Attica Megara, GREECE

From New England I long for Greece

I may have chosen to live in Massachusetts, but my telescope is pointing to Greece.

I think of these white adobe troglodyte white homes anchored on the hill side with a view of the golf of Corinth, stepping out on a terrace with a slice of bread loaded with feta and olive oil and honey. A quick run down the long stairs to a dive in the chilled salty water, thus no shower needed, no towel either because it’s warm on a rock under the sun. 

Back up on the twist and turn stairs, throw some clothes on and ride the bike to the grove. Armed with a hoe I dig a ring around olive trees to let rain water in, if rain ever happens. 

This is where my friend Georgio keeps a family plot, a little wild and the tallest olive trees I have seen. We gather there as early as possible to rip olives in the hollow of our closed hands onto a green net. 

To reach the highest branches we climb the triangular tripod ladder. We break from ten in the morning till four in the afternoon. It’s still hot here in the Fall. Our arms are sore and our hands are chaffed. Another dive in the sea will fix us. 

Green olives and some turning black bounce a little on falling in the net. They are shiny like polished nuggets of gold. Once the net is covered with fruit, we gather the corners like a giant sheet about to be folded and the olives form a long fat sausage trapped in its casing. We pour them gently into crates to avoid bruising. 

Branches and foliage find their way into the crates too. The shaking carpet and inox rolls of the mill will sort the fruit from the wood limbs. 

When harvested green, olives will yield a pungent oil. Black, it will be mellower, which is the old way of making olive oil when crushing was done with wooden presses. The older equipment is now in museums.

I think of Leonard Cohen who wrote his best lyrics and poems while living in Greece, the thousands of Western European who travelled in their VW Van and some on bikes, who came here to find enlightenment.