The Road to Sparta

  Consistent with the egalitarian Olympic theme, there were a variety of sporting activities available. Pilates classes were led by professional instructor and entrepreneur Mandy Persaki; there was swimming with Olympic and World Champion Spyros Gianniotis and Taekwondo instruction by two-time Olympic medalist Alexandros Nikolaidis. In many ways the Navarino Challenge was one of the most progressive sporting events in the world, yet it was being held in a country that had fallen well behind the world in other ways. Again, the bipolar nature of Greece was evident.

  The press conference that morning was well attended. Most of the major media outlets covered my presence, which seemed a bit peculiar to me. I’m hardly that well known outside of the running community in America, but in Greece I’d somehow become something of a celebrity figure. They asked me questions about my athletic achievements, training, and nutrition. The usual stuff. Most of them spoke English, but I had an interpreter by my side for those who didn’t.

  One of the reporters asked what I would do if I could no longer run. It was a question I got often, and I was never quite sure how to answer it. I didn’t know what I would do if I could no longer run. Running defined me; it’s who I was. I couldn’t imagine living if I could no longer run, and truthfully, I was afraid of what I might do to myself should that day ever arrive.

  “I’m not sure what I would do,” I answered. “Probably open a gyro stand.”

  That brought a round of laughter from the crowd and seemed like a fitting closure to an unsettling question I hoped I’d never have to honestly confront.

  Then one of the reporters asked what I thought about the Greek economic situation.

  “I think it’s tragic.”

  “What do you think about the politicians handling the crisis?”

  “Look,” I explained, “I don’t mix politics with running. I’m just a runner.”

  “But you did meet with George Papandreou1 and Bill Clinton, did you not?”

  “Well, yes, but we talked about diet and exercise.”

  “You met with these two world leaders and that’s all you talked about?”

  “That’s it. Listen, I’m not qualified to talk politics. I talked to them about the importance of cutting sugar from your diet and eating fewer processed foods.”

  Just then Akis jumped in, “Dean isn’t here to talk about politics. He’s not running for office, he’s running a marathon.”

  The others in the room seemed to agree, and the conversation shifted back to where it belonged, though I’m not sure that one particular reporter was satisfied.

  Truth be told, my interests in Greece were not entirely altruistic (though they had nothing to do with politics). Perpetually “dreamin’ and schemin’,” I confess there were ulterior motives in my personal agenda. It was nothing that would interfere with my duties at the Navarino Challenge, but during my stay in the homeland I planned on doing a little wandering of my own, of going “peripatetic,” if you will.

  When Peter Poulos—mastermind behind the Navarino Challenge—first contacted me, I had a feeling my personal Hokule’a had just sailed into town. The Navarino Challenge would be held on the Peloponnese Peninsula, along a region not far from the Greek city of Tripoli. That meant, in order to get there, we would be driving from Athens through Corinth, across Arcadia, clipping Laconia, and then on to Messenia. The destination interested me, and so did the route. These were the same mountains, valleys, and plains Pheidippides had traversed. And as much as I was looking forward to the Navarino Challenge, I was also there to do some snooping around, to scope out the landscape. After all, this was Greece, a place where things were never quite as they seemed. As far as dreams and schemes were concerned, I could be every bit as conniving as the gods, concealing agendas and chasing clandestine ploys. When it came to realizing one’s dream, I was kyrios (a master).

  Former Greek Prime Minister George Papandreou and former President Bill Clinton with Dean.

  * * *

  1 George Papandreou was Greece’s controversial prime minister from 2009 to 2011.

  13

  WELCOME TO GREECE

  Athens is a sprawling metropolis, just like other big cities around the world, but on the day the race organizers and I drove from Athens through the countryside to the Navarino Challenge, about 175 miles across the Peloponnese Peninsula, I wasn’t struck so much by how greatly things had changed over time, but by how little they had. While there were signs of progress, they were incongruous and puzzling.

  We were traveling on a wide thoroughfare called the Trans-Peloponnese Highway E65, or the Moreas Motorway A7 (there were signs stating it was both). Regardless of what it was called, this roughly 130-mile monstrosity of a freeway cut a swath straight across the Peloponnese Peninsula stretching from just west of the Isthmus of Corinth to Tripoli and then on to its terminus in Kalamata. Although this modern feat of engineering was constructed more than 2 decades ago, the surrounding mountains and ancient ruins tucked away in the nearby hillsides remained largely untouched and in the same nascent state they’d been in for the past thousand years.

  The roadway was broad, with multiple lanes in both directions, but there were very few vehicles using it.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked Akis as we drove west along this great highway toward Costa Navarino, the site of the Navarino Challenge.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, where are all the other cars?”

  “What other cars?”

  “That’s what I mean, there are none.”

  “There’ve been a few.”

  He didn’t find it odd that on this massive freeway there was only a limited amount of traffic. Nor was he overly troubled that our automatic toll-payment transponder didn’t seem to be working at the tollgates. The entire route is a tollway, and the sheer number of collection stations seemed asinine to me. Every 10 miles or so there was another tollbooth, and none of the fares were ever the same. Nor were they in standard increments. One fare might be 82 cents, while the next was 94. The first three booth operators promised Akis the transponder would work at the next tollbooth. Finally, after half a dozen failed attempts he gave up trying and instead dug through his pockets to pull out the correct amount of change. Soon, we were all doing the same.

  There were four of us traveling together: Akis, Peter Poulos, Peter’s new love, Mark, and me.

  “It seemed weird to me at first, too,” Mark said.

  A Southern Californian, like me, Mark had been living with Peter in Greece for the past several years. But he was all too familiar with the infamous 405, a freeway in SoCal about the same breadth as the A7, but perpetually snarled with traffic. A recent construction closure on the 405 had triggered what the media coined Carpocalypse, a complete gridlock of the entire downtown LA metro area. There was talk of a forthcoming Carmageddon if there were ever to be a seismic event (news speak for earthquake) that impacted the 405.

  “It just seems bizarre to me that the Greeks would build this enormous highway when there’s nothing out here,” I said. “I can’t see rows of condos and tract housing popping up anytime soon, yet there’s a freeway the size of the 405.”

  “Welcome to Greece,” Mark smiled. “Things don’t always make sense here.”

  “Since its construction 20 years ago has the roadway led to any new growth?” I asked.

  “They installed a gas station along the way,” Peter offered. “And they’re going to build another one on the opposite side soon.”

  “Wow, a hundred and thirty miles of freeway and two gas stations,” I muttered incredulously.

  “The construction is top-notch, too,” Mark added. An architect by training, he had an eye for such things. “The tollbooths are exquisitely designed, not like the eyesores you see in many other parts of the world. The Greek engineers were ahead of their time.”

  “Yeah,” I’m thinking, “like a few hundred years ahead.” There wouldn’t be any shopping malls or Walmarts arriving anytime soon, or ever. But hey, the to
llbooths are handsomely designed.

  Indeed, welcome to Greece.

  There was an additional dimension to this place that remained concealed beneath the surface. During the protracted drive to Costa Navarino something unexpected happened. Instead of the extended duration of the cooped-up transit culminating in a fierce bout of road rage, the opposite transpired. We rolled down the windows and let the fresh, warm air blow in. Peter instructed Mark and me in Greek. We laughed and joked about how different things were here from in the United States, where everything is structured and designed to have a purpose and meaning. Akis had this ridiculous ringtone on his phone, “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk. Every time his phone would ring, which was about every 5 minutes, we’d all start swaying our heads, waving our hands in the air and singing, “We’re up all night to the sun/We’re up all night to get some/We’re up all night for good fun/We’re up all night to get lucky . . .” If there had been any other drivers on the road, they would have thought we were all crazy. But there weren’t any.

  We stopped at several points along the way, which enabled me to survey the landscape a bit. It was hard to imagine anyone running out in these ancient hillsides and over those steep and rocky mountaintops. From what I could see, there were absolutely no trails or paths to follow and much of the terrain appeared rugged and covered in thick brush. We would delve deeper into this territory during the Navarino Challenge, but from what I could decipher along these roadside vantage points, very little of it looked penetrable.

  After exiting the expressway outside Kalamata and transitioning onto a smaller coastal roadway, we stopped to refuel. The sun was just setting, and an explosion of colors set the western skyline ablaze. The evening air was warm, still, and pleasantly fragrant. I decided to walk over and take a peek into the service station. What I saw was absolutely bewildering.

  Inside, there was an entire gourmet food section with exotic spices and local specialty items beautifully merchandised on driftwood shelves. Bushels of herbs hung upside down drying above the windowpane. And, get this: There was even a fresh produce section! I’d never seen a gas station that looked so much like Whole Foods Market on the inside.

  In the produce section (I still can’t believe I’m describing the interior of a gas station in these terms) there were wicker baskets filled with all sorts of fruits and vegetables. The labels and prices were in Greek, so I had no idea what some of the items were. One of the baskets contained something that looked like small plums. I picked one of them up and inspected it.

  Peter had come in. “What is this thing?” I asked him.

  “It’s an olive. They’re good. Let’s get some.”

  “A what?” I asked him again. I was holding something the size of a golf ball.

  “An olive. This region’s known for them.”

  He put a handful in a paper sack and paid for them. We left.

  Once back in the car I offered to repay Peter. “Are you kidding?” he said. “That whole thing was 37 cents.”

  “What, that’s it?” I said, dumbfounded.

  “It’s hard to sell something when you can walk across the street and pick them off a tree for free. Here,” he said, “try some.”

  He handed me one.

  “What do I do with it, just put it in my mouth?”

  He looked at me oddly, “That’s how most people eat, isn’t it?”

  Funny thing with Peter, he wasn’t being cheeky or satirical, he was truly curious if there might be some alternative way to eat.

  I stuck the thing in my mouth and started chewing around the pit.

  “Oh my God,” I blurted, “that’s not an olive, that’s a religious experience.” The taste was amazing.

  Never had I eaten an olive that was so flavorful. It had bouquet, character, and dimension to it, just like a fine wine. As I chewed further, the tastes kept multiplying and intensifying.

  “They’re good, aren’t they?” Peter asked.

  “They’re unbelievable. How do they get an olive to taste like that?”

  He laughed. “Welcome to Greece. It’s a combination of things that all come together to make food taste good here. These are ancient trees from small traditional groves, and they’ve never been crossbred or mixed.” He went on to explain that the soil is pure and unadulterated by fertilizers or pesticides and that the mineral and salt composition is unique to this region. The air temperature, air quality, and humidity also play an important role, as does the intensity and duration of southern Mediterranean sunlight throughout the year and the amount and timing of rainfall. “All of these factors come together to produce an olive like that. It seems complicated, but it’s really quite simple,” he said.

  “Hand me another, will ya?”

  I stared gnawing on a second one. It was even better than the first.

  “The Chinese really love Greek olives. The import fees are excessive, though, so a group of enterprising Chinese businessmen thought they’d ship some trees from Kalamata back to China and plant them locally. But their plan backfired. The olives those trees produced weren’t the same. There’s no way to emulate the conditions that exist here in this region of Greece.”

  The road we were now on wound along lazily and was even less traveled than the carless superhighway. It meandered gingerly into the countryside, passing through small townships along the way. The sun had long since set, and it was getting late in the evening.

  “This area has been hit really hard by the economic crisis,” Akis informed me.

  Yet the later it got, the more the little towns and villages along the way seemed to spring to life. We passed local roadside taverns and outdoor restaurants, and there were people everywhere, of every age. Kids were playing along the sidewalks, laughing and chasing each other while the older yia-yias and papous (grandparents) watched over them. Music could be heard, and people sat together, drinking, telling jokes, laughing, and eating. Young couples sat romantically staring into each other’s eyes. It was like a scene from a Hollywood romance movie, only it was real. These people might be poor, I thought, but their lives seemed richer than those of a lot of the multimillionaires I knew back in the States.

  “Are you hungry?” Akis asked.

  “Sure; I could eat.” I was starving, actually.

  We stopped at a local diner for some food. The menu was entirely in Greek.

  “Do you want fish or meat?” he asked.

  “I’d love some fish.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  He walked me back toward the kitchen, where there was a cooler on the counter filled with crushed ice and the day’s haul.

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “You mean just pick one?”

  “Nai.”

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  “You just pick one.”

  “But I thought you said no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I asked if you just pick one and you said no.”

  “I said nai. That means yes.”

  I stood there scratching my head.

  “That’s a nice-looking snapper,” he said, pointing to a reddish fish. “And here’s a good-looking rockfish if you’re in the mood for something meatier.” He held it up by the eye sockets for me to inspect.

  “They both look pretty good to me, I guess.”

  “Okay.”

  In Greek, he ordered them both.

  The food arrived maybe 10 or 15 minutes later, tops. Straight from net to table, the fish had been lightly grilled over an open flame with a bit of locally pressed olive oil, fresh lemon, crushed oregano, and some coarse Mediterranean Sea salt sprinkled atop. Along with the fish they served a large platter of steamed greens, perhaps spinach.

  The fish was another divine experience, the skin crispy and flavorful and the meat inside soft and moist. And the greens they served with it were like nothing I’d ever tasted before.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “They call it horta.”

>   “Horta? What does that mean?”

  “Weeds,” Peter responded, shoveling another serving onto his plate.

  “Weeds? I’m eating weeds!”

  “Yeah. They’re pretty good, aren’t they?”

  They were delicious.

  “You know all that underbrush covering the hillsides? That’s horta. The yia-yias walk around all day collecting it.”

  I surveyed the countryside. “Looks like there’s no shortage of supply. It’s everywhere.”

  “Yeah, and it grows quickly, too.”

  Most weeds do, but who cared? It was one of the most flavorful meals I’d ever eaten. Simply prepared, the food tasted so good that it didn’t need to be disguised under heavy sauces or buttery gravies. I laughed, thinking how different the culinary experience is at a roadside diner in America. Could you imagine someone foraging around outside Denny’s collecting weeds to eat?

  It was very late in the evening when we finally arrived at the Costa Navarino development. The moon was full, and a soft breeze gently rustled the leaves of the abundant groves of olive trees dotting the property. There were no doors at the entrance to our hotel, just a towering stone archway that opened onto an expansive slate foyer.

  I made my way to the reception desk to check in. The young lady helping me had amber eyes clear as honey and a warm, mischievous smile. “Is this your first time?” she asked.

  “Here at this hotel?”

  “Yes, and also to our country?”

  “Yes. I mean no. Er . . . I mean nai.”

  She giggled at my bumbled Greek. “Well, yasou, Kostas. Welcome to Greece.”

  Welcome to Greece. I’d heard that expression several times that day, and it was beginning to grow on me. There was something wild and wonderful about this place. I didn’t profess to understand any of it, but somehow all these disparate and seemingly incongruent elements coalesced into an effervescent tonic that soothed the soul and nourished the spirit. I’d been in Greece for just a day, and I was already starting to like the place. Why I’d spent most of my life trying to run away from my Hellenic heritage made no sense. It is who I am. I now saw that more clearly than ever.