Things You Can Only Learn by Visiting The Greek Village — Flampouro
Stories that are written to be indelible.
10:00 am
Today is a special day. Today we are on Olympus, and I am standing silent upon a terrifying view. A forgotten ax on the ground, brown granules on the table, and green peelings all over the cement. I am bending skittishly over the oil tree when I glimpsed the shining metal of a machete nearby me. I was overcome by a frisson of fear when I heard surprisingly the voice of my grandfather, “Kostas, how the heck you came here?” in rustic greek.
We, as a family, today came to their home, Flampouro, without invitation, and my grandmother was nearly crying with joy. She opened the door when my sister grabbed her into her hug aggressively. By instinct, I ran to the garden because this is my spot of peace, and then I beheld the scene with the machete.
As my grandmother approached me, she wrapped my shoulder, and once she felt my concern. Like I was an 8 years old boy, she explained to me that these brown granules are the ingredients of greek “Traxanas” and the green peelings from the pumpkin that my grandfather was cutting.
While my grandmother was making clear that I am a virgin on the pure nature around me, we were been attacked by a band of chickens. I’ve never been too close to my delicious friends before. These white creatures with the spoon-shaped beak are marvelous at making the noisiest sounds.
I was running to escape from this nightmare when the smell of barbeque just crawled into my nostrils. I followed the aroma coming from the cobbled garden on the front side of the house, and my father’s figure emerged. “Bless God”, I yelled for having survived.
Lunch Time
We sat at the table with crossed arms. We whispered our standard prayer while I was dribbled. I conjured this prayer years ago, but these old men still need to hear its echo. I tore the meat and drank wine until my stomach was full. Then the mouth wanted to speak words and narrate stories.
My grandfather took the reins of the discussion by cursing the old age. In his heart, he still believes in the child he once was. Though my grandmother stopped his monologue at once by just saying that her dream is to live as far as her destiny is written. And at this bleak moment, the melody of everything just sounds.
My grandparents have born in this land, they have spent their whole life there in the same mountains, trees, foxes, and hay, they’ve seen nothing, they only have scratched the surface of their abilities, they’ve lived so little, but yet they are so damned happy. They are the substructures in their village and the foundations of my hope, your hope. My naive reader, you need nothing to have it all. Give your mind the freedom he requires. Give your heart the warmth she seeks. And overcome the distractions of our trumped-up needs. And only then, you will find the wisdom of simplicity.
Be like my grandfather. Do not obey to the age, keep the faith to the wrinkled child with the bones scrunching. Be like my grandmother, love the gift of life and feel gratitude for having the sun, the sky, the water, and the wind.
Takeways
- The brown dirt is food and is called Traxanas.
- Machete is a simple knife for my grandfather.
- Chickens are evil creatures for sure.
- My father is in love with well-well-well-done stakes.
- The strict look of my grandfather is just the look of a grown young immature boy.
- My grandmother is just so beautiful and elegant.
- If life is such a burden, sometimes you have to keep it simple.
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