it with?  I only have one small item.  I'm worried.  Will our memorial for dad turn into a trip down nightmare lane  rather than memory lane?  Do we have enough "memories" to put in it? 

I only want good ones...



 

It's not like it's Plato's Olive Tree!

View from the dining room

There is this olive tree on my property that I've been threatening to cut down.

It stands right outside my dining room picture window.  I've said repeatedly to whomever would listen that it obstructs my view of the mountain and the yard that my boys will eventually play.  The only person on my side is Theo Yianni.

Τραβήξτε το από τις ρίζες του με το τρακτέρ που έχετε εδώ τώρα, έτσι ώστε δεν θα φυτρώσει ξανά. "Remove it by its roots," exclaims Theo Yianni,  "with the tractor that you have here now so that it won't shoot up again".  At first Peter Boufeas was horrified at the idea of cutting it down and shocked that I would even suggest it.  But now he just rolls his eyes and smiles every time I suggest such a thing.  Olive trees are like that.  They can get injured and look like they are near death, yet miraculously sprout new shoots and will even bear an olive or two in a short time.  They are like the mythical phoenix, they rise from the ashes. (yes, its very dramatic, lol)

Even with Boufeas' indignation, I found the opportunity recently to express my concern about the olive tree and its unfortunate spot on the property, with the foreman, Dimitri. 

He is a slender man, middle aged, with a bushy moustache and a solemn look.  Seems to me that he hadn't smiled in a while and who can blame him considering the current economic crisis he finds himself and his country in.  And it was yet another rainy, moody day on the mountain when Boufeas first introduced me to the foreman Dimitri, which didn't do much for anyone's disposition. 

Coffered ceiling sample

I began to ask him about the very decadent lux coffered ceiling that I'm considering having installed and of which he himself had done the sample.  His answers were short, to the point and unemotional.  Hmm.  I told him that I liked his mill work and that indeed it will add fine architectural details to the interior.  He nodded, thoughtfully.  Hmm.  I moved to the dining room picture window  and commented on how foreboding the mountain looked today, especially knowing that it was once an active volcano.  The foreman Dimirti, spins on his heel and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. 

He seemed pleasantly surprised with my knowledge of his town, little does he know that I excel at Trivial Pursuit, lol.  Quite satisfied with my ability to finally break the ice with the foreman, we actually chatted about the dormant volcano and our mutual affection for the Taygetos Mountain.  But it wasn't until I turned once again to the window and proclaimed, half jokingly, that I will indeed cut down this dreadful olive tree, that I got the most visceral of reactions!  

All I hear are gasps from the men that have accompanied me.  George Giannopoulos, mutters, "Apokliete", (No Way),  the Architect Dimitri, turns to Boufeas and quizzes with disgust, "what is she going to cut down?" Boufeas just breathes out and says, "here she goes again" and runs a hand across his forehead in exasperation.  A look of horror washes over the face of  the foreman Dimitri and challenges me rather aggressively, "You will do no such thing!" 

Plato's Olive Tree now lives in Verga, Kalamata

I proceed to tell the foreman the reasons for my disdain for this particular tree, but he begins to offer alternatives like, pruning it to make it less imposing.  Perhaps we can build a small rock wall around it as to encourage people to sit underneath it for shade, was another.  I could not be swayed.  I drove the point further by suggesting, with a chuckle,  that I will need firewood for my three fireplaces and this tree would be a good place to start.

"Look", the foreman pressed, "its one of the oldest trees you have on the property and it has the most olives on it too!  What does that say to you?  Doesn't that mean anything to you?  To cut an olive tree down is blasphemy."

Blasphemy.  How do you respond to a person who has just described the cutting of an olive tree as blasphemy?  I take a moment.  It's quiet as I contemplate the future of the tree and turn to the foreman and say with a great big smile, "Fcku, it's not like it's Plato's Olive Tree!"  Γαμώτο, δεν είναι ελιά του Πλάτωνα!

Hearty laughter echoed through my cavernous house.  The foreman Dimitri especially impressed and amused by my reference, responds with great joviality, "You never know, it could be!  It very well could be, Tzaki!"

Actually, no it really could not.  I've actually seen Plato's Olive Tree and it's not in Verga.  And the craziest part about me making that comment was that two months later, on Thursday January 17, 2013, the real Plato's Olive Tree was cut down...for firewood!  And part of me went with it.  Have you ever been on a pilgrimage? I have.

I was 14 years old when I caught partway through, an obscure BBC documentary with a very passionate white haired bearded man, talking about an unlikely landmark in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.  As he was dodging traffic, with horns blaring, he managed to cross the road and convey that he indeed is standing next to, wait for it....Plato's Olive Tree.  "Behold", he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

I was memorised.  What is this?  Where is he?  "I'm going", I said to myself and nothing was going to stop me.

I was 15 years old when I stood in the presence of this unremarkable and rather ordinary olive tree. What made it interesting to look at though wasn't just that it was thought to be more than 3,000 years old,  but that it had been nurtured back to life after being hit by a bus in 1976.  Which almost happened to me trying to find it!  At the time, its gnarled trunk had split into four pieces. From what I understand, the largest of these was taken to the Agricultural University of Athens, where it has been on display ever since.

Legend has it that the tree was part of the alleys that surrounded Plato’s Academy, and it was among the twelve olive trees that marked the twelve gated entries to the property. This part of Athens was later, and still is, named ‘Eleonas’ (olive grove) because of those ancient olive trees.  The Iera Odos (Sacred Way) lies on the ancient route between Athens and the town of Elefsina (Eleusis). The remains of Plato’s Academy lie near the tree, giving the area the name Akadimia Platonos.

Where the original Plato's Olive Tree once stood

And now nothing remains there, except for a big hole.  Local media reported that it was very likely uprooted and stolen to serve as firewood.  Hmm.  Fuel costs have sky rocketed and due to austerity measures the majority refuse to pay the increase and have resorted to heating their home with a wood-burning fireplace or stove.  It was calculated that the stolen part of the tree weighed more than 1,000 pounds, nevertheless it was removed without anyone taking notice.  Imagine that.

And it truly boggles my mind that Greeks would do such a thing, especially considering how revered and sacred the average, non-school of Athens, olive trees actually are to the majority of Greeks...and I do mean majority, not just my small cross section of natives!

I cried when I read the news report that the olive tree under which Plato is believed to have taught his students 2,400 years ago, is now gone.  And I bet I know someone else who cried too.  It is blasphemy, Dimitri the foreman was right. 

How can I ever even consider harming my "Plato's" olive tree?  That's its rightful name now.  I won't ever cut my olive tree down now, I could never ever! Αποκλειεται! Apokliete! 

My Olive Grove, all trees intact and lovingly maintained!

.


 

Home is where the House is?

I never doubted for a moment that I am Canadian.  And being a Canadian  often means having a duality of the kind that Trudeau spoke of so passionately; Pierre Elliot, that is.  Not his son, the long haired boho Justin, who by the way, is vying for the Federal Liberal leadership.  While he may have a great head of hair and a face that reminds me of Alexander the Great, he is wet behind the ears and when he speaks I cringe with transferred embarrassment. lol. 

Trudeau spoke of a multicultural society that benefits from each others diversity, not trying to assimilate or create a melting pot. My parents were indeed part of Trudeau-mania.  And their children are definite personifications of the all Canadian dream.  Maintaining a double identity to their benefit not detriment. 

Storm clouds breaking over Verga House

And yet as I write this from Kalamata, I feel out of sorts.  Never have I ever felt out of place, but this past week surprised me.   I have never felt more disappointed and heartbroken and bewildered and cold and displaced.  For the first time I feel "off" here. Only when I'm at my Greek House do I feel connected. I visit it everyday.  Sentimental, maybe.  Confused about the rest of the week and how it will unfold, undoubtedly. 

Perhaps its the rain.  Fine weather for young ducks.  Down pour every day, with thunder and lightening that lights up the sky so brilliantly and a cold that chills the bone.  I quite enjoy the dry cold Canadian winters, but there is nothing worse than a wet cold.  Nothing that a hot toddy like a tsipouro with honey and clove can't remedy.

I am without a permanent address in Toronto, having sold the Unionville house last November. Don't know where I'll land or what place I'll call home, but I guess home is where the house is?

A fully Plastered house

And the Greek house, quite ironically, is all I've got.  It's come a long way, but still has many problem details that need to get resolved.  Acquiring the needed 700m2 is still an issue and the back and forth with the surrounding land owners have left my friends, mihanikos/engineer Peter Boufeas and mihanikos/engineer George Giannopoulos (I affectionately call him GG)  bored and restless with the situation.   I, on the other hand, don't mind the waiting game, especially since the deadline for the zoning penalty/fines keeps getting pushed back.

Meanwhile, the majority of the funds have been devoted thus far, to the grading and drainage of the property.   Both very important, but seemingly endless and I've grown bored and restless with this money pit.  My head is still spinning over the cost of the topsoil!  At which point I threatened Boufeas that I'd bring in the soil myself with a wheel barrel...he wasn't too impressed, but leery that I may actually follow through. lol.  The house itself is stunning now and the property is without question, unrecognizable with its gorgeous terraced walls.

Hammer coming down on garage

The structural issues, like the garage and concrete pergola are being addressed.  I had to take down part of the garage because it just didn't make sense to leave it as is when a car could barely get in and the door would have been on the inside rather than the outside.  Sigh.  Exhausting really trying to correct mistakes of the previous mihanikos/engineer Voldemort.  And even though the entire house, inside and out, has been plastered, the concrete pergola continues to be an eyesore...and now the engineers are telling me to add more of it because it isn't symmetrical.  Hmm...



plastered pergola, watching the sunset

I wish I could physically hug my Greek House.   I want to wrap my arms around it and feel it hug me back.  I lean against one of its large columns as I watch the sunset over the Messinian Bay and think of how this Canadian finds herself at this spot, at this moment, at her house.  Her house...on a Greek hillside.

I Almost Forgot

Leave it to Google to remind me of my youthful influences.  Just seeing the pictorial tribute to Odysseus Elytis with the Olive Tree, a Vineyard and a Boat, had me inhale sharply and made my heart race.  A wash of Theodorakis music played in my head and nostalgia created a lump in my throat.  Who else can do this, but a poet!

A few loose pages of poems tucked in between an old tattered book, travelled across the Atlantic in my mum's book bag.  Eventually, "Sun The First Together With Variations on A Sunbeam" (Ηλιος ο πρώτος, παραλλαγές πάνω σε μιαν αχτίδα, 1943) found its way on top of the old HiFi turntable console, a place of honour, next to Robert Frost.  Poetry resonates deeply with Greek people and my parents were often walking testaments to this.  He wasn't just any poet.  He won the 1979 Nobel Prize in Literature.   

As I grew older I appreciated his poetry even more once it was put to music, of course,  by legendary Mikis Theodorakis.  "Axion Esti-It Is Worthy" became an anthem of sorts to the modern Greek of 1964 and beyond.  My dad, even though he wasn't very modern, connected some how to Elytis words. And through the wicked combination of Elytis and Theodorakis I also found a connection... with my dad.  

I almost forgot.

He'd pop the tape in the car and we'd listen to the music during the morning weekend drive to open the restaurant.  He'd ask, "do you understand what he is saying here, Tzaki?" If I didn't understand he'd stop the tape and try to translate the word, the meaning.  And dad was spot on, with the meaning of Elytis.  Dad said that he is speaking to 'us', not the ancients or about the ancients, but to me and you. 

And indeed Elytis, "Unlike others, he did not turn back to Ancient Greece or Byzantium but devoted himself exclusively to today's Hellenism, of which he attempted - in a certain way based on psychical and sentimental aspects - to build up the mythology and the institutions. His main endeavour has been to rid his people's conscience from remorses unjustifiable, to complement natural elements through ethical powers, to achieve the highest possible transparency in expression and to finally succeed in approaching the mystery of light, "the metaphysic of the sun" - according to his own definition."



Look its plastered!

Psychical and sentimental indeed describes Elytis work and aspects of my father that I've never considered.  And perhaps it also describes me and my Greek house.   (Which has progressed considerably and I must update you on!)

And today's modern Greek has forgotten the wave of positive influences that Elytis had on the attitude and worth of self.  It's 101 years from his birth, holding a book, poems in flight and Google has shown Odysseus Elytis in his quintessential sailor's hat with the Olive Tree, a cluster of grapes and the Boat.  Why?

Because Elytis had once said, "If you deconstruct Greece, at the end you will see that you are left with an olive tree, a vineyard and a boat. Which means that you can rebuild it,"   Wow, his words just jump off the page considering the climate and chaos that Greece finds itself.  Thanks for reminding us Google.

And my mum's book of poetry has lost its cover.  It has yellowed and its tips have turned in; it is well thumbed.  It now sits proudly on my office shelf along with Frost, Tennyson, Noyes (nothing beats The Highwayman) and a full collection of Dr Seuss.

 

Technically, House Building is not an Olympic Sport

I am indeed an Olympic junkie.  Short of wearing my 1988 Olympic Torch Relay track suit while watching the London 2012 Games, I'm pretty much dead gone.  Yes, that's right.  I carried the Torch for the Calgary 1988 Winter Games.  That was my shot at Olympic glory, a tenuous one at best, but it was my moment. 

I carried it for 2km through Orangeville Ontario on a cold winters night. The best time to carry it because the flame stretched and trailed out behind me in full glory. It was the one of the best, most memorable moments of my life.  For this torch relay they really wanted you to train, because unlike the torches they carried in London, Beijing and Vancouver, this was authentic.  Solid wood handle with a metal cauldron.  Engineers came up with a supposed lightweight design but it still weighed 3.3 lbs, plus fuel.  Sure, it was a challenge and I was ablaze with Olympic spirit, but I wasn't competing and putting myself out there to be scored and judged; I didn't win any medals.

And the motley Greek Olympic Team that led the parade of nations during the opening ceremonies at the London games this week may not win any medals either, but by writing a brilliant letter, a young Marios Chatzidimou does.  He wins gold for Greece.

He took the Gold Medal in the UPU’s 41st International Letter-Writing Competition for Young People. The 2012 edition asked young people to write a letter to an athlete or sports personality they admire to tell them what the Olympic Games mean to them.  Talk about ablaze with Olympic Spirit, he puts all of us to shame; out of the mouth of babes, as they say.

Chatzidimou, who is 14 years old, writes to his hero, the tennis player, Roger Federer and places him in ancient Olympia alongside athletes such as Diagoras of Rhodes and Polidamas where he creates a dialogue with him. “Participation, entering the contest, is already a great victory, regardless of the trophy. A victory against fears, insecurity and difficulties, of yourself, against your own vanity and selfishness.” That’s how young Chatzidimou has Federer describe the Olympic values to him. Chatzidimou criticizes the sometimes absence of fair play and the use of drugs in modern-day competitions, adding: “But for me the first Olympic Games mean neither anabolic steroids nor championship, nor financial benefits, economic crisis nor hate. They do mean joy for participating, fair play, friendship, peace and, I hope, this meaning will apply to this year’s Olympic Games.”

The UPU jury complimented his simple and creative writing style. “The composition is original, very personal and stylistically creative. The modern and historic Olympic values come out very strongly,” it said.

What does all this have to do with building a house on the side of a mountain, you are probably wondering.  Nothing and everything!  True, plastering walls, stone-cutting, and carpentry are not Olympic sports.  But young Chatzidimou's heart felt letter about values and ideals wasn't just intended for aspiring sport Olympians. 

Technically, house building is not an Olympic sport, but every metre of rock wall erected, every ton of earth moved at my house in Verga, represents a considerable challenge, especially under an inhospitable August sun. Building a house requires participants, just like a track or gymnastics team; individuals willing to put aside vanity, selfishness and personal difference to work as one. Building a house requires participants willing to engage in fair play.  No job or role is insignificant, each citizen of Greece is an indispensable member of an enormous relay team. That's how medals are won, that's how houses are built, that's how nation's overcome adversity and thrive. 

I say let the young Marios Chatzidimou have a true Olympic moment and allow him to lead the Greek Team in the closing ceremonies of the London 2012 Games, carrying the Greek Flag.  What better time than an Olympic year for Chatzidimou to remind the world and the Greek citizens themselves, that Greeks are indeed an exceptional, resilient and hardworking people.  That the Olympic triadic of Higher, Faster and Stronger should be replaced with his words, Fair Play, Friendship and Peace.  These are the Hellenic ideals that should be emblazoned across the heart of every house and home in Greece. 

I had my Olympic moment and now I sit and watch and scream and cheer while CTV's Brian Williams delivers the best Olympic coverage in the world, thank you my friend!  And as I rally for every fabulous Canadian, British and Greek awesome moment of these summer games, I can't help but think, does my 1988 Olympic Torch Relay track suit still fit me?

My House, My Little Home, My Poor Little Shack

This Verga house, in the beginning, can only be described as a pile of bricks, debris, a shelter for wayward goats and sheep with major structural faults and illegalities. But as each day goes by the bricks are being secured with mortar, the debris is being cleared, the obstructed views are being corrected, the earth is being turned over and pipes are being laid. Life is being breathed into an otherwise forgotten and abandoned part of my life, one that I had resigned to always being ramshackle and unrepairable. I guess the same could be said about my relationship with my father. And even though he has passed on, I've discovered that the connection is still very much alive.

I had a strange dream the other night. I woke around 2am and I felt like I had just run a marathon. It was disturbing, foreboding and I felt...little.  It seemed quite real to me and I lay there in the dark hoping that the ominous energy in the room would dissipate and allow me to catch my breath.  Oddly, the energy felt familiar, like it knew me... and I it; this has happened twice before.

You see, I was visiting my mother over the weekend and I had slept in my dad's room. Could the energy be... my dad?  Is he in a bad place?  Is he trying to communicate displeasure about something?  Do I even believe that it was a visit from him or was it just a dream; a bad combo of a scary movie, greasy pizza and cheap wine?  A very good friend suggests that no parent would come back to frighten their child, if it were possible to come back at all.  I have not been in my dad's room for any real length of time since his death.  It still smells like him.

He wore Channel and sometimes I open and sniff the bottle that he left behind. And when I do, my brain floods quickly with flashes of dad always in a crisp shirt and his gold Omega watch, ready for work. I sniff again and I can hear the crack of his voice as he chastises someone. The scent lingers in my nose and this time I see and hear him trying to teach me about hardships of life and consequences of poor life choices.  Huh? I start to laugh at that memory.

Over a double Greek in the morning with a φρυγανιά με μέλι (fregania me meli, toast with honey) he would find time to wax philosophic with me as I quickly attempted to put my shoes and coat on and seek refuge at the University. Like all good Greek men, they like to school you, using 'funny' Greek sayings and dad was textbook.  His favourite, Πρέπει να βρέξεις κώλο να φας ψάρι, "You have to get your ass wet to eat fish." And to that he would add the tag line, "do your best and be the best."  I shake my head just writing it.  Its etched in my brain, indelible in my psyche. Perhaps I should have put that saying in his obituary. lol.

Seriously though, because dad never missed a day of work EVER, I thought a great opening line for his obit would have been, "Stopped working on April 26th, 2009...etc".  My brothers cringed.  What?  It's quirky and truthful and a testament to what he loved best in his life.  You can use the opening line, if you like it, Σου το χαρίζω, because my brothers ended up writing the standard text.  "Passed away on April 26th, 2009...etc.", yawn.

Dad had his mornings free to do banking and make phone calls, but most times I would find him sitting at the kitchen table, turned sideways in his chair, looking out the large sliding glass door at the end of the family room.  He would sit as if in meditation admiring his estate for long stretches of time and the silence would be broken with a loud sigh, "Αh", and then he would mutter one of his Greek sayings almost inaudibly, "My house, my little home, my poor little shack", Σπίτι μου, σπιτάκι μου, φτωχοκαλυβάκι μου.  No matter what place you call home, there is nothing like it.  And his obsession to build this Greek House has now become mine. 

I admittedly have been consumed by the details, the progress and the future outcome of this Verga house.  Striving to make it "the best", it occupies my waking thoughts and likely interferes with my REM sleep.  I have called upon my father many times, in anger, in confusion and in sadness;  especially during the early discovery process of the status of his Greek estate and all the shards that were left for me to pickup.  And I can hear my father's voice answer me with  "Every beginning is difficult", Κάθε αρχή και δύσκολη.   There have been tough situations throughout these 3 years since his death that I had asked myself, "what would dad do, or even say?"  And who knew that all these 'funny' Greek sayings that had seemingly washed over me actually ring true on every level of my present. 

I know precisely what dad would say to me now and I don't need a phantazma  (φάντασμα , apparition) to deliver any messages, "Since you've  joined the dance, you must dance",  Αφού μπήκες στο χορό, θα χορέψεις. And its a good thing I like to dance, because I'm doing a lot of it.

And today as I prepare my father's kolliva (κόλλυβα, memorial cereal grains for the dead), adding the pomegranate seeds, the toasted slivered almonds, the sweet cinnamon sugar, raisins and all the aromatics to the wheat pearls, I can't help but think,  would he like it? Is it too wet, too dry, too sweet...is it the best?   Of course it is.   I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm always trying to do my very best.

Not My Kind of Boys Club

You know, you'd think I'd be used to the yelling and the posturing of Greek men, because I grew up with three of them. My brothers are great accomplished men but when we all lived together with dad, we had to protect ourselves; he was a bully. And I certainly was no shrinking violet. I got right in there and battled with the best of them.

My training in the trenches, with General Ghangis Khan (that's what I called dad, inside voice only) would later serve me well in my media career. When I was paired up with two male broadcasters known for their "high maintenance" status, I managed them well and with great success. It garnered me a badge of honour among my peers and secured my position in the boys club.

So knowing that I can certainly hold my own with the opposite sex, and with the attitude of  'been there, done that', 'got the war wounds to prove it', I got set to do  battle once again with the old guard in Kalamata. I was in Greece for 10 days, this past February, a limited time for sure because of a deadline that needed my attention. The illegalities of the house needed to be rectified or declared, by the end of the month, or thus pay a fine. It had been decided that I would attempt to purchase some land adjacent to mine to shore up my acreage and thus bypass the penalty that would ensue. But something far more interesting developed.


Sunny Athens, Courtesy of Peter Boufeas

My father's younger brother, an American from NJ, and his wife, had decided to visit their daughter in Athens who had just had twin boys. The timing was perfect, so I had asked them to join me for a couple of days in Kalamata to chat with PI about the situation with the house. The thought was, that if I had some American muscle accompany me to the meeting with PI the original builder/engineer mihanikos (μηχανικος) , that this time he would acquiesce.

I secured an evening appointment with PI and chose not to disclose that I had family in tow.  PI is a tall man, robust, fair skinned with a bristly face.  Non threatening actually, as he sat slouched  behind his desk.  As I lead my entourage into his office, his eyes widen with surprise, especially when he sees my Uncle, his cousin, my father's brother, standing there.

We opened with the obvious pleasantries, but once we launched into the details of the house, he was aggressive and defencive.  We were not prepared at all!  PI had rebuttals for every question, statement  and possible solutions that we offered. In fact, he was steadfast and insistent that there are no obstacles or illegalities with the house and nothing holding back the completion of the house.  What is he talking about? What am I missing here?  He even went so far as to boldly say that we didn't even require a building permit.  That to me was so insulting to my intelligence, that if I had a firmer grasp of the Greek language, I would have ripped him a new one and the whole town of Kalamata would have heard me.  Alas, I suffer from GSL (Greek as a Second Language) and  besides, the Oxford Greek English Dictionary that I toted around was not exactly the source for the words that I was looking for.  In fact, is there such a phrase book?  Let me know.

I left the meeting feeling defeated, confused and in desperate need of an ice cold grey goose martini. Actually, I wouldn't mind one right now.  It was very late and I left my laptop back at my Theo's (Uncle θείο ), house, so I found my way to an Internet Cafe along the paralia (παραλια beach). It was horrid, smokey, full of testosterone and smelled of sweat.  The men stared with disbelief that I dare enter the boys club, but I didn't care, I needed to communicate with Peter Boufeas my builder/engineer mihanikos (μηχανικος).  I took the opportunity to then pour over all the emails that Boufeas had sent me regarding the illegalities of the house and then I suddenly realized what PI was really telling me that evening; hire him back to finish the house.

Boufeas  (http://www.naquatec.gr/), received my SOS email and came down willingly, without complaint (at least not to me) from Athens to Kalamata the next day, a three hour drive.   I set up a another meeting with PI for that evening and this time Boufeas was coming with me.  

We were like a small army, five in total. The Americans, myself, Mr. Parthenios and Peter Boufeas.  We marched right into PI office with great determination and let's just say, Boufeas went all 'gangsta' on him.   As their voices grew louder and their body language shifted to attack mode, I would cringe and look away from the scene unfolding. Soon, the verbal attacks grew more personal. First, performing a character assassination on my father postmortem and then on each others status as professional engineers. Geez, talk about a boys club.  I sat there beside Peter and all I could do was watch him fight for me.   Demanding that PI own up to the issues with the house and property and help rectify the situation, so that I may continue to build the house legally, with Boufeas as the new mihanikos. 


I tried to sit still, but I started to have a physical reaction to the verbal blows, so I actually had to get up and leave the room, briefly...a real first for me.  Can you believe it?   See, I've been absent from that war room scene for some time now,  I married an Englishman, and life is considerably less combative as a result.  Nevertheless, my husbands pet name for me  is "little fists", as opposed to, "oh, my delicate little orchid."  I realized right there and then, that I'm like a war veteran who has seen so much action that when a car backfires they duck and cover because they think its a bomb going off. LOL.

The best thing I've ever seen.

When I returned to the room, the melee was over.  PI looked drained and was slumped back in his chair like one of Muhammad Ali's sparring partners, battered, bloodied and hanging onto the corner ropes.  Boufeas then informed me that PI had finally conceded that my house was indeed illegal, that he ultimately was responsible and was now willing to help rectify the situation.  I was gobsmacked, to use one of Boufeas' English expressions.  I was gone for five minutes and the issue was resolved?  Boufeas, flushed, looked snidely in the direction of his vanquished opponent who sat in a crumpled, sweaty, embarrassed heap behind his desk.  Boufeas looked at me and smiled.  'My work here is done,' he said, and made a hasty and triumphant exit out the door.  I didn't need American muscle, I thought to myself, I have Superman.

So this is not my kind of boys club, it's dirty and hits below the belt and I honestly don't want any part of it.   And Boufeas clued in rather quickly, mercifully.  He knows it's personal for me and I'm angry and its raw. I'm content to be on the fringe during these types of confrontations and I'm sure Κυριε Boufeas, I mean Clark Kent, is too.