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Down the cliff, a night-lit city spread before us. Above in the star-studded sky, bats swept through the spotlights. Within, there were only three of us, travelers raiding a silent fortress. We crept about the shadows, discovering the silence of an overcome fortress, and when daylight rose, we left toward a theatre; one of the largest, most grandiose and well preserved of the antiquities. Upon the very top of its limestone steps, the singular pluck of a violin reached our ears soundly while various tongues bellowed in a one-minute fame of limelight.

Beheld By Rebellious Mythos: The Peloponnese

Camron Karsten
2006-10-07 12:45:57

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Kalamata for some olives with a bound destination for Mavromati. Known as Ancient Messini, the town is unyielding on its claim to have been the birthplace of Zeus. They flush the island of Crete to the side with a swat of the hand and believe he was born in the hills, then bathed in the divine spring that flows through the center of town. The spring itself gave the town its name, mavro mati, or black eye.
Arriving after four bus fares, we sipped from the spring water and refreshed our spirits. The night had been arduous and the bus rides long. It was in the afternoon. All we could envision was a real bed and with quick pursuance in a small town, Jenny, Josh and I secured a room with three sets of all amenities. Falling down, we forgot to rise until sleep overcame us.
The weather was fine, warm where those distant Nafplian storms seemed like a mirage. Outside, the town of Mavromati was quiet, and upon the deck as
I looked out down onto the Messinia plain, an lone old Grecian woman sat on the dirt. In black dress, she was shoveling through a pile of what looked to be bundles and bundles of mushrooms. She organized and discarded them like stones within baskets of grain with a disregard to time.
She looked up. She must have felt my stare.
I waved.

She waved, smiled from afar and started hollering at me. With a happy wave of the arm as she continued to sort, her gesticulation was that of welcome. Through the rapid-fire Greek ululating, I translated her call. “Come, come! Bring your friends!”
“You got it!”
We filed up the hillside and into her gate. Once we reached her, there, spread out underneath the sun was an endless array of dried figs. Tan, wrinkly, the little fruits smelled of dank sweetness carried up from the ground by the heat. Smiles spread our faces as she continued to kindly wail at us. We were to sit, sit like chiefs among a council of figs. We were to sit and sort out the good from the bad, stuff ...