Monastery Agios Pavlos, Lavrio

After our most dramatic adventure in and out of Volos, stopping at the stunning monastery of Taxiarhadon and having to leave it for lack of lodgings, our unexpected overnight in Almyra wrought some wonderful fruit for us.  As I mentioned, Fr. Ioannikios was our "knight in shining armor" and one of his parishioners, Katerina, was a wonderful translator between us.  They were very hospitable and most kind, arranging our next steps for us.

Katerina told me that this was the metropolis, or cathedral church in the town, and that Fr. Ioannikios had directed its establishment and building, taking care for everything from the iconographic program to the potted plants outside.  She spoke with great love and devotion of his life among them, and his many labors for the parish.  She told me he is a monastic priest, and that he has a brother priest and a sister abbess. He had a full gray beard, pony tail, and a rich, broad smile.  I left him with a bottle of lampada oil from St. John Maximovich and he was very excited about it.

We left Almyra heading south towards Athens.  For some reason, I got the impressi

on that Lavrio was pretty close to the city.  Our directions were very simple getting from one freeway to another in Athens and then as we got closer to Lavrio just stopping to ask locals for directions to the monastery.  We also had their phone number.

Of course we missed the first exit, not realizing it until we had passed under it.  As usual, it took me long enough to decipher the Greek instructions that we missed our chance to exit.  Getting off and going around the other direction was not nearly so easy as one would i

magine it to be, and in fact, we opted to follow some guy's instructions to drive down into town and through it to Attica.  I really ought to have consulted a map, to realize how far Lavrio is from the city center.  Instead, I just went with what he said.

The result was that we ended up driving into downtown Athens and wasting a good solid hour until we found a wonderful guy who actually consulted a serious street map and gave us perfect instructions for maneuvering our way through the city to the old freeway we'd originally left so that we could carry on the same instructions we were given in the first place, taking Marcopoulo out of town and down the finger of a penninsula toward Cape Sounio.

At long last we had left the city quite far behind us and pulled over in a small town that Fr. Ioanikios had mentioned.  From here we called the monastery for directions.  I had left Grandma and the kids in the car, pulling up in front of a flower shop in a square that had obviously been temporarily converted into a parking lot to accommodate a funeral at the large church across the square.  Poor Grandma got cussed out in Greek by the shop owner.  A pretty unpleasant experience to have someone yelling at you in a language you don't understand.  But funny, if you consider it properly.

Before long, we were exiting the freeway and slowly climbing a small hill, quite unsure of being in the right.  Thankfully, a local woman appeared out of the sleepy village ahead and assured us the monastery was straight ahead, on the other side of the hill town of Plaka.  It looked to

 contain a good handful of homes and a taverna or two.

We found the posted sign to the monastery and were so relieved that they were actually expecting us.  We drove up and down a small dirt road that completely concealed the monastery.  No church dome or building was visible at all, which seemed quite strange to us.  But the big black gate embedded in a tall white-washed wall and crowned with a cro

ss was unmistakable, and we saw buildings rising behind it through the leaves of large trees.  We drove around to the back where there was room to leave the car and walked back to the gate.  Happily, there was a bell, which we rang.

Within a minute or two, our primary host, Sister Theophani opened the black gate and warmly greeted us, hugging Emilia to her and kissing her head, and picking up Basil, greeting Grandma and I enthusiastically.  We went and got a few bags as she took the children inside the small

chainlink gate across from the monastery door where the kids delighted in a very friendly

 kitten.

She apologized for all the stairs, but we assured her nothing could compare to our hike down and up at Aghia Triada in Meteora.  St. Paul's is built into the side of a steep hill and has a very vertical-horizontal feel to it.  The initial staircase led up to the main level where the church stands as well as a chapel and graveyard to the far right and the monastic enclosure to the far left.

Another staircase brings one to the next level with a passageway across to the nun's quarters on

the left behind the church walls, a lovely outdoor trapeza in the middle with a simple roof and vines overhead and a small children's playground on the far right.  One more staircase up leads to another chapel on the right and a fourth staircase up to a large building for pilgrims on the left.  We followed Theophani and the children down a long corridor with a rail on one side overlooking the church and offering a sweeping view out over the monastery towards the Aegean.  An oddly conical small mountain lay slightly left between us and the water, and rolling hills towards the right showed the way we had driven up.  The town of Lavrio fanned out around the sea, with white-washed homes huddling together, and a hook of land jutted out into the blue sea beyond.  

All around us were green and growing things: pines dripping sap, bright red geraniums, roses, potted broadleaf plants, oleander, jasmine, ivy.  The air was coolish and very comfortable.  Theophani told us that their elder built this monastery 30 years ago in what was the

n a remote pine forest.  Now the homes of Plaka came right up to monastery property and we could hear dogs barking and children playing. 

We settled into our room with 3 single beds on either side, separated by a bathroom and the door in the middle.  The mothball smell was so strong you could practically taste it.  But 

the room was sweet, made sweeter still by their attention to us as guests.  Four glasses stood atop four napkins, perfectly folded in triangles.  A large thermos of very cold water sat beside a

 tray holding 2 bowls of candies and a tub with biscotti-like cookies and four foil-wrapped chocolates.  The walls were adorned with lovely icon prints and each room had an electric fan.  Grandma was a little shocked to find that the "shower" was simply a hand-held shower head attached to the sink.  Presumably one used it right over the drain in the middle of the bathroom floor.  I explained to her that this isn't uncommon in monasteries, probably, as many follow a rule of little washing.  I was surprised we had a mirror.  That's another thing often absent.

Theophani left us to settle in a bit.  First off Basil and Emma wanted to explore the playground, so we all went down to the level below.  Filled with dry dirt, plastic trucks, pots and pans, and pine needles, it was Basil's idea of paradise.  And Emma enjoyed testing out all the swings.  In fact, they were both happier and more carefree than I'd seen them in awhile.  I noticed down below the playground that they had a graveyard, a common site in monasteries.  There were 8 plots, most of them just body-long rectangles of turned earth filled with gravel and edged with white-washed stones, and a simple single-name label on a wooden sign.  One grave, however, was covered with many plants and vines.  A small oil lamp, enclosed in a six-sided glass lantern,

 stood on a few slabs of stone with an open censer beside it.   This was the grave of their elder Dositheos, who had passed away about a year ago.  Theophani told me he had been instrumental in cleaning up Meteora as well as establishing their monastery here in Lavrio.

Soon, Theophani brought us a large plate full of watermelon, sweet, cool, refreshing.  We ate every last piece.  The children, dripping with juice, ran to get covered again in dust as we sat talking to her for a long time at the table.  Nearing the end of our journey, Grandma and I both were beginning to try and put our experience into words, to create a frame for what we had seen and done, to encapsulate it, in some way.  She talked more freely now than she had in most monasteries and churches during our trip.  It was easier, in this place of simple hospitality, with a nun who spoke perfect English and took the time to sit with us.

At one point, Theophani asked us if we had liked Greece, and Grandma said she would be relieved to return home and step again onto "good old US soil" in a few days.  I completely understood her answer.  This has been a gruelling trip, at times, for all of us, and a tiring trip much of the rest of the time.  Grandma has been a stalwart trooper, despite her 74 years, making it through gallons of sweat, layers of grime, alien bathroom receptacles, food she could care less about, constant gibberish, exhilarating driving techniques, and a steady

 stream of foreign religion, with almost no complaint.  She's been a tremendous help in many ways and a much-appreciated companion for all of us.

Yet I think the timing of the comment coupled with a lack of context, struck a chord in Theophani.  She answered, "Oh, I see," with a slightly-raised eyebrow.  What ensued was a lengthy conversation about the differences between America and Greece.  In some ways, her sense of patriotism and her willingness to speak to us from the "heart" of the Greek people opened history to me in a way reading a book cannot.

"Americans have not suffered war.  They bring war to other places, but have not suffered it on their own lands.  How can you understand how it has been for us?"  She went on to tell us about the various occupations Greece has suffered over the last several hundreds years: the Venetians, the Germans, the Turks, each one taking away freedoms, resources, cultural identity, sometimes even language and religion.  She talked about what an effort it has taken for them to recover, to re-build basic resources throughout the country like the National

 Highway.  Other wealthy countries may consider this highway sub-standard as a National road, but it has taken them much effort, and is an achievement of which they are very proud.  She spoke about the millions of refugees that have flooded Greece over the last few years from places like Albania, Serbia, Pakistan, largely fallout from military ventures by the US.  She didn't speak with bitterness, but she did speak with a certain severity.  These are their experiences.

I told her that one of the striking things to me, apart from the multitude of relics and churches all over Greece, was the way life still centers around local agriculture, with small farms dotting the landscape all over, and the very social nature of their daily lives.  People go to the bread shop, the butcher shop, the fish shop and vegetable stand, probably in many cases daily for their needs.  There are some supermarkets, but only in larger cities and gas stations.  And the plazas, streets, and cafes are bristling with life every evening.  The old men sit at their ouzos or cafefrappes together watching the world pass throughout the bulk of the day. Women chatter as they pick out their eggplants and nectarines, young people gather at the internet cafe, sit on the side of the fountain, or gossip over gyros.  They all convene together at the churches and monasteries, flowing through like an unfailing river running its well-worn course.

She took us to see the church.  Although relatively newly-built, they purposefully constructed it on the pattern of older churches.  A basic cruciform plan, with chant stands on either side.  The barrel vault and

 apse above the altar embrace lovely paintings, newly executed.  Theophani told me that the dome and apse are true fresco, whereas the other paintings are secco, literally, "dry-wall", meaning that the paintings, executed in any media, are painted on or attached to a dry wall.  I hadn't realized until talking with Fr. Ioannikios that the vast majority of new wall-painting in Greece is not fresco, but secco.  He mentioned Lavrio as one of the places where I would be able to see some new fresco, and here it was.

The style was very traditional, with a deep blue ground behind the simple enthroned Virgin in the apse, and the strong-faced Pantokrator in the dome, edged thinly in white and a band of intense red ochre.  The Virgin's robe looked almost luminescent, with an undertone of red gilded by an almost metallic blue.

On the lowest level of the vault, the left side held the Trinity and the right, a short series of Moses, receiving the tablet of Commandments, and standing before the burning bush, a striking design – the Theotokos and Child within a blue mandorla cradled by the bush's leaves.  The

 tier above had St. Thomas at the door on the right and Pentecost on the left, covering half of the vault.  The half closest to the altar contained a gorgeous icon of the Ascension which spread across the vault in an arc: on the left, the Apostles and Virgin in orans position; above, Christ ascending in a blue orb flanked by angels; on the right, the choir of angels with arms upraised.  It was magnificent.

Grandma and the children retired to our room as the bell tolled for Compline and I went to the church.  I leaned into a wooden chair right near the door and fingered my compeskini, praying for myself and everyone I could remember as the evening worship flowed quietly around me and through me.  I left early, worried about how they were faring above, and ready for sleep myself.  It was a comfortable night.  Twice as we were getting into bed, one of the nuns came to bring us one more thing: a nightlight, the offer of a "torch" (flashlight) to make it down for prayers the next morning if I wanted to.  We were well-cared-for and fell easily into reviving slumber.