In Search of Home: An
American in Stemnitsa Written and Photographed by Mike J. Pence
White-knuckled and without a seatbelt, I hung on for dear life,
silently praying to survive the car ride, as Niko the taxi driver
sped around steep, winding cliffs, ascending higher and deeper
into the mountains of Greece’s Peloponnese. My destination
was Stemnitsa, the boyhood home of my papou.
I’m American, and like so many, most of my heritage has
been lost to history. The great American conflict is that we have
no idea who we are or where we came from. My maternal grandfather
(papou), a Greek immigrant who fled during the Greek
Civil War, is the only concrete knowledge I have of my heritage.
I’m one-quarter Greek and three-quarters white-God-knows-what.
I desperately wish to know my heritage, so I went in search of
Stemnitsa.
Although it was early January, I flew into Athens airport on
a warm afternoon, the sun in its descent behind the horizon. The
moment my plane landed, knowing that I was for the first time
on Greek soil, something changed inside of me; euphoria overcame
me. I was home.
I knew this trip was destined to be unique when I realized I
had no idea who was picking me up, just that someone was. Equipped
with my luggage and a piece of paper with my name on it, I waited
and hoped someone would recognize me. Fortunately, Niko the taxi
driver did. It was Niko who was to drive me the three hours to
Stemnitsa. Not knowing whom this Niko was, I soon learned through
his broken English and my non-existent Greek, that he was a distant
relative through marriage.
The villagers in Stemnitsa claim it as the first capital of Greece,
because during the Greek revolution in 1821, the famous General
Kolokotronis took shelter in this small mountain village, and
from March through June of that year Stemnitsa asserted its place
as the capital. Secluded deep in the mountains, with few villages
in the area, Stemnitsa maintains a population of about ninety
during the winter, with a mean age of nearly seventy. Summers
in Stemnitsa, however, are a different story altogether, when
the population multiplies many times over. Like so many tiny villages
in Greece, there is little opportunity to make money in Stemnitsa,
and that’s why most inhabitants move to Athens, returning
only for their summer holidays. Despite the small population,
Stemnitsa is still relatively prominent because of its famous
jewelry and jewelry school that Greeks from all regions come to
be taught at. Unlike so much of Greece, catering to English-speaking
tourist, Stemnitsa is a reminder of what this country once was
before tourism was so crucial to Greece’s economy.
Finally arriving, thankful I hadn’t died, I soon felt like
I was getting the Mafia treatment, where family is always taken
care of. Niko quickly escorted me to the village’s five-star
hotel, where I learned that my stay had been paid for and that
I was the only guest. Then, walking the dark, quiet street I was
led to the village’s square, to my great uncle Thanasi’s
café. At 78, still with a full head of hair, we embraced
and hugged, loving each other because we were family. Thanasi
then took me next door to one of two restaurants in Stemnitsa,
where I was treated to the best meal of my life. Not knowing any
Greek and Thanasi knowing no English we still managed to converse
through hand signals, emotion, and my guidebook’s translations.
Polishing off one too many pitchers of wine, I sat in the restaurant,
with family I never knew existed, and I felt whole. Before this
trip, Greece was just an illusion. It existed through my papou,
in pictures, and in movies only, but to me it wasn’t real.
Here I was, finally, in the town of my papou and of relatives
centuries back, and I now felt and knew what it was to be Greek.
Rising the following morning my heart sank knowing I had to leave
Stemnitsa in a few hours, but rising with the knowledge that I
was still there. The clean, crisp morning air felt good on my
cheeks walking along the narrow, unpopulated village streets.
Arriving atop the village’s lookout point, I was rewarded
with the most awe-inspiring sight of my life. From this peak I
could see the whole of Stemnitsa neatly tucked away into the lush,
green mountain hillsides. Turning around I discovered how truly
secluded my papou’s village is, surrounded by only
clouds, mountaintops, and greenery as far as the eye could see.
This scenery, extraordinarily beautiful and serene, made me nostalgic
for a time I’d never had; this is where my papou
grew up, and therefore was also my home.
I spent the remainder of my time in Stemnitsa meeting and eating
with other family. I met Thanasi’s wife, Evagalia, and their
son, Dimitri. I was taken to a meal at their home, also the birthplace
of my papou, where I stuffed myself on Greek salad, olives,
bread, and lamb, trying to literally ingest the whole experience.
When I had to leave Evagalia began to cry, thoroughly breaking
my heart. In the hour we had known each other she had grown to
love me, and I her. I never wanted to leave this place, to go
back to America, where my heritage is as far removed as can be.
I never felt as good as when I found my roots in Stemnitsa, Greece.
It’s an experience I’ll always have and will be able
to pass on to my children and grandchildren, though hopefully
I’ll someday return. It’s hard as an American to be
so far away from where we came from, and if the opportunity arises,
find out, because it is the most rewarding thing any of us could
do.
Mike J.
Pence is a recent graduate of San Francisco State University
where he majored in cinema. Last semester he studied at the
University of East Anglia in Norwich, England, and did as
much traveling as he could, visiting Scotland, Amsterdam,
Italy, Greece, and numerous English cities. A lifelong fan
of journalism, he now devotes most of his time to writing.
