Ancient Greek Theater in the Peloponnese

by Erum Naqvi (Germany)

Making a local connection Greece

We've been in Ermioni, on Greece's Peloponnese peninsula for the better part of a week. The water is clear, and you can peer into the emerald coves far down to the sea bed wherever you are, until the sun drops in the sky and its rays spread across the water's surface in a reflective sheen that coats the sea like honey. We've been driving around each day, in our little train of three cars, packed with assorted parents, siblings, friends, beach umbrellas, hats, and always a full bag of spinach and cheese pies from the Karagiannis bakery, the filo crumbling in our salty hands when we bite into them after playing in the sea. The nicer beaches are harder to find here, but not so difficult that they evade us. The group favors a beach called Kounoupi, though my favorites are the small rocky coves near the tip of Ermioni's peninsula. At night, the air cools a little, and we sit on the balcony overlooking the bay and watch sailboats that have dropped anchor, squabbling and laughing until we drop off to sleep one by one. We rise and repeat the same ritual each day. The world has shrunk to this rhythm and it has become a lazy little idyll, far from the dusty streets of Athens, although not so far as one might imagine. Shades of ugliness creep in through the occasional embittered comment about detention centers, or fascists, or dirty capitalists. They hang heavy in the hot air, and then sidle into the background. The gregarious cultural energy is stretched thin in the crippled economy, and it wears on everyone despite their good humor. One night, there is a disagreement over eating at a fish place or a meat place. It's settled when one of the uncles concludes that in his town, "they say the best fish is lamb." When we arrive at the taverna, a folk band plays traditional music. Pitchers of wine are flowing as plates of meat are passed around. We dance, and the band sings "this is the essence, there is no immortality." Tonight, however, we are trekking inland to the ancient theatre of Epidavros. Aristophanes' Lysistria will be performed in the giant stone amphitheater as it would have been 2500 years ago. We enter the grounds and climb a windy stone path scattered with olive trees, alongside well to do Athenians, just as it would have been so an unfathomably long time ago, and I feel as if I am stepping into history. We arrive at a colossal amphitheater, swarming with people that fill the layered stone ledges like tiny, excited ants. The performance itself is an odd affair involving a tinny repetitive piano chord that sounds anachronistically bacchic as it rings out with ease into the upper reaches of the vast space. As the plot turns to night, the lights fade out and the amphitheater darkens to reveal another show. In unison, the crowd casts their eyes upward into the inky sky, now adorned with a sweep of achingly beautiful stars. Layers of time peel away like an onion. An ancient day transitions into night on stage, and we sit on seats that are older than history, staring up into a sky that is older than time. The spell is momentarily broken when a squeal rips through the crowd. A wayward snake has found his way in from the bushes and is wreaking havoc on the second tier. Thousands of iPhones light up in a massive semi circle that sweeps the stone ledges like a quasi stadium wave. Eventually, flagging a little on our unforgiving perches, we find ourselves clapping, and dissipate with countless others into the parking lot on the outskirts of the grounds. During a pause on the drive home, I ask if this production is a one-off affair. "No," replies someone from the front seat, "they actually stage plays in the ancient theaters quite often during the season." I loll back in my seat feeling satisfied, enlivened by the thought that the ancients must be quite pleased to know that in all the mess of human history, the amphitheater still pulses with life.