2010 Travel Notes #9: Everybody's a Macedonian

If Macedonia did not exist, I think it would have to be invented. Neighboring Serbia, Bulgaria and Greece each have conflicting and overlapping historical claims to the area. The existence of an independent Macedonia helps keep the eager claimants in their separate corners, so to speak. Serbians remember their long years together in Yugoslavia and see little tangible difference between themselves and the Macedonians. Bulgaria also has a historical claim to the area, and when it comes right down to it, view their neighbors as merely southwestern Bulgars. But it is the Greeks who make the most noise about the region. They long opposed adoption of the very name Macedonia, and insist upon the awkward Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, or FYROM. The Greeks believe they have sole rights to the Macedonian franchise, and indeed, in northern Greece the connection is particularly emphasized, especially in their own province of Macedonia. And it is not hard to understand why. If a Macedonian were something different than a Greek, then Greece could not rightfully claim Alexander the Great, and that would be just, just, just....well, it's unthinkable to a Greek. I visited none of the traditional ancient Greek tourist attractions, with one exception. I did see King Philip's tomb in northern Greece. The excavations of the royal tumulus were worth the trouble. I was amused, however, to see that the very first panel in the exhibition hall stated that the names uncovered in this archaeological site were Greek, thereby proving that the Macedonians were nothing more than northern Greeks. While the Macedonian merchants of Ohrid were certainly keen to capitalize on all things Alexander in merchandising their wares, they will have to go far to catch up with their Greek neighbors. In Thessaloniki, Alexander sits astride Bucephalus in a huge equestrian statue on the sea walk. I found it ironic that this rendering does favor Brad Pitt (that movie is a guilty pleasure--but only for its depictions of ancient Babylon and India, something not usually seen on screen.) My favorite view of Alexander is from Veronese, in his The Family of Darius before Alexander, with the conqueror depicted as Renaissance Venetian, in the style of the day. (Is the family of Darius pleading before Alexander, or Hesphation? Ah, only Veronese knows.)

















As best I can tell, the Macedonians themselves seem unperturbed by this tug-of-war over their legacy. At the Church of Sveta Sofija in Ohrid, I overheard a young tour guide laughing about it and trying to explain the situation to a troop of English senior citizens in shorts, knee-socks and sandals who were otherwise taking note of the "quaint" artwork inside (sarcasm intended.) In short, I picked up on no signs of an existential identity crisis on the Macedonian side of things. Whatever they are, their culture seems decidedly unGreek to me. If I had to choose, I would find Macedonians to be culturally closer to Bulgaria than their other neighbors. There, I've said it.






The country is small, and generally pleasant to the eye. There are mountains and rolling hills, dense forests and cultivated fields, rustic villages and modern city life. Unlike neighboring Kosovo, Macedonia contains lots of open land, with the population centered in Skopje, Ohrid and Prilep. For the traveler, the jewel is undoubtedly Lake Ohrid and the city of Ohrid itself. And that was exactly where I was headed once out of Albania.





The border crossing between Pogradec and Ohrid is right on the shores of the lake itself. And the twisting road on into Ohrid is one of the most scenic that I encountered. My first stop was only a couple of kilometers inside Macedonia--the Monastery and Church of St. Naum. I have not studied the life of St. Naum, but I understand that he was a disciple of St. Methodius and initiated monastic life in this region of the Balkans. The church and extensive monastic complex sit right on the shores of Lake Ohrid. An exclusive resort hotel and restaurant occupy part of the monastic complex--in fact not over 100 ft. away from the church itself. This seemed a bit odd to me, but then I do not really know anything about the relationship between the monastery and resort. St. Naum's receives a steady stream of visitors, so the lane leading along the lake to its entrance is lined with vendors of every sort. Despite all this, the monastic grounds were the furthest thing from a circus-like atmosphere. In fact, St. Naum's was one of my favorite churches.

The original church dates to 900, but the current structure was built in the 17th century. St. Naum's relics are within the church. I was quite impressed with the iconography, remembering particularly that of St. Elijah the Prophet and the 40 Martyrs of Sebaste in the narthex. While there were a few foreign travelers like myself, most visitors were Macedonian pilgrims. I lit a number of candles here, and the atmosphere was conducive to prayer. St. Naum's is noted for the peacocks which guard the grounds. I am fascinated by these incredible creatures! And on this journey, I had only begun to better realize their Christian symbolism. At church after church, when I looked closely at the intricately carved wooden iconostasis, I would invariable find peacocks. In perhaps my favorite O'Connor short story, The Displaced Person, Father Flynn marvels at the birds on Mrs. McIntyre's farm. She sees them as useless mouths to feed. When one fans his tail, Father Flynn exclaims "Christ will come like that!" I feel the same way.

I had one somewhat humorous experience at the church. I was about to leave, and stepped over to the booth to look over the icons and other small souvenirs there. The worker manning the post spoke to me, and upon learning I was an American, took a bottle from behind his desk and poured me a shot. The best I could understand, I was being treated to Macedonian schnapps. Then he reached for another bottle and poured me a second shot. From what I could tell, this elixir was Macedonian ouzo. This second shot went down as good as the first, though I am generally not a big fan of raki or ouzo. I do not know if these spirits were distilled on the monastery or not. He did have bottles for sale, but there was no pressure to buy. I think he just wanted to show a foreign traveler that Macedonia could produce some pretty good firewater. Two thoughts went through my mind. First, I realized just how much I loved my church. He and I were separated by language, but united in our Orthodox faith and appreciation of good alcohol. Some may differ, but I just found the episode to be altogether wholesome, innocent and yes, even spiritually healthy. And this, in turn, reminded me just how much my life has changed in the last 5-6 years, with memories of incidents in years past flooding back into my consciousness. In my pre-Orthodox days, I held a position in my old church, and I was forced to resign that role partially due to the dread "demon" alcohol (not that I am complaining, mind you, for that action set me free to pursue becoming Orthodox.) In our church leadership "reaffirmation" process, 3 of my wife's relatives voted not to "reaffirm" me, and they did so because I drank wine. The cruel irony here is that there were all sorts of perfectly legitimate reasons why I had no business at all being "reaffirmed" in any type of leadership role, had they known. But that was the best they could come up with, and for them, that was ammunition enough. Of course, this was not any big secret, as we kept the wine and the wine glasses on the buffet at home, there for anyone to see. And they weren't there just for looks. I think they got bent out of shape the time I cut the communion grape juice with wine. One of them later shouted at me that he had vowed to never touch alcohol and now I had ruined it for him. I suppose I ought to be more remorseful about that than I am. Anyway, that episode characterized the cramped, narrow, brown-suited, tight-assed approach to most everything in that church. Oh yes, things are much better now. I'll throw my lot with my new Macedonian friend over my wife's cousin any day of the week.

From St. Naum's, I followed the twisting lake road into Ohrid. I did not really do Ohrid justice. First, I had copied some basic information about the city from the Lonely Planet guidebook--but had reduced the size to where I could fit eight pages on one page. This was a good idea for saving space, but a bad plan for being able to read the map. So, I had to more or less feel my way around the old city, based on my memory of what I had read before. Second, beginning here in Ohrid and lasting for about a week, I was so ill that I began to contemplate returning home early. From here on out, at every step of the way I trimmed from my itinerary and devoted more time to rest and recuperation.

Most of what one wants to see in Ohrid is located in the walled old town, on the western edge of the city. I managed to find the entrance through the Upper Gate and started working my way though the narrow streets of the old city. Here, I had an experience straight out of a Chevy Chase movie. I was driving slow, looking for a hotel or rooms to let. The streets twisted and turned and split off, and I followed what I thought to be the main thoroughfare. I was mistaken. Every cobbled street I turned down narrowed on me the further I drove. On the last one, I apparently missed the "do not enter" sign. This alleyway plunged down the hill, with just enough room to squeeze between the backs of the adjoining buildings. When I reached the bottom, I realized that I was at the intersection with a pedestrian shopping street. A little boy came up to me and by his motioning, I surmised that I was not supposed to have driven down that alley, and I certainly was not supposed to drive onto the pedestrian street. But there was no way out, I could not realistically back up that hill. And so, I did the only thing I could do--I eased out onto the pedestrian way. The strollers were a bit surprised to see my black hatchback easing down the promenade, but they stepped to the side, and more importantly, they did not point and laugh. As I passed, I simply shrugged my shoulders and feigned incompetence in my best Chevy Chase manner (not much of a stretch in this instance.) A young man grinned at me, understanding my predicament. He told me that when the pedestrian street hit the plaza, I could turn right and ease into a parking lot, from which I could access a real street. This was accomplished in due time, and I eventually made my way to a nice hotel fronting on Lake Ohrid.

I rested a bit, and set out to walk--not drive--the old city. I missed several of the churches I should have seen. But I did see the 11th-century Church of Sveta Sofija. Apparently it is not now a functioning church. Sadly, a piano inside the nave, as well as rows of chairs, gave it away as nothing more than a concert hall. I almost passed out walking up the steep hill from Sveta Sofija to the Upper Gate. The weather was mild and I have seen much steeper grades--I was just sicker than I realized. But after sitting on a stoop for awhile, I pressed on and visited the excavation site of the old 5th-century basilica on this highest point overlooking Lake Ohrid. Between the archaeological digs and the lake stands the impressive new Church of Sveta Klement i Pantelejom (Church of Sts. Clement and Panteleimon.) From there, I followed a trail that looped down to a ledge above the lake. And after rounding a bend, and came upon the Church of St. John Kanoa. The views from here are breathtaking, and the little church itself is exquisite. My time here alone made Ohrid worth the visit. I lit some candles and had the small church to myself for some time. The caretaker saw that I was not just a tourist and took time to explain the particular icons to me. Like St. Stephen's in Meteora, and St. Naum's, and others I would experience later, I felt St. John Kanoa to be a very holy place, a special church that I will always remember. I purchased an icon of St. John the Theologian for my son, as that is his patron saint. I expressed my appreciation to the caretaker and sat down on a bench outside to rest up for the long walk back to the hotel. An old man nearby offered to take me back in his boat. I readily agreed to this plan. We puttered along the shoreline of Lake Ohrid, past the swimmers and the picnickers, and those lounging in the outdoor cafes, and the dog-walkers, and the mothers out with their babies (of which there are lots in Ohrid)--all in all, the best view of the city. The old man taxied his boat to the boardwalk right in front of my hotel. I stayed close by the remainder of the day, watching the sun set over Lake Ohrid, and observing the rhythm of this most pleasant of cities.

The next day, I saw quite a bit of Macedonia, but not as I had planned. I wanted to visit the Treskavec Monastery atop Mount Zlato, near Prilep. As it turned out, this was a rainy Saturday, and I knew I could not make the climb, even in sunny weather. So, I decided against trying for the monastery. Prilep itself was interesting, in a scruffy sort of way. One of my enduring mental images is that of being stopped at a street crossing, and hearing the jingling of bells. A horse pulling a cart was trotting briskly towards the intersection, and as it passes in front of me, I saw the bells attached to the back. I decided to push on to Kosovo that day and make it to Gracaneca Monastery, and then decide which way to proceed from there. As related in the previous post, I returned back to Macedonia at the end of the day and looked for lodging near Skopje.

I did not particularly want to stay in Skopje itself, though it is a nice enough city. A major earthquake struck in 1963, and most everything has been constructed since that date. I was surprised to see quite a few mosques in Skopje. Macedonia is, I believe, about 30% Muslim. And given the crush of population in Kosovo, this number will undoubtedly rise. I had read somewhere of the small Church of St. Pantelejmon in the village of Gorno Nerezi. A hotel was said to be adjacent, much like at St. Naum's. Gorno Nerezi appears on no map, not even Google Maps at its most detailed. The village was said to be on the mountain overlooking Skopje. As there was basically one mountain that fit this category, and one road ascending it, I thought my chances were good to find the church. Persistence paid off, and I discovered the church and hotel. St. Pantelejmon was built in 1164 by Alexios Angelos Konemnos, grandson of Alexios I, and nephew of the noted historian Anna Konemnos. Architecturally, the church is a small jewel. As luck would have it, a wedding was about to get underway. This would be the second Saturday night wedding I would observe. The adjoining hotel had a room available (in fact, all were available.) From my front door, I had a clear view down to the church. I walked over and looked in a bit, but chose not to elbow my way inside during the wedding ceremony. I was amused by one woman who stood in the doorway to the narthex, craning her head inside to watch, turning back only to take a draw on the cigarette she was holding in her outstretched hand. After the wedding itself, the priest introduced the new couple to everyone assembled, and then they all adjourned to the restaurant, where the band and food and wine was waiting on them. I would get up occasionally during the night and step outside my room. Looking down the way, I could see many of the guests in a large circle with locked arms, dancing slowly to the traditional Balkan music. The festivities did not keep me up, but I still slept fitfully. Early in the night, I was surprised to hear the last call to prayer from the mosque in the village. I thought this unusual, as the small community also contained this church, as well as a monastery in a different location. In other words, it was a thoroughly mixed village. In cases like this, I had assumed the intrusiveness of the Muslim call to prayer would have been foregone.

The next morning, I asked the waiter if there would be services at the church that Sunday. He was not sure, but thought there would be liturgy at 11:00. With this uncertainty in mind, I made the decision to push on to Serbia. I drove down the mountain, through Skopje, and soon found myself on the main highway leading to Belgrade. My time in Macedonia was short, but I came away favorably impressed. One day I might return. If I do, next time I will certainly buy a bottle of that schnapps.

(I apologize for the slowness in which these travel notes are being posted. There should be about 6 or 7 remaining.)

Tony Judt

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“The historian’s task is not to disrupt for the sake of it, but it is to tell what is almost always an uncomfortable story and explain why the discomfort is part of the truth we need to live well and live properly,” he told Historically Speaking. “A well-organized society is one in which we know the truth about ourselves collectively, not one in which we tell pleasant lies about ourselves.”


from the obituary of Tony Judt, here.

Georgian Chant

I enthusiastically recommend The New York Times' recent story on Georgian polyphonic chant, here. The author interviewed two friends of mine, John A. Graham and Luarsab Togonidze, both experts on the subject.

It’s a familiar scene in Georgia, a Caucasus country where haunting three-voice chants reverberate through incense-heavy air in ancient churches packed with the faithful. Nationalist pride and the increasing strength of the Georgian Orthodox Church are intertwined with a revival of its ancient polyphonic sacred music, repressed during the Soviet regime.

It must be a rare visitor to Georgia who isn’t captivated by the stunning scenery, food and music. The small country — ecologically diverse and bordering Turkey, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Russia and the Black Sea — is rich in relics of defenders and conquerors. Farmers scythe hay in the shadow of crumbling 10th-century fortresses and ghostly factories. Churches and monasteries dot the landscape in impossibly beautiful settings, like the medieval Gergeti Trinity Church, an architectural gem nestled in fields of wildflowers.

“Other countries have allies to protect them,” said Luarsab Togonidze, a historian who has sung with the Ensemble Basiani, but “Georgians are orphans.” He added, “This land is a crossroads and dangerous. Why did Georgians never leave this land and move somewhere safer? There is something magic here.”

Exactly so.

2010 Travel Notes #8: Kosovo and Greater Albania

One of the most fascinating and eventful periods in Balkan history occurred in the 50 years or so that ended with the signing of the Treaty of Lausanne between Greece and Turkey in 1923. During that time, the Balkan nations were emerging and beginning to come into their own. Borders were in almost constant flux, with innumerable small and larger scale wars. Most of these conflicts remain unknown in the West, though their ramifications still loom large in the nations involved (of which more, in a subsequent post.) These Balkan wars grew out of competing visions--that of a Great Greece, a Greater Bulgaria and/or a Greater Serbia--and usually at the expense of a Lesser Macedonia. Since 1923, however, the borders have more or less been in place, and while there may be occasional grumbling, there is no serious questioning of the status quo, no revanchement in the making. A late-comer to the race is the former whipping-boy of the Balkans--Albania. And it could be that the Albanians, by sheer demographics, are succeeding where their neighbors failed.

My time among the Albanians was limited--a few hours in Albania proper, and later about the same amount of time in Kosovo. Even that small window is skewed. I traveled in what may be the most prosperous region of Albania--the southeast quadrant wedged between Greece and the Ohrid area of Macedonia. My exposure to Kosovo was basically confined to the highway corridor from Skopje, Macedonia to Pristina, the capital of Kosovo. So, take my observations for what they are--and realize that they may not be applicable to the larger region.

At the remote border crossing between Greece and Albania, the Greek guard asked me why I wanted to go into Albania--not in a "what-kind-of-contraband-do-you-have-in-your-trunk" kind of question, but a "why in the world do you want to go there" type of way. I told him I was working my way towards Ohrid and that seemed to satisfy him. He shrugged and motioned me on through. The first site that you see on the Albanian side is one of Enver Hoxa's derelict old bunkers from the bad old days. They are literally everywhere, an enduring testament to one man's xenophobia.

I found the landscape in this region of Albania to be surprisingly pleasant. Distant mountains loomed in the background, framing wide, seemingly fertile valleys. Somewhat surprisingly, the one word I would use to described the country is "bustling." The area I observed--and this primarily on the highway from Korce to Pogradec--seemed to be a beehive of activity. Perhaps this is due to the fact that agriculture here is so labor intensive. Fields were in cultivation everywhere, with men, women and children out in force, working their crops. I passed few cars on the highway, as most people were riding in pony carts, or on bicycles, or walking. Interestingly, the cars I did see were invariably Mercedes-Benzes. New construction was in evidence here and there, both commercial and residential. One homeowner seemed to be trying for an Albanian "Tara."

In persecution of Christians, nothing compares with the sheer scope of Soviet brutality during the 20th century. No Communist regime, however, pursued the abolition of all religion--Christian and Muslim--more methodically, systematically or consistently than the Albanian regime. At least 355 Albanian priests died at the hands of the Communists. At the end of the regime, 22 Orthodox priests remained alive. Today, the church is enjoying something of a resurgence--over 150 new churches have been constructed, 60 monasteries and over 160 existing churches have been repaired, and with clergy now numbering about 150. Officially, Albania is said to be 70% Muslim, yet on first glance one does not sense this at all. The way women are dressed is the most obviously indicator to the casual observer. Everyone I saw seemed dressed to be working in the fields, with many of the women wearing broad-brimmed straw hats. I did not see a single instance of a women in overtly Muslim dress. The picture below depicts an Orthodox Church and a mosque in the small village of Vashtemi. One would see the occasional church, but in actuality I saw little evidence of either churches or mosques in Albania. The Hoxa regime may have done their work all too well.

I planned to make a swing through Korce, the largest town in the region. Albanian tourism is a relatively new thing, and published guidebooks for the country are practically nonexistent. The best resources are online sources, such as Virtual Tourist. But I did have a Lonely Planet guidebook for Eastern Europe, with a slim chapter on Albania. According to them, Korce had a certain charm, with an impressive Orthodox Church, and "wide, tree-lined boulevards." Somehow, I missed that part of town. Korce was, however, a going-concern; a bustling, dusty market town with garish modern architecture. I suspect that the writers for the LP guide were doing a bit of padding. Pogradec, on Lake Ohrid, which was treated dismissively in the book, however, I found to be an attractive city. I drove along the shores of Lake Ohrid, as Albanian families were picnicing on the beach, and passed through the little-used border crossing into Macedonia.

I will have to admit that I am not a fan of Kosovo. This is not just sympathy for the plight of the Serbian Orthodox minority there, although there is certainly that. My prejudice, however, is more closely tied to our appalling foreign policy in this area--began by the Clintons and the criminal Albright, sanctioned by Bush II and apparently approved by the current administration. I have posted my thoughts before, here, and here. The imposed recognition of an "independent" Kosovo opens an international can of woms that will plague many nations for years to come. The Russo-Georgian war of 2008 is a direct consequence, with an "independent" South Ossetia and Abhkazia. With this new principle in place, what is to keep any region with a distinct minority from pressing for independence? And under these new guidelilnes, there are those places with far more legitimate claims than Kosovo. Let's be clear, there is no such thing as a "Kosovar," there are simply Albanians living in Kosovo. I realize that my views are not always consistent. On the one hand, I favor localism. I would be fine if Europe consisted of 150 Grand Fenwicks. On the other hand, I believe that the Austro-Hungarian Empire probably worked better than anything that has come after. And the unfettered nationalism unleashed and given sanction after the First World War has hardly been an unqualified success. My opposition to an independent Kosovo in no way
excuses the abuses of the Milosevic regime, where much of the blame must fall. That said, a number of other options, including the autonomy offered by Serbia, would have been preferable to outright independence. Even a defacto partition with predominately Albanian areas annexed to Albania proper seems a better option than what is in place now. For behind the facade of an independent Kosovo, supposedly ready to take its place among the community of nations, is the reality of systematic thuggery, where 2/3 of the Serbian Orthodox population has been ethnically cleansed, their lands and businesses appropriated and hundreds of churches and cemeteries desecrated and/or destroyed. All the while, the government and the KFOR troops looked the other way. A thousand years of history is being wiped clean, and replaced with boxy Saudi-financed mosques. I would recommend reading Crucified Kosovo, Hiding Genocide in Kosovo (written by a KFOR soldier), and Kosovo: The Score, 1999-2009.

So, you might say I entered Kosovo with something of a chip on my shoulder. I crossed the border north of Skopje, and headed north towards Pristina on the main highway. My goal was Gracanica Monastery (to be addressed in my following post.) From there, I originally intended to cut across Kosovo to visit the Decani Monastery, from which I would exit into Montenegro. As it turned out, I drove to Gracanica and then retraced my course back to Skopje, realizing that my original plan would have been unwise.

The landscape of Kosovo itself is pleasant enough, wide valleys dotted with villages full of the chalet-type homes I would later find so prevalent in Serbia. My first impression of Kosovo was that the entire region was under construction--the roads packed, houses and businesses going up everywhere, and the dust flying. Money was clearly flowing in from somewhere. I also noticed that Kosovo differed from every country I visited on this journey. Everywhere else, I passed through vast areas of open, uninhabited country--with plenty of room for population expansion, as well as for preserving wilderness reserves. Not so in Kosovo, which gave every indication of actually being filled-up. The region is much more heavily populated than any area I visited elsewhere in the Balkans. I sympathize with those who proclaim that Kosovo will always be a part of Serbia. But, the reality on the ground suggests otherwise. Demographics often trumps history. Simply put, the Albanians have spent the last several generations having children, whereas the Serbians have not. This population crush bodes ill for neighboring countries, Macedonia in particular where the Albanian Muslim influence is much stronger than I would have thought. Finally, I will have to say that on the surface of things, Kosovo does not appear overtly Muslim. Every village has a mosque with a soaring minaret, for sure, but the people themselves dress as their Balkan neighbors do. Men of all ages wear shorts, something generally not done in Muslim countries. I saw very few women dressed in traditional Muslim attire. Kosovo appears to be thorough-goingly secular.

After an emotional visit to Gracanica, I decided to return to Macedonia as quickly as possible. Near the border, I passed the lonely Church of St. Elijah along the highway. Burned and desecrated, it stood yet, a lonely sentinel and reminder...for now.

2010 Travel Notes #7: Meteora

I almost skipped Meteora. My Rough Guide and Lonely Planet guidebook, as well as Evlogeite! all bemoan the impact of modern tourism on the monasteries. All offer tips on how to avoid, as much as possible. this crush of tour-bus visitors. This put me on my guard, as my natural inclination is to seek the out-of-the-way and the little-visited. But to have by-passed Meteora would have been a sin.

Yes, the tour-buses are a factor to be dealt with. And this will be the only post in this series in which I engage in Greek-bashing. My time there was a good one, leaving me favorably impressed with the people as a whole. That said, the Greek tourists I encountered at Meteora did their country little credit. The main problem, as I see it, is that Meteora's incredible landscape makes it a destination in and of itself, regardless of the monasteries. This means that many, if not most, of these tourists are coming for the scenery, and may not be particularly interested in the monasteries at all. Meteora is a full day-trip from most places on mainland Greece--it is not on the way to anywhere. The tour-buses roll in, disgorge their passengers, and at the end of the day, rumble back to Athens, Thessaloniki or whatever city they came from. With that in mind, why do these tourists dress as if they were going to the beach? Every monastery posts signs stating what is appropriate and inappropriate dress. Explicit notices prohibit the taking of photographs within the churches. The Greek tourists act as if these warnings are everybody else, not them. It must be embarrassing for the nuns to have to shush their own supposedly Orthodox nationals, rather than the unknowing foreign tourists. No wonder they look harried at times. But even these annoyances can be overcome. The tour-buses frequent those monasteries where it is easiest to unload their passengers and turn around--Great Meteora, Valaam, and perhaps St. Barbara-Roussanou. The monasteries of St. Stephen, Holy Trinity and St. Nicholas receive far fewer visitors. But even at Great Meteora, one can stand back and wait. The tour groups are not solidly back-to-back. A guide herds them into the church, and before you know it, out they come. At that point, one can slip inside and have the church alone.

If visiting Meteora, I recommend staying in Kastraki, the small village at the base of the mountains, rather than Kalambaka, the larger and charmless town nearby. I can also recommend the well-situated and reasonably-priced Hotel Tsikelli. Maybe it has something to do with Greece's economic woes, but I have rarely been made to feel more welcome. I arrived in Katraki late afternoon, and even though I had done little more than drive all day, I was completely exhausted. After a delicious (if non-fasting) supper at a nearby cafe, I turned in and tried to sleep.

Seen from a distance, the Meteora monasteries are simply amazing. I cannot imagine how they were ever constructed atop these rock formations. And until the modern world intruded, their location certainly provided the isolation the monastics were seeking. Six main monasteries crown the peaks--Great Meteora, Varlaam, St. Nicholas, St. Barbara-Roussanou, Holy Trinity and St. Stephen. Varlaam and Holy Trinity were closed that day. I visited the other four.

The Monastery of St. Stephen was the first I visited, and my favorite. I take issue with the Rough Guide that dismissed it as "the obvious one to miss if you're short on time." I also was a bit offended by their snarky reference to nuns there who were "keen to sell trinkets." Yes, there is a shop next to the refectory where one can buy these "trinkets," otherwise known as icons. But the only thing I noticed that the nun there was "keen" to do was pray before the icons she had arrayed in front of her, or read from the Psalter she had opened. There comes a time to disregard any guidebook, and this was one of them. The Germans bombed the monastery during World War II and the Communists raided it during the Greek Civil War. So, much of what is seen is relatively new, restored, or built in the post-war years, and some of the iconography is of recent date. But if one is truly interested in the monastery as monastery and not concerned about how quaint and "Middle-Agey" it all is, then St. Stephen's will not fail to impress.

The nuns have converted the old refectory into a small museum. Here, they exhibit some of monastery's treasures--icons, Gospel books, manuscripts, vestments and liturgical instruments--most from the 1600s and 1700s. Although I did not see them, I understand that they have a portion of the skull of St. Stephen, as well as the head of St. Haralambos.

The main church is dedicated to St. Haralambos, and the iconography therein is stunning--I find it hard to describe without gushing. I will just say it is as incredibly moving as any I have seen anywhere. As one enters the nave from the narthex, I was interested to note icons not usually seen in the U.S.--an icon of the Ladder of Divine Ascent on the left of the door, and an icon of Jacob's Ladder on the right. The iconography that held my attention more than any other was on the west wall of the narthex--the Last Judgement. I am simply fascinated by this. The scene is too incredible to describe, but it is all there--Christ above all, the Theotokos, St. John the Forerunner, the Apostles, the Angels, the Gospel laying on the Throne, the Cross, the scales with Angels bringing forth scrolls, the graves being opened, saints and sinners awating judgement, demons trying to tip the scales, the River of Fire with the souls of those who rejected the Love of Christ, Leviathon being ridden by a demon with Judas in his lap, the Dragon, the vision of Daniel, the saints on their knees making supplication, the Garden of Paradise with beautiful trees and peacocks whose door is being unlocked by St. Peter and with the Mother God on a throne and with the Thief carrying his cross in before, the souls in hell where there is no Light, etc. I find it simply beyond my abilities to describe this scene. I stood there in the narthex for the longest time, almost transfixed by what I was seeing.

My first awareness of this particular iconographic subject only dates back to 2007. In that year, I saw a much cruder version depicted in Yilanli Kilise (Church of the Snakes,) one of the cave churches in the Ihlara Valley of Cappadocia. Later that same summer, I came across a version in the church at Ananuri, on the road to Kazbegi in Georgia. In 2008, I saw the Last Judgement depicted at Mar Mousa (Church of St. Moses the Black) in the Syrian desert. I know this sounds for all the world like travel snob name-dropping ("when I was in..."), but my point is that in every instance, whether I was in Turkey, Georgia, Syria or now Greece, this particular iconography stopped me cold in my tracks. And it this I remember distinctly, even if the rest fades with time.

I have always believed in the Judgement. I cannot remember a time when I did not, even though in our American way of doing things ("culture" being too strong a word), we live in vitual and tacit denial of the reality. This certainly characterizes our churches as well, even including our fundamentalist and/or evangelical churches, or my old Restorationist church. Sure, lip service is given to it, but the subject is generally avoided. And while Scripture itself bears witness, I always got the idea that most people tend to put it down as something akin to rhetorical excess meant to spook us into doing right, so to speak--but that in the end, it was not something that was really ever going to happen. I know I am painting with a broad brush here, but I think there is some truth to my analysis. Like I say, I never doubted the Last Judgement, when everything is exposed to light and our real selves revealed. And I knew myself well enough to know that this play-acting we do with repentance and confession would fall away with all other pretense on That Day. In the old days, as much as I would "think about Christ's suffering on the Cross," as the matzo bread and grape juice were passed down the pew, it was never really convincing--nothing had changed, no real repentance occurred, confession went unaddressed, and the guilt continued to pile up. I am just speaking for myself--maybe it was different for the people sitting on either side of me (though I doubt it.) Repentance and confession and salvation were all just intellectual concepts, and there was no real, tangible engagement of same outside of my own mental constructs. And so, the Judgement was a fearful thing. It still is, but with a difference. Before, the Judgement was just an intellectual conception, with me standing alone, with only by "beliefs" for support. Now, I see myself in this very icon. I am among the crowd of naked souls standing before the scales, with my Savior enthroned on high. But it is to Him that I have prayed "Lord, have mercy, " and His Mother is there, interceding for me, and the Angels surround me and keep the demons at bay, and the saints and martyrs of all ages are kneeling in supplication for the sins of the world. I am now part of the story. It doesn't give me certainty, but it does give me hope. And that is what was lacking before.

Next, I drove over to the largest monastic complex on the mountain, Great Meteora. This is favorite of the tour-bus crowd, as well. If sight-seers visit one of the Meteora monasteries, it will be this one. When I arrived, 3 or 4 tour-buses were parked outside. I am afraid this level of tourism will swamp this monastery. I did not see any of the monastics--and I don't blame them for keeping out of sight. The crowds were noisy and had to be quieted by monastery workers, paid no attention to the "Do not touch" signs in the museums or the "No Photographs" signs in the church. Even so, once a group was herded out of the church like cattle, I found myself alone in the nave. The church was on the same order as St. Haralambos, though the iconography was considerably older. The narthex was devoted completely to the trials of the martyrs. Every conceivable type of torture inflicted upon the early saints was depicted. To the outsider, it must all appear to be gruesome and a bit strange. To us, it is just a reminder that to be a Christian is to be something that people kill you for (more on this thought in a post to follow.)

The monastery contained several nice museums where some of their treasures were on display. I particularly liked one 16th-century double icon--with the 40 Martyrs of Sebaste on top, and St. John of the Ladder, St. Mary of Egypt and St. George of Ioannina on the bottom. One room was devoted both to the Greek War of Independence, as well as an Introduction to the Orthodox Faith. I thought that an odd juxtaposition, but perhaps not so in Greece. The displays explaining the Faith in general, and monasticism in particular, were especially well-done. I took the time to copy several of the explanations given in the museum, as follows:

The person of Christ, divinity and humanity combined, risen in glory from the dead, is the centre of visible and invisible creation, the centre of the heavens and the earth. His person is the centre of faith, of worship, of life and of the world. Christ is the one true God. He who completes and holds together all things, comprehending history, the past, present and future of the universe. Giving meaning and purpose to the life of man. And likewise Christ must be the centre of our own soul, our intelligence and heart and being; our passion and our desire, our rest and our rejoicing.

The Holy Church is our Mother. Tender, wise and vigilant, watching over our spiritual well-being. An ever-open embrace, our refuge and comfort, our support and shelter. A healing place for sick souls, a place where strong emotions and passions can be soothed and delayed. It is only the Church which can offer remission for our sins, whatever and however many they may be. Only the Church which has the power to take the shattered fragments of a soul and compose them again into paradigms of holiness--saints, martyrs, and confessors. Our Holy Church is the Ark of our salvation.

Faith is not a matter of understanding, but of confidence. And confidence is not unreasonable, it transcends reason. It does not contradict logic and reason, but goes beyond them. In the Orthodox Church, this transcendence of reason is not its denial but its elevation to a point where it can accept the experience of divine revelation. The transcendent reason of faith is the absolute surrender of our self, our abandonment to the will and mercy of God.

The Monastery of St. Barbara-Roussanou is entered from below. With my ongoing physical problems, I had to collapse about halfway up the steps and catch my breath--and then some. A kindly priest was coming down the steps and saw the humor in my situation. He smiled and addressed me in Greek, and all I could do was make light of my condition and ask for a blessing . Thus refreshed, I continued my slog up the mountain. St. Barbara's occupied a much small crag, and so the church and other buildings were smaller and more crowded. Nuns were very much in evidence here. Under the circumstances, they cannot be faulted for looking a bit harried. I can only imagine what a relief it must be to close the doors of the monastery every day. The church itself was much smaller--what one might call intimate. I lit some candles here and savored the chance to pray. As I recall, this chapel had perhaps the most intricately-carved iconostasis in Meteora.

My final stop was the small Monastery of St. Nicholas. The lack of parking and the steep climb eliminates the tour-bus crowd. This is one of the small communities in Meteora. The church itself is tiny--actually carved into the side of the mountain. I recall seeing one unusual icon in the church--Adam naming the animals. I also viewed the workshop where the monks were assembling icons--by this I mean the pasting of icon prints onto wooden backs.
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By the time I made it back down to my car, I was pretty well beat for the day. My bed at the Hotel Tsikelli was a welcome sight. After resting, I walked down to a nearby cafe and ordered the stuffed pepper. Together with salad, french fries and the obligatory Amstel, this made for one of the best meals I encountered on my journey. Despite the crowds, Meteora falls in the "must-see" category when in Greece. I am glad I went there.

2010 Travel Notes #6: Traversing Epirus

From the Peloponnese, I planned to make my way across western Greece, from the Gulf of Corinth to Meteora. The route I had chosen would take me through 2 cities I wanted to visit; Arta and Ioannina. The first intrigued me, as it was the capital of the old Despotate of Epirus, and if the pictures can be believed, chock-full of 13th-century churches. Ioannina looked interesting as well, though its fame came later, during the time of Ali Pasha. In Arta, I particularly wanted to see the Church of St. Theodora and the Paregoretissa, as well as the Panaghia Vlacherna nearby. In Ioannina, my goal was the relics of St. George the New, one of the martyrs of the Ottoman Yoke. Little of these plans actually came to fruition, however, as the day was spent primarily in transit--the simple logistical slog of getting from here to there.

The Despotate of Epirus is one of those fascinating asterisks of history. At the fall of Constantinople (the one in 1204, not 1453), the Byzantine ruling class scattered, establishing several small kingdoms-in-waiting. The Lascarids, and later the Palaeologus established a government-in-exile across the Bosphorus in Nicaea. The Komnenos located in far-away Trebizond. And the Emperor's cousin, Michael I Angelos Komnenos Doukas escaped to Arta.

Each had an eye turned towards Constantinople, to which they hoped to return one day, and another eye towards each other, their kinsmen and potential rivals. Although the family names might change--from Doukas to Komnenos to Angelos to Lascaris to Palaeologus to Cantacuzene--the Emperors of the East were all of one family, from the rise of Alexios I in 1081 to the fall in 1453. Repeated marital alliances with the Nemanjics of Serbia and the Assens of Bulgaria further confused the relationships. By the mid 13th-century, one would be hard pressed to find a member of one of these families who was not descended from all. Although marriage between close cousins was strictly forbidden, this web of connections surpassed even that of the Coburgs in the 19th-century.

The drive through Epirus was much easier than the previous day's endurance run. And I was beginning to need some relief. While one medical problem was addressed back in Mystra, others were beginning to compound, leaving me wearied and tired, when I had really not exerted myself at all. The Pindhos Mountains along its eastern boundary isolates Epirus a bit for the rest of Greece. The mountains within the region itself are not as severe as in other regions, and give way to broad river valleys lush with irrigated crops, rather than olives or orange groves. A new north-south expressway provides swift access through the province. Unfotunately, there is one entrance onto the highway, which I missed, and no more for 75 kilometers or so. It was quite literally a case of "you can't get there from here." While stuck on the old road, twisting and turning through the middle of towns and farmland, I would occasionally catch a glimpse of the expressway which roughly paralleling my course. I would see the cars zipping towards Arta, my destination. Obviously there must be a reason for my being forced onto the back road. I just had to wait and see what it was.

I stopped at a gas station on the edge of a small town to purchase a bottle of water. In Greece, there is no such thing as a self-service station, and your gas is just as liable to be pumped by a little old lady dressed in black, as was the case here. Leaning against my car, drinking my water and resting a bit, I took note of a rather handsome church on the adjoining lot. On top of the dome was one of the largest stork's nests I have ever seen. I love to watch for storks and their enormous nests when traveling in the Balkans. Four young storks occupied the nest, waiting for their lunch, no doubt. They reminded me of four Baby Hueys. And then I realized that perhaps it was this, these "God-protected storks," that I was supposed to see on this back road.

In due course, I arrived in Arta. My image of the city was colored by my having seen pictures of various churches in Arta. I thought it to be an old town, with lots of character. Yes, the churches are still there, but Arta is a thoroughly modern Greek city, and all that that implies. Concrete block buildings predominate, traffic is thick, and there are no places to park. Despite my experience in Patras, I am generally not at all intimidated by driving in foreign cities. Arta was doubly frustrating, however, for I did actually pass some of the churches I wanted to see, but there seemed no way to stop and park...anywhere. Finally, I wedged my car into a wide space in the bend of a road. I was not at all sure it ws legal to park there and was uncomfortable leaving it unattended. The makeshift parking space was only a block from the Paregoretissa.

The Paregoretissa has to be one of the most unusual Orthodox Churches I have visited. The structure is unlike any I have seen in all my travels. The Italianate influence is clearly evident in this design, constructed in the late 13th-century, during the reign of Nikophorus I Angelos Komnenos Doukas. A straight-forward, square 3-story building, the only things that gives it away as a church are the 5 domes atop. From the outside, it is a striking building, yes, but not a beautiful one. Once inside, however, I was a bit awe-struck. Standing in the nave, I looked up to the Pantocrator. The ceiling was a full 3-stories above...and then the dome. Paregoretissa is simply magnificent. The iconography is in a fair state of preseveration, as well.

Leaving the church, I walked across the street to a park, where I could sit and rest--and watch my car. By this time, I was feeling particularly unwell and I made a decision to forego the Church of St. Theodora, as well as the Panaghia Vlacherna, and push on to Ioannina. I now regret not making more of an effort here. Theodora was the long-suffering wife of Despot Michael II Angelos Konemnos Doukas--one of our few married women saints. I learned of her life from Mother Nectaria's Evogleite. Her story is a compelling one. I realize that I gave Arta short shrift. Should I ever return to Greece, I hope to remedy that situation.

I pushed west until I crossed the Louras River. Here, I turned north and paralleled the river. Along the way, I passed by the ruins of the Pantanassa Monastery. The monk Job Melias, in his 13th-century biography of St. Theodora, relates how her husband, the Despot built two monasteries as a gesture of repentance for the shameful way he had treated her. Pantanassa was one of them. The site was completely obscured by overgrowth until 1970.

A few kilometers further up the road, I pulled in at a restaurant, wedged between the river and the road. I chose an outside table near the water, between the trout tank and restaurant. A German couple occupied a spot a few tables down. How do I know they were German? One just knows. This late lunch came just in time, and the fresh trout went a long way towards restoring my spirits. The one problem, however, was the "mountain greens." My waiter suggested this option, a local staple, instead of a traditional salad. I was a bit suspicious, as it sounded very much like turnip greens--something I have never yet been hungry enough to eat. When he brought my food, I quickly saw that turnip greens by any other name are still...turnip greens. Not wanting to disappoint my waiter, I made a valiant effort at eating some of this huge mound of greens. I chewed and chewed and chewed and forced down 3 or 4 mouthfuls. My waiter noted that I had left most of them on the plate and I made the best excuse I could--that they had simply given me way too much to eat. We talked a bit. He had been to the U.S. before--New Jersey, I think. I explained, the best I could, about Texas. He encouraged me to visit the churches in Thessaloniki, and I assured him I had every intention of doing so. I lingered here for quite some time, listening to the rushing water of the Louras River. My German neighbor had stripped down to his Speedos and was splashing around in it. I looked upstream.

Ioannina was only a few kilometers further on. The city sounded inviting, as it lay on the shores of a large natural lake. Many of the historical sites there are associated with the Ali Pasha (1740-1821,) a flamboyant autocrat who ruled the more or less independent of the sultan in Constantinople. McLees tells of the fascinating story of his favorite wife--a Christian--the beautiful Kyria Vasiliki. The Kastro is right on the waterfront, as is the old mosque. Ferries ply the waters across the lake to the island village and monasteries. As interesting as all this would be, I particularly wanted to visit the relics of St. George the New Martyr (thanks to John at Mystagogy for post, here .) In Evlogeite!, Mother Nectaria gave no directions, but suggested to stop and ask for its location. This did not sound good. I asked my waiter, and he had never heard of the church. I left the restaurant and drove on into Ioannina. I stopped for gas and asked again. They had never heard of the church at the service station. I drove into the city and found it to be as beautiful as described. Ioannina was much nicer than Arta, even without considering its prime lake-front location. I drove around a bit, hoping to see the church, but without any success. If it had been earlier in the day, I would have taken a ferry out to the island. As it was, I decided to push on to Thessaly and Meteora and the hopes of a soft bed.

2010 Travel Notes #5: Among the Palaeologi

Leaving Evvia, I headed south towards the Peloponnese. I gave Athens a wide berth, skipping the Greek ruins (and crowds) there, just as I was to bypass these sites at Delphi, Thebes, Corinth, Mycenae and Sparta. I have seen my fair share of Greco-Roman ruins (Ephesus, Aphrodisias, the Parthenon, Heriopolis, Ipamea, Baalbek and Jerash,) and now have little interest in seeing yet another broken Corinthian column. What interests me, however, is what came after--the Byzantine Empire, from late antiquity to the late Middle Ages. My fascination goes far beyond the very obvious association with the Orthodox faith. The incredibly rich tapestry of this East Roman civilization remains largely unappreciated and misunderstood, even as recent generations of scholars have sought to correct the mischief done by Gibbon and others. For those travelers similarly possessed, there is one place that will be at the top of our list--the ruins of Mistra, capital of the old Despotate of Morea, deep in the Peloponnese. (I have written earlier of Mistra, as well as the best book on the subject, here.)

Mistra is located in Laconia, and one must first traverse Arcadia. I was curious to see the latter region, as the very word itself has come to signify a simple, pastoral existence in our language. And I had romanticized it a bit--imagining Arcadia to be as Poussin depicted. In my mind, however, I had conflated my small print of his Burial of Phocian," with the better-known Et in Arcadia Ego, and had somehow envisioned Arcadia thusly. I was not disappointed, for the region did look like a Poussin painting--rolling mountains bracketing wide valleys with slender cedars, fields and orchards.

Old Sparta lies on a rolling plain, and the land slopes off to the southeast towards the Aegean. My destination, however, lay 8 kilometers west, where the gentle countryside abruptly ends at a wall of mountains. And is there--improbably, incredibly, wonderfully--that the ruins of Mistra cling to an outlying crag of Mount Taygotes. Though strategically located, the terrain itself would be a limiting factor to its long term growth and viability. And yet for 200 years, roughly from 1260 to 1460, Mistra trailed only Constantinople itself as a center of art, learning and scholarship. And it is here--not Istanbul, Athens or Thessaloniki--that one finds the most substantial witness to the Byzantine world, and where one can most readily envision that society.

The modern village of Mystras, surrounded by orange groves, nestles at the foot of the mountains. I stayed in the appropriately named Hotel Byzantinos--a 3-story establishment in the center of things, with a cafe across the street, the village square to the left, air-conditioning, balcony overlooking the ruins, full buffet breakfast and a real swimming pool in the rear walled-in garden--all for 35 euros a night ($43.40.) This hotel, a souvenir shop, 3 or 4 cafes and a few other establishments cater to the Byzantine-seeking traveler. And they play up the the royal Palaeologus connection. The last emperor, Constantine XI Palaeologus, who died defending Constantinople in 1453, was actually crowned in Mistra. There's a nicely-done statue of him near the center of town, just up from the Cafe Palaeologi. My medical problems were beginning to compound, so I spent the morning of my last day there in the doctor's office. (She was a nice young American lady of Greek extraction, graduate of Rutgers, who returned to Greece so that, as she said, "she could do real medicine," which she could not afford to do in the U.S.) Behind her desk was a very westernized picture of Constantine XI, with portraits of other Byzantine emperors or noblemen flanking each side. Like I say, the Byzantine is still big here.

I started out early for the ruins, before the heat set in. I was a bit discouraged to see that a tour bus had arrived before me. But I discovered that the site is large enough that there is plenty of room to move about and separate yourself from the vicinity of a tour if need be. The lower gates (the Monemvasia Gates) lay 2 kilometers up the mountain from the village. Upon arrival, I stopped for awhile, surveying the lay of the land, and attempting to visualize how the city must have appeared 600 years earlier. The reconstructed Kastro still dominates the peak of the crag. Lower, and to the right, is the palace, currently undergoing reconstruction. Ruins of villas and more ordinary houses, streets, passageways, churches and monasteries tumbled down the hillside. Below the walls, the mountain abruptly drops away to rolling plains. Dotted with orange groves and spread out like a tapestry, this undulating landscape stretches southeasterly, towards Monemvasia and the sea.






More than a few devotees of Tolkein and Lord of the Rings have noted the similarities between his fictional Minas Tirith and Constantinople of old. I would tentatively agree, though I would not push the comparison too far. But as to the specific topography of Tolkein's city, it is nothing at all like the sprawling metropolis on the Bosphorus. Mistra, however, is another matter, being in some ways almost a dead-ringer for Minas Tirith. The site is probably as close to Tolkein's imaginative creation as any place you would find on Earth.

I was particularly interested to see how people lived on this mountain. Houses in Mistra were generally built perpendicular to the hillside, jutting-out, as it were. The lower floor was always for storage, the living quarters always in the upper floors. The outside of the lower floor usually consisted of an open archway. But this was much more than just a porch looking out over the valley below. Space was at a premium on the mountain, and this area served as the very street itself. These "streets" were little more than passageways, and much too steep and narrow for wagons or carts. Many of the homes were relatively spacious, despite the limitations imposed by the topography. Most residences had cisterns for water, and a sophisticated sewage disposal system serviced the in-house facilities of the wealthy as well as those for the public. I enjoyed poking around the ruins of the old houses as much as anything. As often as not, there was a mulberry tree close-by, providing ready-made snacks.




















Of course, the main attraction to Mistra is its churches and monasteries--St. Demetrius, St. Theodore, the Church of the Evangelistria, the Church of Hodigitria, the Church of the Pantanassa, the Church of the Peribleptos, St. Nicholas and Haghia Sophia, as well as a few private family chapels. The most impressive is the metropolitan church, St. Demetrius, which along with the Church of the Pantanassa are the only two functioning churches on the site. The tour group was at the church when I arrived--a group of college students who looked as though they had rather be at the beach. I waited for them to move on, and then I had the church to myself. I lit some candles and prayed before the icons. This church is one of the earliest built in Mistra, a 3-aisled basilica transformed into a cross-in-square, with balconies above the side aisles and narthex. The church is approximately 30 ft. wide by 50 long (not counting the altar area.) But it is a soaring sanctuary, which gives the impression of an edifice much larger. In the center of the church, is an inlaid Byzantine double-eagle, marking the spot where Constantine XI Palaeologus was crowned emperor in 1448.

The other churches are not without interest, either. The Church of St. Theodore contains the tomb of a Manuel Palaeologus who died in 1428. Haghia Sophia is believed to contain the tombs of both the Emperor-monk John V Cantacuzenas, as well as that of Cleofa Malatesta, despeona of Theodore II Palaeologus (for more on the beautiful Cleofa, follow the links at the end of post, here.) And finally, the Church of the Pantanassa and its adjoining convent is incredibly beautiful with sublime iconography. From all accounts, the view from the Kastro is something to see. I will have to take every one's word for it. But the time I had explored the upper town, I was completely exhausted and decided not to make the trek to the final summit.

That afternoon--after a swim--I drove down to the Mani, the southernmost extremity of the Peloponnese. This is the most remote region of Greece, and in the past, the isolated Maniots had a reputation for blood feuds and vendettas. They are also noted for their unique defensive stone towers. I was curious to see how theirs compared with those of Svaneti. Patrick Leigh Fermor has written of the region, and in fact has lived there for many decades. Fermor is something of a hero of mine, and had I felt better I might have tried to locate him. But at age 95, his time is better spent finishing-up the long-awaited last third of his trilogy describing his 1933 trek from London to Constantinople, rather than entertaining unannounced visitors. The lower Mani peninsula is supposedly dotted with 11th and 12th-century churches containing quite exceptional frescoes. I set out to find a few.

The Mani is a region of wide vistas. The mountains are barren and towering, with scattered villages huddled at their base. A wide, flat shelf stretches west to the Adriatic. The bluff gives way here and there to allow for the occasional harbor, but by and large, the coastline is ringed with high cliffs. The Maniots live on the shelf of land between the mountains and the sea. The peninsula has traditionally been poor and undeveloped. Some signs of gentrification--summer homes and condos--are beginning to dot the landscape. And I suspect tourism is on the rise. I was not particularly impressed with the stone towers, but then the towers of the Svans, deep in the Caucasus Mountains, had set the bar pretty high. I was able to locate several of the historic churches. They were all in the style that one would have seen in Constantinople or anywhere else in Greece during that time period--except that they were all quite small. The two I remember in particular were the old church in the village of Gardenitza, and then the Church of Sts. Sergius and Bacchus, far-removed from any settlement. Both were securely locked, so their treasures remained hidden from me. But that is fine. I was satisfied just being there. By the time, I had worked my way back to Mystras, it was 8:00 PM or so. I stepped across to the Castle Cafe and got a table where I could watch the World Cup on the screen they had set up under the arbor. The baked spaghetti, the Amstel, and Paraguay's defeat of Italy capped off a good day.

Before I left Mystras, I checked out the souvenir shop, Porfyra,around the corner. Maria Tsiboka is the personable owner of the shop. She carried much of the usual tourist fare (such as the guide books I am always collecting,) but interestingly, she carried a number of specialty items she had designed herself. She had some beautiful coffee mugs (clearly designed for the American traveler, as no one in Greece, or Europe, for that matter, drinks coffee from mugs as we do.) But no matter, there was no way I was walking out of there without the coffee mug emblazoned with the Byzantine double eagle she had designed. Then I noticed an artist's easel at the back of the shop, and on closer inspection, saw that it was a partially completed icon. Maria herself was the iconographer. She showed me an icon of St. Cosmas she had finished and was going to donate to her church. I am nearly rendered speechless when I encounter someone with this gift. But eventually, I found my voice, and we talked of church things. Counter intuitively, she did not seem particularly surprised to learn that there were non-Greek Orthodox Christians in the U.S. She told me she was going to get her son to work on her website this summer and make improvements there. In the meantime, check out her site. She does excellent work.


With the doctor's visit behind me, and antibiotics in hand, I left the pleasant little village of Mystras. My goal was Patras, on the Gulf of Corinth. There, I would cross the Rio-Andirio Bridge back onto the Greek mainland proper. The main road skirted the mountains, from Sparti to Tripoli, to Korinthios, and then down the south shore of the gulf to Patras. The map also showed a much more direct route, though the lines were squigglier. Anyone who knows me knows which path I took. Much of Greece is mountainous, but by far the most severe mountain driving I encountered was on this shortcut to Patras. Progress was slow all the way, either from the hairpin curves, or from being stuck behind an 18-wheeler. In a number of places, the road had to be cut-out underneath a rock overhang. At one such site, I passed two truck drivers measuring the height of the passageway to see if their semi would squeeze underneath. Other than letting air out of their tires, I have no idea what they could do if it would not fit. There was no backing up and no place to turn around. Although the mountain driving wears on one after a while, nearly each bend in the road offered up one more incredible vista.

I planned to stop in Dimitsana. Mother Nectaria McNees wrote of two monasteries there in Evlogeite! Dimitsana also receives notice in most detailed guidebooks of Greece. The town is picturesque, to be sure, but no more so than those on either side. I could not find the page I had copied from McNees' book detailing the directions to the monasteries. So, I attempted to find them from memory. I remembered that they were on either side of a gorge, south of the town. I took a road leading off the mountain and followed it as it twisted and hugged the side of the gorge. Pavement gave way to dirt track, which soon gave way to just 2 muddy ruts. I was beginning to doubt my wisdom in all this, when I abruptly came out on a paved road from the other direction. By this time, I wasn't sure where I was, but the pavement was a good sign. A few miles further on found me at the parking lot for the Monastery of Podromou. A new chapel clung to the face of the cliff nearby. The monastery itself was about 2,000 ft. down the gorge from this lot. A sign near the trail stated, however, that the monastery was closed to visitors in the afternoon. Perhaps this was just as well, as it was getting late in the day, and I was nowhere near out of the mountains. Attending to my medical situation had thrown me at least 3 or 4 hours late in leaving Mystra. I walked over to the chapel and looked back up the gorge towards Dimitsana. On a rock shelf, on the right side of the gorge, I could see the Monastery of Podromou. On a promontory, on the left side of the gorge, I could see the Monastery of Philosophou. This would have to do, and I was fine with that.

In due time, I eventually reached Patras. The only thing I planned to do there was visit the Cathedral of St. Andrew, and venerate the relics of the Apostle. Patras is a large, modern Greek city, and all that that implies. I knew the general vicinity of the cathedral, so I did not doubt I could find it. But the traffic was horrendous. I felt as if I was being sucked into some sort of vehicular vortex from which there could be no escape. With frustration mounting, I turned east, away from the cathedral, and determined to just get out of the city. This in and of itself was no easy matter. Nor was finding a place to stay. By dark, I had finally stumbled upon a hotel in the far eastern suburbs of the Patras. I bedded down for the night in a cheap room, resolved to get across the gulf as quickly as possible in the morning.




















If I ever return to mainland Greece, the Peloponesse is one of two places I would definitely want to revisit (Thessaloniki being the other.) But just as assuredly, I would give Patras a pass.

2010 Travel Notes #4: At the Church of St. John the Russian

My first day in Greece was planned to a tee: arrive at the airport shortly after noon, make a quick exit in the rental car and get as far away from Athens as soon as possible. I planned to head north, visit the Monastery of St. Ephraim the New in Nea Makri, then make my way to the close-by island of Evvia, where I would visit the Church of St. John the Russian in Prokopi, as well as the more remote Monastery of St. David--these saints and martyrs of the Turkish yoke being of particular interest to me. As it turned out, I was ultimately able to visit only one of these three, but that turned out to be more than enough.

I was keen to visit the relics of St. Ephraim the New, martyred by the Turks about 1425. Mother Nectaria McLees' Evogleite! A Pilgrim's Guide to Greece served as an excellent guidebook. Her work is well worth a read, whether you ever travel to Greece or not. Mother Nectaria's directions to some of the sites were, however, sometimes a bit sketchy. Being relatively close to Athens, the traffic was thick around Nea Makri. The Greeks also had the effrontery to not post an English-language sign at the turn-off road. Seriously though, our American laziness when it comes to anything other than English is sometimes just incredible. My struggling waiter in Istanbul can speak 6 languages, but I cannot even take the time to brush-up on the bare basics of the Greek alphabet. Being frustrated in my attempt to find the first monastery, I decided to push on to Evvia and perhaps try for this one again later on.

The largest Greek island after Crete, Evvia is so close to the mainland that one just drives across a bridge instead of taking a ferry. Prokopi, home of the relics of St. John the Russian, is towards the upper end of the island. The Monastery of St. David was located even further away. Evvia is quite mountainous and I quickly determined that reaching, and returning from the latter would take far longer than anticipated. In the end, I did not visit St. David's.














Prokopi has a unique history. The village was settled with refugees from a Cappadocian village of the same name in the great population exchange of 1923. With what belongings they could gather, the Anatolian Christians were shipped to Greece, a country their forebears had left perhaps 2,000 years earlier. And with them, they brought the precious relics of St. John the Russian. This young man was a soldier in service to Tsar Peter I, captured by the Ottomans in the early 1700s in one of their conflicts. Sold to a wealthy Turk, John spent the rest of his life in servitude--and exemplary holiness. Many miracles are attributed to him, both in his lifetime and after his death. The old church in Cappadocia was demolished and the town's name changed to Urgup. I visited there in 2007, enjoyed a leisurely meal on the town square, all with no knowledge of its rich Orthodox history. Maybe I was determined to visit the "new" Prokopi partially to compensate a bit for my earlier ignorance.

Winding higher and higher into the steep mountains of Evvia, I was beginning to believe that the Anatolian refugees had received a poor recompense for their old homes. But the island is deceptive--the ring of mountains conceal a narrow valley in its core. And there lies Prokopi, in a region of clear-running streams, orchards, small fields and beehives--in short, a secluded haven for the old Cappadocians. The town itself is pleasant enough, a few businesses on the main road, with the main village strung out along an elongated loop to the left. At the far end lay the town's anchor, the Church of St. John the Russian, with a large plaza between. Along the outside of the loop lay small shops, taverns (tabepnas), cafes and stores of various sorts. There was no shortage of souvenir displays where one could buy their St. John the Russian coffee mugs, or St. John the Russian vases, or St. John the Russian pot-holders. Thank you, no.

I found an establishment on the main road advertising "Rooms to let, 20 euro." This seemed like just the ticket, so I locked-in my bed for the night, and made plans to explore the town a bit. I strolled up to the church and was glad to discover that Vespers had just started. A good crowd was in attendance, though this was partially due to two tour buses parked nearby. Now is as good a time as any to comment on the pilgrimage tours I witnessed in Greece and Bulgaria. At first glance, one is inclined to view it as something of a sideshow. At the popular tour sites, vendors and shops will line the road leading to the church and monastery. And a busload of fellow visitors may not be what you had imaged for your time at the monastery. My first reaction was to cringe, just a little, when I would pull up and see the buses already there. But I was wrong in my snobbish assumptions--for while they might chatter like tourists out around the buses, when these pilgrims entered the churches, they were invariably solemn and reverent. The only place I found this not to be the case was in Meteora, whose topography is dramatic enough that it attracts visitors in and of itself, regardless of the monasteries. The uncorrupted relics of St. John the Russian--a small man--are enclosed within a glass-topped case at the back left side of the nave. His face, of course, is covered. Worshippers and pilgrims would venerate his relics and icon as one first entered the nave. The church itself itself is about 50 years old, a cross-in-square design, with twin bell-towers in front. The interior was completely covered in iconography, which is not always the case in Greece.


















After Vespers, I strolled back down towards my room. I stopped at a cafe for a beer, and took a table next to the street. I noticed my taverna started to fill with townspeople, all dressed a little nicer than you might expect. Others, particularly the women, just strolled up and down the street, conversing with those in the outdoor cafes as they went along. I was beginning to wonder if this was a local tradition, and by this I mean the dressing-up and public socializing on Saturday nights. Soon, all was made clear.

























A shiny, new semi-truck (without the rig) moved slowly up the street, honking its horn all the way. The owner's name--J. Foptakis--was proudly displayed on a panel above the cab. A large wreath graced the front of the truck, with streamers tied to the sides as well. The passenger--a young man in a silver suit--was grinning and waving to the crowds in the cafes as they passed by. The driver made a long, slow circle around the town loop, and then to my surprise, I heard him coming up the street for the second time. And then it hit me--a wedding was in the offing! I noticed that the other customers in the cafe were beginning to finish up their frappes and cigarettes and making arrangements to pay. The crowd in the streets began to slowly move toward the church. And you did not have to tell me how many times the semi-truck would circle the town. At the end of the third loop, it stopped in front of the church I had left a while earlier. I paid my bill and ambled back up the street to see something of this "Big Fat Greek Wedding." Along with other onlookers, I staked out an observation point directly across from the church and watched the guests arrived. Some of the women looked as if they were attending a disco circa 1986, but no matter. It was all great fun. The groom stood in the doorway to the narthex grinning broadly, handsome as only a shaven-headed man can be. Ahem. The photographer snapped pictures of what I assumed to be the groom's family, while the milling crowd grew ever larger. At that point, a large black sedan, itself festooned with flowers and streamers, pulled in front of the church and started honking. No doubt what this was all about, for in the back seat was the bride, engulfed in the overflowing mound of her wedding gown. The sedan slowly circled the town three times, honking all the way. When they finally stopped, the beautiful young bride emerged to the cheers of the crowd gathered outside. Greek women seem to love henna hair coloring. Some, as this bride, take it to such an extreme that it takes on a decidedly purplish hue. She wore as much of a wedding dress as could possibly be crammed into the back seat of a Volkswagen sedan. She joined her prospective husband briefly in the door way and acknowledged the well-wishes of the guests, before entering the church for her wedding. While standing outside, I noticed a young woman, in her early 20s, riding by on her bicycle. Dressed casually, she was clearly not coming to partake in the wedding festivities. But as she passed in front of the church, I noticed that she crossed herself. This was not new to me, having seen it in spades in Georgia. From my view, this was no calculated, self-conscious show of outward piety. Rather, it was as if she would no more pass a church without crossing herself as we would change lanes without using our turn signal--instinctive and natural.






















I had seen enough of the lead-up to the wedding, so I decided to walk back down to my room and get some sleep. I stopped by a small church near my room. One finds such chapels all over Greece. The church itself was locked, but there were icons on the exonarthex, along with a candle tray and stand. Someone had been before me, as several candles were already burning. I had found a perfect place of my prayers, and so I lit a couple of candles and stood outside this little chapel for a while. My simple mattress-on-the-floor (almost) sure felt good a little later on. At about 10:30, I half awakened to the air-horn and honking of the newlywed's semi-truck as it pulled out onto the main road. I suspected that they would probably be late for Liturgy tomorrow.






















I was in no hurry to get up the next morning, and consequently lay in bed, wondering what time I needed to head for church. In a few minutes, the ringing of church bells alerted me to the fact that that time was right then. I quickly dressed, and made my way to St. John's. I was in time for the Hours (a fact that may justifiably astound my priest and fellow parishioners,) and a sizable crowd was already in place. The numbers grew steadily, so that by the time Liturgy was well underway, the church was packed, the narthex was full, and many were hanging about outside the entryway--and this with no input from the tour buses which only arrived after Liturgy. Loudspeakers broadcast the service into the town itself.

At the end of the Hours and the beginning of the Divine Liturgy, the lights on the chandeliers were suddenly illuminated (which I expected,) but at the same time, the bells in both towers started ringing loudly (which I did not expect.) My heart caught in my throat. It was as if the Gates of Heaven were opening before me. And of course, they were.

A line formed quickly to venerate the relics of St. John the Russian. One older Greek lady lingered long at the glass case, repeatedly kissing the glass and mouthing her prayers and supplications. No one in the line showed any sign of impatience, or of trying to push her along. We each were allowed our time there, however long that needed to me. I noticed one Greek lady in black, hobbling in with a cane and clearly old enough to have been born in Anatolia, prior to the great uprooting of 1923. But the crowd was far from dominated by little old Greek ladies. The crowd was about equally divided between men and women of all ages. For those keeping score, I do not recall seeing any headscarves. I was a bit surprised to see some in swimsuits or beach clothes and flip-flops. Those thus attired (and they were not all young people) made their way up to venerate the relics, and then clung to the back of the nave. Early in the Liturgy, I stepped out briefly for some air. While there, I noticed a Greek lady (younger than myself) coming down the street on her hands and knees. She rounded the corner and made her way up the steps into the nave before ever arising. I had heard of this, but had never seen it before. Her actions attracted no attention, her devotion being seen as perfectly commonplace and normal.

After I had received, and the service ended, I joined everyone else out on the plaza surrounding the church. The first of the tour buses for the day was just pulling up. By the time I had eaten a bite of lunch at the cafe directly across, there would be 4 buses parked around. The church would be full all afternoon.

In the U.S., we often praise certain civic institutions as being an integral "part" of their communities. We use this terminology when talking of schools, libraries, parks, and yes, churches. Make no mistake--the Church of St. John the Russian is no "part" of Prokopi. Rather, it is the very living, breathing, throbbing heart of this town. Yes, there are homes, cafes, shops and stores clustered around--but these are incidental. The church is Prokopi.

In American Orthodoxy, we bandy around terms like authentic, and organic, and un-selfconscious in our vigorous in-house dialogue addressing the evolving form of our faith in this land. If one wonders what these concepts would actually look like on the ground, Prokopi might be a good place to start.