Village Festival

Saturday evening, my village had a panygyri, a festival coinciding with the name day of Agia Paraskevi, a female saint from the time of Christ.  Curious about her, I asked many Greek friends who Agia Paraskevi was and no one could tell me.  One American friend, a scholar in the field of religion, informed me that Agia Paraskevi had been an early Christian martyr known for protecting eyesight.  I wanted to know more.

With a Greek friend, I Googled the saint and learned that, as a young woman in about 100 A.D., Agia Paraskevi committed to being a Christian and to proselytizing.  She refused all efforts to be married off or confined.  Eventually, she was imprisoned and tortured by a Roman emperor who poured oil and tar on her, yet she survived unharmed.  Incredulous, the Emperor had oil poured on his own body and became blinded.  Agia Paraskevi restored his eyesight and he converted to Christianity.  Unfortunately, our saint, a true martyr, was eventually beheaded.

Despitre the fact that few Greeks know her story, Agia Paraskevi is celebrated every year on July 26.  In addition, the day of Friday, Paraskevi, is named after her.  To add to the July 26 celebration, my village decided to have an official inauguration of our village park which was redone last year.  Everyone in the village and in the local area was invited to the party.  The night would have food, wine, speeches, music and dancing.  I doubted the park could hold more than 100 people.  In a remarkably Greek way, just about the right number of people showed up.

Beforehand, I was invited to assist with preparation of the salad.  I arrived at our village hall on time to discover that only a few village leaders and most of the village kids were there.  In typical Greek style, we had huge numbers of cucumbers, peppers and onions to cut up, but no utensils.  I went back to my house for peelers, knives and large bowls.  Cutting the vegetables was chaotic and, cover with green cucmber juice, I declined to go back later to assist with the tomatoes.

The festival began with too many lengthy welcoming speeches since every village leader -- all male -- wanted his moment of fame.  Next came the young people's dance program, also, in my opinion, too long.  The kids were in costume and took their performance very seriously.  I was struck by the way Greeks continue to teach at least some children the traditional dances as a way of preserving the culture.

Next came the food.  I was amazed by the quantity and by how quickly everyone was served with the village kids doing most of the work.  The main dish was a traditional stew of beef and wheat which did not look appealing to me and which several Greek friends had warned me about, so I passed up a chance at tasting it.  Perhaps I missed something wonderful.  

For me, the best part of the evening was seeing the former mayor of Molivos whom I had known 27 years earlier.  Costas Doukas, a member of the Communist Party, was responsible in the early tourist period of the 1970s and 1980s for keeping our neighbor town of Molivos looking beautiful, preserving the Aegean architecture of stone buildings and cobblestone strees, and preventing inappropriate commercial development.  I was honored that Costas remembered me from so long ago.  I look forward to meeting him for coffee and a real chat this coming week.

The party went on until the wee hours with bouzouki music and dancing.  I was one of the earliest to leave.  Although I was proud that our village could pull off such a major event, I have been to too many Greek festivals.  I heard the music through my windows, noting that the party ended at 2 a.m.  Many of my pensioner neighbors stayed until the end.

The time has come for me to leave Greece, both literally and figuratively.  I am missing the U.S. presidential campaign on television, my well-equipped office, movies and Thai food, my Greek immigrangt cats, and most of all my husband, friends and family.  I have enjoyed being part of and learning about Greek village life, but I thrive on a wider range of stimulating activities.  

Let's face it -- I could never live in a village, not my rural village or the more touristy village down the hill.  I once thought life in a village would be romantic and absorbing.  I now know that, for me, the romance comes mainly on cold winter nights in California when I dream about Greece or on a clear bright evening here in the village as I watch the blood orange Aegean sun set in the violet sea.  After two months of sunsets, it is definitely time to go home.