The Mani, Part 1

The Mani peninsula is the middle of the three Peloponnese fingers that stretch down into the Ionian sea.  It is a hot, dry land with mountains that reach right down to the water—guidebook authors write of its “stark beauty.”  

As we began our drive down the peninsula from Patras, where our ship had landed, we had to adjust to the Greek way of driving.  The local drivers seemed to have collectively decided that the wide shoulder flanking each of the two lanes was wide enough to be a lane in its own right, thereby turning creating a four lane road.  Cars passed each other willfully, on the left and the right.  Fortunately we had decided to take the more scenic route on smaller roads, which were much less traveled.

We stopped in XXX for some lunch and as I looked over the menu, I was once again, I was happy to be out of Croatia.  I ordered a tomato and a pepper stuffed with rice and spices and baked—delicious, and Greek salad.  Our waiter brought us a plate of watermelon to end the meal.  C.C. had lost a tooth in Croatia and had five euros burning a whole in her pocket, which she used to purchase a wooden sword to complete her knight costume.

We found an open supermarket on our way to Drosopigi, where we are staying, and stocked up on Greek yogurt, feta cheese, and other staples.  I found some meatballs that looked good and local in the freezer, but it was impossible to tell what kind of meat they were made with.  I asked the lone clerk, who had no idea what I was saying, so I set about making farm animal noises—I mooed, baahed, and oinked.  I was pretty sure they were made of beef, but making animal noises in another country is risky.  Dogs say “woof” in the US and “guau” in Mexico, for example.  Chickens say “cock-a-doodle-doo” in the US and “ki-ki-di-kee” in Spain.  So I found a picture of a cow on a box of milk. She nodded her head.  We bought the meatballs.  This is my first time ever in a country where I do not know the alphabet at all, and it is impossible even to sound out the words on signs and boxes. I’m used to being able to at least pick out the words in Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese.  No such luck here.

Our goal in choosing places to stay was to keep away from the throngs of tourists, and we seem to have succeeded.  My husband has a penchant for finding places that are perched on the edges of mountaintops, at the end of impossibly windy roads.  We have one of four apartments in a gorgeous stone building built in the traditional style by George, who welcomed us when we arrived.  His in-laws have lived in Drosopigi for generations.  The Philothea traditional houses have thick stone walls, and windows that provide amazing views of the sea below.  George finished construction late last year, so this is the first season guests have stayed in them.

Everything is simple and clean—white and off-white linens, marble sinks, a fabulous bathtub.  The window and door frames are painted Greek blue.  We have a terrace off the kitchen equipped with a table and umbrella, and a small balcony off of the master bedroom.  The kids sleep up in a loft, which they love.

We spent our first day getting settled, and drove into nearby Areopolis for fruit and vegetables, to walk around, and have some lunch.  It’s a small, quiet town, made quieter by the intense heat, which slows everybody and everything.  The metal slide and swings in the playground in the town square would have branded our children had they attempted to use it.

We ate lunch at a small taverna.  I ordered a vegetable stew made with zucchini greens and blossoms and it was delicious—who ever thought of eating zucchini greens?  Spaghetti Bolognese continues to be ubiquitous, so Milo remains happy.  We found watermelon and local cherries, peaches and plums at the produce market.  And piles and piles of greens—the ones that had been in my stew and a few other varieties besides.

The tiny church in town is of simple construction but elaborately painted, every inch covered with biblical scenes.  An enormous, rustic chandelier hangs low over the central space.

While eating dinner on our terrace, our neighbors arrived—Italian father, German mother, and 6-year old son, Oscar.  They seemed friendly enough.

The next day we drove down to Skoutari Bay to go to the beach.  “Another boiler,” C.C. proclaimed as she trudged out of the house.  It was.  39 degrees Celsius—I don’t know exactly what that translates to in Fahrenheit, but I know it’s more than 90, and that it is super hot.  Fortunately, George’s mother-in-law, Maria, had lent us a beach umbrella.  We had bought the kids flippers in Dubrovnik and distributed them on the beach.  They have become good little snorkelers on this trip, and paddles around happily for hours.  The water is very calm, and you can walk out forever without it getting too deep, so it’s perfect for them.  Indeed, given the sparse air conditioning around here, the water is really the place to be.

When he oriented us to the building, George explained that he had installed an ecological cooling system—he didn’t like the noise and the look of portable window units.  His system had involved digging several 90 meter holes into the ground into which he had inserted some kind of poles.   Somehow, all of this ends up cooling the floors of the units, which is supposed to cool the air itself.  The key is to close up all the window shutters at night because the sun comes in full blast early in the morning.  It works, sort of.  Except that Tuesday and Wednesday were SO hot that it was 28 degrees even in the apartment.  We spent our days floating in the sea.

We woke on Thursday morning to a fresh breeze—the heat had broken!  We had promised the kids a day around the house with no getting in the car, and that’s what we did.  We read books, watched movies, went for walks, and generally lazed about.  It’s good for the soul.