We've Got Mail!

No, not the robotic voice from your 1998 desktop. Not the rom-com with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan gazing meaningfully at their dial-up connections.

I mean actual, physical, hold-it-in-your-hands, written snail-mail.

After nearly two years of having no address other than a PO box—graced exclusively by government correspondence—we received a real letter. With a stamp. With handwriting. With proof that somewhere in the world, a human being believed we existed at a physical location.

It was mailed on December 31st from the States and was, technically, a holiday card.

We received it as March approaches. Who cares if it traveled from winter to spring?

Time is simply a construct. It’s very fluid. We’ve accepted this.

But how did this miracle occur?

If you’ve read my husband’s posts or mine, you know part of the saga. Our first year here, we lived about 1 kilometer up a mountain in an area still lovingly called “Gianitsanika,” which loosely translates to “garbage dump.” It hadn’t officially been a landfill for years, but there were still… let’s call them artistic remnants. Amidst the picturesque plots, sheep farms dotted the area. Duck, chickens, and geese ran amok. Homes with protruding rebar, waiting for their relatives to decide to build their dream apartments on the top floor, stood tall. Stunning residences offered breathtaking views of the majestic mountains and the serene sea.

The decaying machinery, abandoned plots, and houses left for younger generations to fight over are situated next to the more aesthetically pleasing plots.

Detritus left behind.

The problem? The street had no name, no house numbers past a certain point, and the postman stopped halfway up the street, where the numbers stopped.

I’m told this is fairly typical across Greece. So if you’re considering a move, do not panic if:

• Your street has no name.

• Your house has no number.

• Google Maps sends guests to a goat.

We don’t really know why. We’ve stopped asking why.

Year Two: We moved to a different neighborhood. A modern three-bedroom. Balconies. Views to die for. We love it. We’ve made it ours. We actually saw street signs. This made us very happy.

Until…

I tried a test mail. I sent a holiday greeting to ourselves using the address on our lease. This was deposited directly at the post office mailbox in early December. It still has not arrived.

Conflicting street names. Manoli Korre? Gianni Morali? Still no house number.

Apparently, our home technically lives on a street with two names—three if you consulted someone over seventy. Decades ago, when the area was first developed, all the streets branching off the main one (Leikon Street) were simply numbered sequentially. Ours was once numbered as Leikon Panagos #19. No signs. No markers. No evidence unless you found a faded municipal map or cornered an elder at a café.

Enter my husband. Determined. Focused. Slightly anal about logistics, like a dog with a bone. Sherlock Holmes held nothing compared to my husband.

He investigated. He discovered the postman’s name: Ilias. This intel came courtesy of Thanos, the friendly man behind the glass at our local post office, who sent us to the main distribution center on a street charmingly named “New Entrance to Kalamata.”

Of course.

The first attempt to meet Ilias failed. He was out on his rounds. We left a note with our names, our street(s), our description, our phone number, and what I imagine looked like a cry for help.

Nothing happened. Then, walking home one day, I saw a man on a motor scooter delivering what looked like mail. In my very limited Greek, I asked him if he was Ilias. He smiled and said no. But asked where you live. I pointed, and he knew the house. “Oh, that’s where Ilias delivers!” I was elated.

He promised to leave a note for Ilias. I wrote down our names for him, and he thanked me. Then off he went on the scooter.

No mail still.

So we pivoted on the next attempt.

We returned bearing gifts. A ribbon-wrapped box of fresh cookies. In Greece, pastries of any kind are currency. Bureaucracy softens in the presence of honey.

We passed the box through the metal bars (they do not let you inside, of course). Ilias was there! He insisted we shouldn’t have, but took the box anyway. My husband explained everything.

Today, we got mail.

Victory.

But here’s the best part.

Last week—without fanfare, without ceremony—the municipality installed house numbers on every home.

We are now officially #9.

Nine.

We exist.

We have digits.

But now, after informing them that we reside at the intersection of Manoli Korre and Gianni Morali, must we once again change every bank, doctor, government office, the U.S. Embassy, insurance agency, utility company, and, of course, Google and Apple Maps that we have been reborn, again? I think they might throw us out of the country!

Do we notify them that once upon a time, the street was called “Unnamed Road, off Leikon, #19, Near the Olive Tree, the second house from the dead end”?

Do we begin the paperwork pilgrimage?

I beg to defer.

Let destiny and some koulourakia (cookies) do the rest.

Meanwhile, if you really want to write us a letter, DM me first.

With love and laughs,

K in Kalamata