Amalia's Grecian Odyssey, Part 4--Fearlessly into the Mani

The Mani region in the southern Peloponnesus has been notorious for over 400 years (from the fall of Mystra in 1480 or so until about 1870) for the fierce blood feuds, worthy of the Hatfields and the McCoys, that caused families to barricade themselves inside their fortress-like homes and devote themselves to wiping out their neighbors, invaders (and pirates).

 Every inaccessible rock and hill in Mani usually is topped by one of the Maniote towers--built several floors high with narrow windows just big enough to stick the barrel of a shotgun through.  Some men lived most of their lives inside their fortress/home.  It was against the rules to shoot women and children, so the wives were gun runners and while not likely to be executed by rival families, women and girls might be kidnapped by enemies and sold to the Turks or the pirates.

Amalia and her entourage based themselves in the Turkish-style Kyrimai Hotel in Gerolimenas, once a  trade center for importing goods from Syros and the Middle East.   The hotel is now famous for its chef, Yiannis Baxevanis.  Breakfast every day, overlooking the water, was a revelation featuring several courses including local specialities.

 On the first night Amalia strolled a few hundred yards into the harbor and decided to have dinner at the Etilekton which, you might guess from this photo, specializes in fresh-caught octopus.  She quickly discovered a new favorite food--octopus meatballs.

 The kitties liked them too.

 While we ate , the cliff across the harbor was lighted.

 The next day we set out to see the fortified homes and villages of Mani, many of which are still occupied (although the blood feuds were suppressed by the government in 1870.)

 Most famous is the town of Vathia.

 We continued driving south until we reached Cape Tenaro, which has several distinctions.  It is the southernmost point of continental Europe (or so I'm told). It is also the site of a small ancient structure which is called the "Sanctuary and death Oracle of Poseidon Tainarios."

  And Cape Tenaro was considered by the ancients to be one of the gates to the underworld.

Fleeing such an ominous spot, we headed to the nearb Marmari Paradise Restaurant, perched high above an inviting beach where Amalia and her  Mommy took a quick dip.  Then Amalia discovered another seafood favorite--shrimp risotto.

Back at our hotel Amalia slept through happy hour but roused herself for an unforgettable dinner at the Kyrimai Restaurant, that ended with a chocolate dream desssert.  Life in the dreaded and infamous Mani was not so tough after all, she decided.

Amalia's Grecian Odyssey, Chapter 3 - Monemvasia

Siting on our balcony in Nauplion, Mommy Eleni and Papou Nick planned our route driving to Monemvasia, our next stop on Amalía's grecian odyssey, and on Thursday, Aug. 9, we set out.

Luckily Amalía slept through most of the harrowing drive along narrow mountain roads. (Lesson learned, if there's a choice between a scenic route and a faster route inland on modern highways, do not pick the scenic route.)

Monemvasia is a medieval city carved out of large rock, something like Mont Saint-Michel in France.  It's connected to the mainland by a causeway.  No vehicles can go inside--you enter on foot through the tunnel-like gate and climb up the winding cobbled streets.  Everything is accessible only on slippery stone stairs.

Our room was part of the Theophano Art Hotel, opened this past March.  Like every room in Monemvasia, it was cave-like, with arched ceilings, because all the buildings are basically carved out of the rock.  Amalia loved going up and down that ledge you can see behind her and the steps to the bathroom.

Here is the alcove where Yiayia Joanie slept.

At twilight we went to a nearby taverna/bar to watch the sunset.

It gave Amalía a chance for her favorite activity: pushing chairs around in a restaurant.

And stealing cutlery.

We had dinner at our favorite restaurant on the island: Matoula's.

The next morning we had a delicious homemade breakfast at the main building of the Theophano Art Hotel, far below.

Here is the reception area.  They sell art works and have musical events as well.

This window looks out onto the quiet square outside.

On the way out of town we stopped at the studio of artist Gregoreas Manolis and Eleni bought one of his works just as Yiayia Joanie had bought one many years before.

Then we were off on a drive to the region of Greece called the Mani.  We stopped for lunch at  the scenic town of Areopolis

Where Amalía discovered a new favorite food: fried zucchini patties.

Amalia's Greek Odyssey Days 2 & 3- Nauplion

Staying in Nauplion--first capital of modern Greece--at the Hotel Marianna in a Turkish-style house under the crusader castle --the Dreaded Palamidi, as we always call it, perhaps because you have to climb 999 steps in the rock to get there (or drive up the back way.)

Napping and ignoring the view of Nauplion below.

Amalia had her own crib but as always prefers Mommy's bed.

First Greek beach--Karathonas outside Nauplion.

Hate the hat.  Won't wear it.

In the water with Yiayia Joanie.

Breakfast with Papou.

On the limani (harbor) in Nauplion with the lighted Bourtzi former prison in the background.

With Yiayia at dinner at Kypos on the harbor.  And then to bed in our room beneath the dreaded Palamidi.

Amalia's Odyssey--First Time in Greece

Monday August 6--Packing--Don't forget the giraffe.

Looking stylish in the security line.

Checking carry-on size.

Here's my passport.

Now where did I put that giraffe?

Sleeping on the plane.  Dreaming of tomorrow when Papou will meet us at Athens airport with a car and drive us to Nauplion for Day One of Amalía's Grecian Odyssey.

Amalia’s Big Fat Greek Baptism

 When I was growing up a Presbyterian in Minnesota, I thought that the ceremony of baptism consisted of a short period after church when the minister said a few words over the baby and splashed some water on its head.

That was long before I met a Greek-American, married him, and produced three children who all enjoyed a real Greek baptism with a cast of thousands and a long  church service which included the priest completely submerging the baby three times in the baptismal fount, and also cutting three locks of hair and anointing the child with holy oil among other colorful rituals. 

It was a learning experience.  At each of the first two baptisms—both held in St. Spyridon church in Worcester, MA., I wore a floor-length gown (as did the guests) and sat in the  front pew to help with the undressing and re-dressing of the screaming child. (The third baptism took place in Greece and was slightly more low-key, but a caterer and a tent were involved.)

Inevitably, in the church,  I would worry, like every Greek mother, that  someone would drop the screaming, slippery baby.  (In the olden days, in Greek villages, the mother didn’t even get to go to the baptism.  The godparent would bring the child to her afterward at home and inform her what its name was.)

In each baptism in St. Spyridon, as soon as I unconsciously and nervously crossed my legs, my aged father-in-law would stand up, stalk across the front of the church and scold me: “Never cross your legs in church.”  Not that I was showing as much as an inch of ankle, mind you. I would uncross, then forget and do it again.

 Proud father Nick Gage at left and godfather Steve Economou at right, dance at Eleni's baptism 36 years ago.

The baptisms of our babies were followed by a major party, major cake, lots of Greek food and wine and a live orchestra including the all-important clarinet player whose skills inspired the dancers into athletic feats that including writhing on the floor while appreciative on-lookers threw money. 

My father-in-law would lead the Greek line dances while balancing a glass of Coca Cola on his head.  He never dropped it.

 Well, the baptism last Sunday of our first grandchild, ten-month-old Amalía, at the same St. Spyridon Cathedral where her mother was baptized 36 years ago, was less over-the-top, but it was a total delight to the 131 guests, from small children to aged great aunts, some of whom threw aside canes and disabilities to demonstrate their dancing skills.

 Proud grandfather Nick Gage, now with a white beard, still is a Greek dancing star.

Amalía’s godmother Areti Vraka, came from Corfu, Greece and her godfather, José Oyanguren, came from Managua, Nicaragua.  They had both  served as attendants when Amalia’s parents  were married in Corfu two years earlier, on 10/10/10.

Areti at left dresses Amalia.  Jose at right reads from St. Paul at the baptism.

 Baby Amalía entered the church wearing an antique lace christening gown brought by her Nicaragua grandmother,  Abuela Carmen Oyanguren. It was originally made for Carmen’s father in Bruges, Belgium some 115 years ago.

 It was the inspiration of Amalía’s mommy, our daughter Eleni, to design an invitation featuring the baby dressed in the traditional “Amalia” costume which Greek girls put on for festive and patriotic occasions.  As Eleni explained in the invitation:  “Amalía is…the name of the first queen of modern Greece. ..the name of the traditional Greek costume shown here… the name of the Queen of our hearts.”

 The colors of the Amalia costume—pale blue and deep red—became the color scheme for the baptism and the flower arrangements on the tables. Amalia’s photo from the invitation was reproduced on the 24 cupcakes surrounding the baptism cake, which resembled the white lace christening gown.

The same colors were echoed in the ribbons on the religious “witness pins” worn by everyone who attended the church, and in the blue Murano glass crosses attached to the traditional “boubounieres” –the candy-almond-filled favors on the tables. On every table was an "Amalía doll"--Every child got one.

Last Sunday the dresses were no longer floor-length gowns and the live orchestra was replaced by a DJ, but he pulled out old favorite Greek songs and dances as well as Spanish-language  standards for the Nicaraguan contingent.  Amalia’s Daddy,  Emilio, danced first with his daughter and then with his wife.

 And before the party was over, ten-month-old Amalia, no doubt on a sugar high caused by my feeding her an entire cupcake, managed to dance to the Greek music on her own two feet, just as her mother had danced at her own baptism 36 years before.

(For a moving and insightful explanation of the meaning of the baptism rituals, check out the  post of Amalía’s mommy, author Eleni Baltodano Gage, on her blog "The Liminal Stage":  “The Circle Dance: The Sacred and the Mundane.”)