Greece 2023: Preveza

 Arriving back on the Greek mainland, we drove down the cost of the Ionian Sea where our next stop was the town of Preveza.

Preveza itself has an unclear founding; located close by was the city of Nicopolis, founded by Augustus Caesar to commemorate his victory at the Battle of Actium in 31 B.C., which occurred nearby.  The name Preveza appears in a Byzantine record in 1292 A.D., but was likely in existence before then. Essentially refounded by the Ottoman Turks in 1477 A.D., it passed briefly to the Venetian Republic from 1684 - 1699 A.D.  and then again in in 1717 A.D. - thus like Corfu, it bears the stamp of Venice.  It passed to the French in 1797 A.D., then back to the Ottomans in 1820 A.D., only to finally become part of Greece again in 1912 A.D.

One of the notable features to me was the Church of St. Charalampos - not only because it was a rather nice church, but it was the first church there were no restrictions taken pictures inside.

The Altar:

If you look at the paintings, you will see evidence of The Ionian School - Orthodox traditional saints and stories painted in the Italian style.

The streets and their views stretched down to the coast:

Of all the cities we visited, this was one of my favorites.  I still keep the temperature of it on my phone now, on the odd chance I might want to go back someday.

Continuing To Pack Up

 I finally broke down and bought packing supplies to finish up my parent's house.

If I am completely honest, the amount of packing left to do is not much:   All bedrooms are now cleared of everything we want (with the exception of a pair of twin beds, the bathrooms, the formal dining room and informal dining rooms, and living room are now complete.  What remains is the office, the hallway, one last sweep through the kitchen, and packing the things we have saved up in the Master Bedroom Closet.

And (gulp) the garage.

Honestly, it is really not that much remaining - and yet it has escalated in my mind to some kind of heroic task that needs to be completed when in truth 85% of it is already done.  Why, I wonder, is this?

Mostly it is down to having to make the "hard" choices.

I say hard choices.  The choices are hard to me, no-one else.  Family pictures and family albums have been packed up if for no other reason that I do not feel I have the time or ability to sort through them at this point.  The rest of the things that everyone else wanted have already been selected and put aside.

No, the issues that remain are completely of my own making.

I have gotten slightly better at it.  I am more able now than before to ask myself "Do I really need to save this?" and set it aside if the answer is not an immediate "yes".  Some of this simply due to a certain weariness at this point, of just wanting to finish with things and get them out of here.

As we have moved through, what remains sits out on tables and in cabinets and on shelves, isolated remnants remaining from the outgoing tide of nostalgia.  The things still bear memories to me, just not enough memories to have a need to save them.

In an ideal world, I would finish up the initial work by the end of this week and then we can contact someone for an estate sale.  If I can keep to task long enough to finish it - I say "keep to task" because sorting through the collections of a life by one's self can be a lonely activity and one I have to keep myself to the grindstone at to complete.

If I am honest with myself, we are now at the back end of this activity.  I need to focus on how it is going to feel when I can check this off my list of things that needs to be done - and to accept that whatever happens next cannot happen until this thing is done first.

Markers Of Success

 One of the nice things about blogging as long as I have is that one comes across many different blogs.  Some of them are single stops, others become treasured stops time and time again.  A handful are stops I make every morning if I see something has new has been published (fortunately for me, most of my favorite bloggers are prolific writers).

For the most part the bloggers I read the most (and to be fair, the people that comment on this blog as well) tend to live simple lives - not "simplistic lives", as some of all of you are the busiest people that I know.  It is just that there is very little of the modern culture of speed, acquisition, and spending.  It is how I want to live my life, even if I do so very brokenly at this point.

To say "modern society is built on an unachievable concept of success" is probably a trope at this point - but tropes exist for a reason.  Currently in my life, I am living proof that you really cannot have it all (one of the mildly popular myths of this age)- or at least you cannot have it all and keep any sort of sanity in the process.    I suppose it would be difficult to pin down what "success" means in the modern world, although power, wealth, the ability to live the "experiential life", and all the things are, I suspect, in the running.

I do not suppose that sort of life ever really appealed to me, but especially as I have grown older, there is almost nothing about it that is appealing.  Yet even though I intellectually know this, I still struggle with it.  

To be sure, just living in the modern world encourages this.  I find myself slipping into the trap at my new job of "I need to work a little more to be a get things done" - add on the daily commute and suddenly I am looking at work day extending to 10 hours or more.  All because I want to be "a success" at my job.

Oddly enough - or perhaps not oddly at all - the more I am removed from this environment, the less I find it that necessary.  When I removed from that world, that pounding cry of "more, more, faster, faster", things take a different shape.

What if we consciously measured things by a different standard?  Maybe not the standards above - number of books (this works for me, of course), number of hours of sleep, number of things we did for ourselves, time we spent with family members?  What if that became the "standard of success"?

It never will on a large level, of course - those ideas have nothing to offer a system that values spending and power (mostly over others).  But they can offer us something on a personal level, a stick for ourselves to measure our own personal successes.

Besides - if number of books is a measure, then I am probably one of the most successful people I know.

Tales From Produce (A)Isle: Days Of Music Past

 Readers may recall that approximately two months ago on Produce (A)Isle, we received an update (arguably an upgrade) in our music selection:  we moved from "Modern Pop Music" to Music of the 1980's ( e.g., music of my youth).

The change was welcome then and remains welcome.  It is nice to fill my mind with songs I can sing along to (at least in my head) as I bustle about the fruits and vegetables.  Generally speaking they are all upbeat songs as well, which does give a skip to my step upon occasion.

One of the fine things about any sort of nostalgia such as this is the remembering of things that had become crowded out of my mind.  Songs I have not thought of in 35 years pop back into my mind suddenly as if it were yesterday - and oddly enough, with almost all of the lyrics intact.  

A sub-genre that I had forgotten about but has made a strong reappearance into the lineup are what I will call the Romantic Rock Ballad.  I do not think that is an actual category, but the songs are similar enough in sound and sense and feeling that they serve to form their own genre:  wistful songs about unrequired love and plans to make said love requited filled with power chords, drums, and soaring melodies as we reach the apex.  REO Speedwagon, Survivor, Icehouse, Journey, Styx - they all find their place in the lexicon of my mind from so many years ago.

As I listen to this songs, they stir in me feelings of 40 + years ago, feelings I had somehow thought were dead:  that silly, hopeless romantic fellow that really believe in the lyrics of the songs.  It is nice to revisit those feelings - but it makes me sad as well.  Where, I wonder as those songs pass by, did that fellow go?

Oh, I know part of where he went.  The link above tells the tale, but the short version is that it got almost brutally ripped out of him, his heart hurled to the floor and broken. What was left...is largely what remains today.  Which has its own advantages certainly, but is also in some ways much less than that individual was.

He had hope.  He had a clear sight on nobility and romance and right, and seemed to really believe that the best could occur.  Almost belying my current state, he was far more of an optimist than I was.  He was also - if the reminiscing tells me anything - a sometimes more happier fellow.

It has taken me this long to realize I miss him.

Can he come back?  Hard to say really; 40 years is a long time to be away and even if he were back, would he be able to deal with the world and the situations that I find myself in with the same sort of aplomb and gung ho spirit that he had back then?  I do not really know.

I only know this:  when I hear those songs, something stirs in my heart, something I have not felt in more years than I care to admit.  Something beyond the ordinary that I live, something almost on a higher plane of existing, of being more alive than I feel 98% of the time anymore.  Something that makes me hungry for an existence above what I feel that life has become, a day to day grind in mediocrity and ambitions emptied of all but their practical aspects.

Of Autumn And A Roof Update

 Autumn seems to have arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train.

Our days have noticeably cooled off - and more importantly, the humidity has dropped to levels manageable for human existence.  Some mornings earlier this week were - if you can believe it - actually  cold.  I may or may not have actually have actually used layers for the first time since February of this year.

The shocking thing to me is that this year's transition from Summer to Autumn seems abrupt.  No easing in to anything, no slow slide into another season.  It almost as quickly as the Christmas candies will be appearing in two weeks when we pass Halloween.

This sudden transition has left me in a bit of disarray.

I had not really thought or planned towards my Fall garden, and now I am scrambling to get something in the ground.  I say scrambling; likely we have at least another month of reasonable weather and part of the speed is self inflicted in that I will be at The Ranch next week (where there, it is already wood stove season).  And added to that is the fact that what is currently taking up the bulk of my garden - sweet potato vines - have not yet started to wither, so I am working around them. Still, I managed to clean up the garden this week and get garlic in.  It is something, anyway.

The other big issue is the roof, of course.

I heard back from the construction company.  Turns out things are somewhat as I had anticipated: they were more than happy to be my new best roofing friend with the prospect of an insurance billing paying for everything; with the much reduced amount of our payout, actual economics came into play.  They can only make money if we financed some portion of the roof with a 75% down payment.  I do not inherently mind the statement that they need to make money; I am firm believer we all should.  What I do mind is the illusion of enthusiasm right up to the point of finding out that I was much less of a viable prospect. The even more bothersome thing is that - not totally through their fault) - I have lost about two weeks waiting for all of this to get sorted out.

Another roofing person comes today to confirm the inspection.  I have been quite up front that the payment from insurance has been made and this will be an all cash transaction.  We will see what they come  back with.  I have a base price now for roof replacement, so that is what I will be planning for.  It is doable for us, but not an expense we needed at this time.

Sigh.  The simple joys of any season seem too often pushed out by the realities of life anymore.

The Collapse CXXIII: Roads

 21 June 20XX +1

My Dear Lucilius:

The service road was about what I recalled it to be from years ago when, in a burst of outdoor enthusiasm, I took my family up over this way to see the fish hatchery on the other end of the road. The main road – the road we were to march on later today – was closed and the map claimed we should be able to make our way over. And maps would have no reason to lie, would they?

It was not as disastrous as it could have been, but neither was it without impact, as the suspension on the minivan stated to me after the fact in the repair shop. It was apparently concerning enough to my passengers that years later, a family member commented that they had been a little concerned that we were going to make it at all. And the road then had not been exposed to the years’ long impact of decreased budgets for such things as it likely was now.

The ascent was smooth enough; the road lead to a small lake and this was pretty well traveled even up to the last year of normality. It was only when we got the crest that the true impact was revealed.

The cuts and rocks and ruts in the road bounced us up and down and into each other and our things even at the low speed of our descent. The bed of the truck rocked back and forth, brakes continuing to engage as our driver continually swerved to miss the worst of it. The speed was low for which I was grateful; doing this at “driving speed” would have been as dangerous as it would have been nausea inducing.

By the time we reached the bottom of the hill and pulled onto blacktop which was clearly of relatively new furbishing (the “Your Tax Dollars at Work” sign was still just up the road a bit), I suspect we were all grateful for the end of our trek. Surely, whatever we had ahead of us could not be as jarring at that.

It also made me think that perhaps I had not missed driving or riding all that much.

As we pulled our packs out of truck beds and pummeled them into some kind of order, the Colonel pulled us in. 10 miles to town, he said; the locals had found a place for us to overnight and we would execute the next stage of the plan from there. And although we were in “friendly” territory we should carry ourselves as if we were not – although there was no evidence any of The Locusts had crossed the river, no-one could be 100% sure.

With packs on and so instructed, we set off.

A little over a year of limited to no motorized transport does tend to toughen a person up a bit for a long walk; the fact that the road was largely flat was helpful as well. The trees flickered the leaves gaily in the light wind and the river beside the road burbled along as we walked, semi-strung out in a line. The Colonel was somewhere about, the Captain long gone with the lead elements and point scouts.

It would have been a good day for walk even a year ago and, if one ignored the weapons on and about everyone, one could envision this being the sort of hike I had done once upon a time, surrounded by nature and nature’s voices, the low occasional conversation punctuating the sounds of people walking and the muffled sounds of packs shifting. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear those times.

Almost.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Greece 2023: A Vineyard And Leaving Corfu

After visiting the Old City of Corfu, we took a trip to a local winery (as a note, Corfu produces three kinds of alcohol:  red wine, white wine, and Kumquat liquor, the only such place it is done so in Greece).  Our destination in the countryside was the Theotoky Winery.

Besides winning a number of awards (see the link above), they are an organic winery.

Current vintage, just lined up against the wall.  I mean, I like red wine and all but...

I will say we had several Greek wines during our trip and they were all quite good (Except Retsina.  That was awful.).

Sunset...

and Sunrise.

We took our coach to the dock to catch the ferry back to the mainland.  Albania is something like 4 hours by ferry, Italy about 12. One begins to appreciate how important the sea was to the Ancient and Medieval world (as opposed to travel by land).

Fish by the dock.  The Ionian Sea was so clear and so different from the seas I am used to.

Last view of Corfu:

 

Greece 2023: A Visit To Saint Spyridon

 During our travel from Meteora through the Greek Alps, we had occasion to stop at a rest stop to use the facilities (rest stop facilities, in case you are wondering, are more or less the same in the Western World).  During our stop two vans pulled up to use the same facilities.  After listening for a few minutes, our tour guide told us they were likely Ukrainians on a pilgrimage to visit the relics of St. Spyridon of Corfu.

It was an interesting note and one that I filed away under the "interesting but fairly useless fact “ file - until I was reminded of it again when we were on the ferry and sure enough, there were our fellow rest stop travelers.

St. Spyridon (for those of you who, like I, have a vague if any knowledge of the major Saints, let alone the lesser well known ones) lived from approximately 270 to 348 A.D.  Born in Cyprus, he was a shepherd who eventually joined the church, rising to the office of bishop.  He was a participant in the First Ecumenical Council of Nicea (from which we get The Nicene Creed) as an opponent of the Arians.  During his time there, he was reported to have converted a pagan philosopher to Christianity by using a shard of pottery to demonstrate how a thing could be composed of three different entities (earth, water, fire) and yet be one (like the Triune God).  The shard supposedly dissolved into its three elements upon this, the philosopher was converted, and Spyridon is now always shown with pottery or a brick with flame in his hand.

After the conquest of Cyprus by the during the 7th Century A.D., the body of Spyridon was exhumed and found to be incorrupt, thus establishing his holiness and sainthood.  The  body was taken to Constantinople where it was kept until 1453 A.D. when that city fell. It was then transported in turn to Corfu, where it has remained.  Spyridon is the patron saint of potters, the island of Corfu, and the Greek city of Piraeus.

(Source)

In keeping with the architecture of Corfu City, the church itself is fairly unremarkable: a squat building painted yellow in keeping with the other buildings, a taller bell tower the only indication of its heightened stature

We passed by the church the first time but found that service was in session and after a very brief look through the side door, went on our way.  Returning later in the day, we found the parishioners were gone - but there was a line of people to one side of the altar.  The crypt of St. Spyridon was open for viewing.

I have seen a number of relics over the years:  the arm of St. Stephen in Hungary, the full on body of St. Mundita in Munich, and even on this trip the reliquaries of St. Demetrius in Thessalonniki.  But all of these were sort of "open viewing", where one simply walked up and viewed the relic.  Not what this appeared to be:  a controlled entry.

I looked, and then started to sit down - it is one thing to view a thing, quite another to do it as part of a group about which you may or may not know the correct way to act (interestingly on this point, it seems to be a Christian thing; Buddhist and Shinto temples have always very much had the attitude of "come on in" when I have visited them.  I never felt nervous in the same way).  Then The Ravishing Mrs. TB made a solid point:  You came halfway across the world and you are not going to do this?

I got in line.

The line shuffled slowly, the doorway of the crypt becoming more visible.  Inside were two priests, chanting something (Greek?  Ukrainian? I had no idea).  As I continued to close in, one could see the practice:  bow and kiss the foot of the coffin, move to the front, and then bow and kiss the head of the coffin.  I continued to shuffle forward, feeling the slightest bit of unease for no other reason that I might get something wrong.

I entered the crypt - which was filled with not just a casket, but a silver casket packed into a room that seemed a bit above an oversized closet (as it turns out, there is a wooden casket inside the outer one).  The doors of the head and foot of the casket were open - there was not just relics of the saint, but the full saint himself.  His feet - now exposed to me - had red velvet slippers and were completely open to the air while his face and head were behind a plexiglass sheet.

Ah.  They were not just bowing.  They were bowing and kissing the actual slippers and then close to (or on) the plexiglass sheet.

I suspect in the moment I entered it was clear to both of the priests and myself that I was not from around there originally, if the look they exchanged between each other meant anything.  That said, they did nothing but watch as I approached the coffin - alert, I would guess, if I did anything that reeked of disrespect.

I bowed at the feet and came close to the slippers (but not touching them at all.  I have a thing about dead people), then moved to the head.  The face of St. Spyridon, gone these 1800 years, looked up at me.  I bowed; St. Spyridon remained expressionless as his mortal body has these many long years.  With that, I exited the crypt.

I would like to tell you that there was some great revelation I had, some sign that the saint (and yes, I do believe that Spyridon is in Heaven and that perhaps I will meet him) actually noticed I was by.  Sadly, nothing like that occurred.  We continued on our tour, the parishioners continued their reverence, and the world moved on.

In 1716 A.D., the Ottoman Turks besieged Corfu as part of their campaign against the Venetian Empire.  During this siege, a storm broke out which impacted fleets both Christian and Ottoman, although the Ottoman's had the worst of it.  During the siege as well, Corfiotes (inhabitants of Corfu) alleged they saw St. Spyridon himself on the city walls, a monk threatening the Ottomans with a torch.  

So perhaps Spyridon is there, waiting for my own siege - mental or spiritual - to manifest itself so that he might appear, torch in hand, driving off the invaders of my own making.

Wars And Rumors Of Wars

 The first international/military event I had a conscious memory and (at least limited) understanding of was the 1979 Fall of The Shah of Iran and the Iranian Hostage Crisis.  Prior events are somewhat removed from my memory although by all rights I should have some recollection of the Vietnam conflict.  It was the first time that unrest was real to me outside of books on World War II; I still remember the burned fuselage of the airport from the failed US rescue operation.

Soon after that (at least in my mind) came the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.  Suddenly not only world conflict and international events were introduced to me, but I got my first view of the Cold War.  

Since that time, I have watched as the series of international events and conflicts had thundered across the stage of the late 20th Century and early 21st Century.  Some of them I remember where I was when they started:  the 1991 Iraq War, the Long War in Afghanistan.  Others I heard as I read of them:  the civil wars of El Salvador and Peru, the Chechnyan War, the Iran-Iraq War, the Fall of Yugoslavia.  Wars upon wars, military actions upon military actions.  The weapons change: the carnage and cost remain as they ever were.

I long ago surrendered any sense of surviving an actual nuclear conflict. Part of that is simply the fact that I have always lived in places that would be directly or indirectly impacted by such strikes.  Part of that is thought that likely I would not likely live long through a post nuclear strike world.  In a way that has been a great weight lifted of my shoulders:  one thing I have no control over to not worry about.

But as virtually my entire life has shown me, there are a lot of gradations up to that point of no return.  And add in all the issues that come with wars up to that point - economic disruptions, civil disruption, civil rights disruption - and seems there are only varying shades of undesirability. 

To be clear of course, one does what one can to prepare.  A hard Winter or economic disruption  are things I can understand and plan for.  A major military event for which we have now weapons of such power and precision that - to be fair - anyone that wanted to target a individual could take them out by home or by city - is a bit more difficult to build a crisis plan for.

Christ said that we would have "wars and rumors of wars" before the end, of course.  And I suppose in certain quarters antennae are all atwitter with potential prophetic implications.  That is not to deny that it could be "The Time", of course; but given my own lifetime of watch world conflict, I find I am not as worked up as I could be - or perhaps should be.  

I have at least lived long enough to understand I have no control over such international events.  The only thing I can contain and control are my own thoughts, emotions, and actions. And maybe the small things I do to get ready for "something" will not give me a chance at surviving "The Big One", but at least it will help me feel I am in a position to get through lesser events with some degree of confidence.

Pray hard, as always - and be sure to plant your garden.

On Missing The Mark - Lying

With the changes that have occurred in my life over the last 6 months or so, God has been continually dragging me back to things in my life that need dealing with.  In some cases these are things which have been embedded in my life for decades - it turns out that between commuting and hours on Produce (A)Isle, one has a lot of time to think and be in confrontation with one's self.

The past month has been about an ingrained habit of "white" lies.

I say "white" lies.  There really is no difference.  There are just lies.

The issue has become apparent twice in the past month, in both cases around something that had literally no impact on my life.  But it is was almost instinctive, the slight shading of truth - not harmful, not bad, not anything that really mattered.

But bad.

Both after the first and now second times that it happened, I have been delving into my reaction: How long have I been doing this?  Why do I feel the need, especially if it is over things that really do not matter?  How do I reconcile this with the self image I actually believe myself to be, or at least try to hold to?

There are, I suspect, a lot of roads that led here.  Part of it is being an introvert that reacts badly to interacting with people, let alone not dealing at all well with confrontation.  Part of it is the social play that we all end up being a part of, the "greasing" that makes things run smoothly.  Part of it is simply character related failings on my part.  And part of it...part of it is simply that panicked feeling that one gets when a question comes up from the blue and feels one has to react rather than think for a second and then answer. 

All of this, of course, leads to the "white" lie, the answer slightly shifted, the question slightly redirected, the truth slightly hazed.

This, of course, does not even cover the lies I tell to myself.  Those, at least, are pretty straightforward:  excuses I make to myself for undesirable behaviors.  "Laziness" and "Overeating" cleverly disguised as "Sure, you are tired" and "I am choosing to do this because I am empowered to eat entire sleeve cookies because I am an adult".

The rest, of course, is much less benign.

Oddly enough, I claim that I value truth.  I work in an industry where truth is 100% needed.  So why is it that I have allowed this slight tarnishing of my character, this somehow allowable (and, to be noted, largely socially acceptable) blemish?  Like other things of this nature, I suspect it simply becomes a habit - and once a thing is a habit, it becomes incredibly difficult to walk back. The mind becomes oiled and grooved into a particular set of actions - the best example of this, of course, is the common "What is wrong?" followed by the immediate response "Nothing" - when both party know something is wrong.

We - or at least I - should always be examples of the things we espouse to the greatest degree we can - not just because it is good to be an example, but simply because it is the right thing to do.  And I, at least, should hold myself to the standard I expect of others.

Like any bad thing, it is a habit.  And like a habit, it can be broken.  And like any old habit, it simply will take a very long time and a great deal more effort than one would have thought necessary.  But at least in the end, I can sleep at night knowing I held to my honesty in all things, not just in the "really important" ones.

The Secret Of Happiness

 

This concept has become more relevant to me the older I get.

At some point (at least for me) I had a twofold realization.  The first is that there is simply not enough room in my house for all the stuff I might desire.  Certainly I could expand into the garage (already have to some extent) or get an outbuilding (never) or even rent a space (never times two) - but even then, I would simply have "stuff".  It would not be stuff I used daily or even periodically; it would become stuff that was at best hauled out like seasonal decor and then put back for 11 months of the year.

The second realization has been as I have continued to sort through my parents' stuff.  Yes, a lot of it is useful, but even then much of the stuff they kept was likely there for their own sentimental reasons.  And while they received many years of use from it, in the end they are separated from it; my mother lives with literally nothing she had owned and the house slowly gets cleared out of all those things.  Some of the things I know and recognize; others I have no idea of who they are associated with or where they come from.

It has made me take a hard look at my own life.

Books. I love books.  I tend to buy books almost reflexively if I see them; it is only in the last year or so I have started asking "Why do I want this?  What need does this fill in my library?"  And looking at the remaining space, we are rapidly reaching the point where I have either perform a mass cleansing or limit my purchases to books I recognize a need for as reference.

And then I slowly work my way out from there into every aspect of my life.

If I were bitterly honest with myself, other than items that wear out such articles of clothing that cannot otherwise be repaired and "big ticket items" that are useful for modern living (a new roof, for example, comes to mind), I could go virtually the rest of my anticipated lifespan without needing anything else.

I say "need".  But that is not the precise thrust of Socrates' quote.  The real word is "enjoying".  Or if one wanted a synonym I suppose, one could use "content", or even "joyful".

Perhaps the better question - beyond just recognizing the difference between a need and a want - is the question "How can I enjoy what I have without wanting more".

Tales From Produce (A)Isle: The Turning Of The Fruits

 One of the things I have become exposed to on the tropical beaches and gently waving palms of Product (A)Isle is the changing of the agricultural year as denoted by the fruits we feature and are on sale.

When I originally started working in earnest in July, cherries were the top of our list.  Throughout July and even into August, we went through 8 to 10 flats of cherries even during my limited shifts.  Most of the cherries were from Washington.  Some just came in boxes, their bags encased on white plastic bags, others came in artfully decorated boxes with full colour inserts telling us how these were carefully grown in an artisanal style.  

Perhaps unsurprisingly, our customers have no concern about the artisanal nature of cherries and are purely concerned with price.  Out went the bags of cherries with the inserts and decorated boxes to grace a recycle bin.

Cherries in turn gave way to stone fruits and their kin. Peaches and nectarines graced the coconut groves.  On the whole they are easier to deal with as they containers they mostly come in - black folding containers called IFCOs which undoubtedly stands for something I cannot remember - can be easily stacked on the tables and slanted shelves, and the cardboard boxes that the rest come in are easily manageable in terms of weight distribution - the fruits being more fragile than, say, onions, and are packaged accordingly.

One additional advantage of stone fruits:  unlike cherries, where the unwritten code seemed to be "it is okay to sample and spit your pit out on the floor", stone fruits are much too big to each sample and spit the pits to the side.  (We are still finding cherry pits on the floor under things from three months ago; my view of human nature on the whole remains as dismal as it ever was.)

Stone fruits have in turn given way to grapes and pears and apples.  These are more familiar fruits and timing to me as these were all grown in Old Home and local towns would have entire industries geared around them.  Most of the applies we have are the ones that we usually have throughout the year, although there are some specialties (Sweet Tango, Kanzi) which seem to have appeared.  At least three kinds of pears as well which I find amusing:  my memory of pears growing up was from a single tree that my mother faithfully canned for many years and of which I could not tell you the name.

What comes next?  Frankly, I have no idea - but that is one of the joys of this job among the many including no after work emails and being able to leave the job on the beaches and in the groves.  It is nice to have a job where more than likely the surprises are all actually pleasant and educational ones.

The Collapse CXXII: Driving

21 June 20XX +1

My Dear Lucilius:

Driving. When was the last time I drove anywhere? When was the last time I even rode in the back of a truck?

The truck itself was a model I remember not just from just long ago but longer ago, as the rust patches and crumpled body portions attested to, confirmed by the letters on the front that were from a line that ended long ago. The driver smiled a bit as we piled into the back; it might not be in best condition, but it something he had been able to keep running himself long after newer units became too complex or parts became unavailable.

We were a mixed lot as we piled in, a collection of 10 or so individuals of various ages and sexes (although to be fair, mostly male) with wildly different equipment loads. The 5 or 6 people already in the bed nodded to us as they moved back and we moved in, trying to align ourselves and our packs in a way that the next round of travel would be bearable, if not comfortable.

With a lurch, the truck starts up again.

It was lovely early Summer day here, the sort that in times past would have made for a fine ride to somewhere else or even just to sit under the eaves and read. Now we slowly drive down the road at as speed that in years past would have caused someone to honk at us and then speed on by. The wind speed is so slow that we could carry a conversation if we wanted to. No one does.

The road is, perhaps surprisingly, in good shape – although I have to keep reminding myself that it has only been a year since maintenance truly stopped. Like many things time has stretched out in ways that seem remarkable to me. A year ago I was likely complaining about how some things were unavailable. Now, they all are.

We pass through the next town – literally a ghost town of old buildings from 180 years ago – where we collect a pair of older men. We ease around the side of the truck again; it is getting rather full at this point. We then continue the two miles up the road to the next town, which was the former county seat once upon a time when there was such a thing as a county. To the right as we pull into town is a parking lot as with two other trucks present. We pull in and park, extricating ourselves with care from the bed.

Not having ridden in a truck bed is so many years is telling, at least on me. I slowly creak my way out; Young Xerxes gives me a hand down.

As we gathered around the trucks, the head count I can get is about 40. We are a motley crew with similar characteristics to when we first loaded up: a mix of older and younger men and women (weighted toward older men, interestingly), some with the full hunting gear and a few with body armor and one fellow wear a sporting blazer – I suppose if one goes to war, one should look one’s best.

An older man hops up on the back of the truck bed gate. For the sake of discussion I will call him The Colonel, although if had ever held rank he never mentioned it (Colonel, as you may recall, was traditionally the rank given to those during the 17-18^th centuries who raised their own regiments). The two noteworthy things about him were his beard, long enough to be tied off in a holding queue, and the hardness of his visage. Next to him was The Captain, whom except for being slightly shorter and younger was a mirror image.

He thanked us first as we gathered around, for the commitment to our friends and neighbors and being willing to offer up a defense – a defense, he said, meant hope and hope meant a future. He knew were were likely all not soldiers or even hunters – that got a chuckle, especially from Blazer Man – but spirit and a sound plan could overcome a great many things. He asked for two things: for us to follow orders and trust those in charge – tall orders, he admitted, given the circumstances of our assembling.

The plan – there was a plan – would be handled as it became necessary. The first part of the plan involved getting to the site. There was a road to the next town over of course, but it was well known and rather exposed and it was assumed it was being watched – and of course, any traffic now would attract attention.

There was another option, though…

Like the Spartans at Thermopylae, there was another path. For them, it was goat track around Mt. Kallidromos leading to a position behind the Spartan lines at the pass. For us, it was a forest service road that went to the east and then dropped back down about 10 miles out of town to a road in. A chance always existed of being noticed of course, but a chance that was a reasonable one in that it would allow us to arrive unnoticed. The plan was to take the service road over the hill to the road and then hike the remaining distance into town, where we would stay for the night before moving out.

At this, he and the Captain hopped down. They began separating individuals into groups: some they obviously already knew, some they addressed questions to. As the groups grew, it was clear that the separation was between those that had military experience or even hunting experience and those who did not. Young Xerxes got swept up into the first group; I was swept up into the second group, which was perhaps ironically all populated by older men who looked more like scholars than soldiers.

The Colonel nodded and hopped into a truck, the rest of us following into the trucks that brought us. With a rumble of internal combustion, we were off.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Greece 2023: Corfu City

The history of Corfu is the history of Greece.

Corfu was founded as a colony of Corinth in the 7th Century B.C. and was the site of the largest naval battle to date at that time (665 B.C.).  Conquered by Corinth, it remained under tis control; its rebellion from Corinth was one of the proximate causes of the Peloponnesian War. 

(Ruins of the Ancient Agora)

The island was eventually controlled by one of Alexander the Great's successors until it, like the entire Balkans, eventually became a Roman possesion

(Roman Ruins)

The Roman Republic became the Roman Empire and the Eastern and Western Roman Empires.  In 551 A.D. Corfu was raided by the Ostrogoths but remained under the control of the Eastern (Byzantine) Empire.

(The Old Fortress)

From the 11th Century A.D. on, the island became the battleground of Normans, Local Despots, Italian city states, and the Byzantine Empire until in 1386 A.D. control passed to the Venetian Empire.  The city became a key lynchpin in the defense against the Ottoman Empire, surviving not less than four major assaults.

In 1797 the city passed to Napoleon after his conquest of Venice but only remained there for a brief time (1814),  when it passed to the British as a protectorate.

(Gardens of the British Residence)

(Residence of the British Governor, now a museum)

In 1864, the British Protectorate was transferred to the Kingdom of Geece.

More than anything else, to walk in Corfu city is to walk in Venice.  The city has retained its Venetian look and architecture.  It even influenced are: An entire style of painting icons and churches with traditional Orthodox motifs but in Renaissance style is called the Ionian School

(Is this Italy?  Greece?  Could you tell?)

(View of the Old Fortress)

The Ionian Sea was so clean and clear.

The two pictures below are of a gate into the Old City, dating at least from the 1600's.

Orthodox Church:

The Corfu City Opera house, built during the Venetian period.