An Antique Land: The Ruins of Ancient Greece

Ancient Greece is one of the most well-regarded civilizations in the world.

From its rich art and culture to its geographical and historical impact, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone willing to disregard its significance. Although preserved sites exist all across the country, it could be argued that some of its most intact are located in the Peloponnese, the southern peninsula. From the capital of Athens, a quick jaunt southwest takes travelers there across the Isthmus of Corinth, a narrow bridge over the Corinth Canal.

This man-made waterway allows freighters passage to and from the Aegean Sea, and serves as a key component of the ever-changing industrial network we’ve developed. The chasm is a dizzying sight, the sheer walls of each region seeming to tumble down into the waters far below. It’s significant enough to warrant a satellite image from NASA, funnily enough, an organization I’ve cataloged before.

But none of this has to do with the civilization that so captivated the world. And while that story could be told in a variety of places, we’re going to start at an archaeological site known as Ancient Messene.

Stone arches and textured pillars dot the countryside. Layered rock coalesces to create seating for stadiums and theaters. Carefully carved structures stand proud over all, the artists’ skill and attention to detail on full display. This is the Ancient Greece we came to see.

But it’s a bit of a journey to get there, one that requires a car. While the steep mountain roads could technically be traversed by foot as they were in the days of old, this clearly isn’t an option on a time-sensitive trip. With the city of Kalamata as a home base, you can venture west through the town of Messini before heading north. The rural backdrops of the Greek countryside fill your peripheral as you steer up the winding roads.

From the parking lot, there’s not much to see; a few olive trees dot the gravel space and a small building sells tickets to enter the premises. Once inside, stacked stone bricks begin to appear among the landscape before the field drops down to reveal a large amphitheater, the first of many ancient landmarks.

It’s a simple construction, and yet there’s still something about it that feels so well thought-out. It’s not just the brickwork; the grass around the seating gently slopes inward to create a natural dip in the ground. Rather than a creation of man among natural beauty, the theater blends seamlessly with its environment to physically mesh its culture within the earth.

This theme continues through the site. Even the modern houses on the hillside above seem entwined with the valley they inhabit, their windows turned in awe to the composition before them. The agora just past the amphitheater remains largely untouched, the few pillars and remnants of buildings that remain giving way to the natural atmosphere around it. But soon after, the rolling hills reveal more expansive works. 

Just past the agora is the asclepieion*, the center of public life. A nearby diorama painstakingly recreates its original form, showcasing a roofed building with a courtyard and several different offshoots from this main area. One of these that has stayed mostly intact is another theater; once an interior room, its tiled floor is now exposed to the elements. One might imagine the delivery of a rousing monologue here, a captive audience hanging on every word of the scholar before them. It’s an impressive display even after thousands of years of inactivity, and yet the best is still to come.

Downhill yet again is the last and largest of the areas: the stadium. It looms ahead before you reach it, the field interrupted by yet another circular arrangement. This one almost dwarfs the previous theaters; the ring of benches gathered around the area is meant for the most significant displays of athleticism, a raucous crowd sure to be in attendance as the athletes below showcase their feats of strength.

And beyond it all is the mausoleum. Constructed for a wealthy family, the building would seem to teeter off the edge of the hill if the sides of its immense stone foundation weren’t visible. One might think this disrupts the theme of natural immersion, but that is not so. Rather than meshing with the earth, however, the mausoleum somehow finds its place against the sky itself. As the clouds part above the mountainside, the stones of an age long past seem to shimmer with pride. And for a moment, in the gentle wind of the Peloponnese, time stands still.

This somber quietude is a far cry from what is occurring in the modern town of Messini.

There is a distinctly Eastern European feeling to this island nation, between the tightly woven streets and architecture that often borders on brutalism. Townsfolk bustle to and fro through market stands dotting the street. White tarps strung up across the buildings protect them from the rain overhead, and keep the merchandise dry. Here at the Messini market, one can find any kind of good they’d like; snacks, trinkets, clothes. Many of these shops are decidedly Western; rather than possessing their own Greek flair, it’s more common to spot brands such as Nike, The North Face, and Adidas among the items being peddled.

And it’s even less common to see any Western tourists who might feel at home seeing these goods. This market is not for travelers, it’s for locals. And the locals want to abandon their own culture for something shiny and new.

But it’s not completely detached from what once was. The Greeks take pride in their food, and for good reason. Delicious moussaka, dolmades, and Kalamata olives are common sights in the Peloponnese. Here at the street festival, bakers cook up sugary snacks to sate the appetites of the many shoppers. Perhaps the most famous staple is baklava, a sweetened cake of thin layered dough around a filling of nuts, typically pecans. The production of this staple is in full effect here; it’s not just tourists who love the dessert.

Further up the road lies a Greek Orthodox church, another staple of the culture. The music and excited chaos of the festival slows down here, but the density of the crowd stays the same. Now, rather than darting towards their purchase of choice, people assume a slower pace, placing candles and entering the church in reverence. Others gather in the small courtyard outside, taking in the evening or just getting some air outside of the cramped market tunnels. This might be the quietest spot in the festival, but it’s certainly no less esteemed.

The central square of the town takes on the appeal of a carnival; pop up rides including a swinging pirate ship dot the pavement. In the early evening there’s not much going on, but many Greeks prefer the night hours. This is a geographical choice; the sweltering climate of the Mediterranean prevents even the most accustomed from feeling too comfortable in the daytime. But even the preliminary setup leads passersby to anticipate the peaceful evening to come.

At least, it should have been. While researching the festival in Messini, I came across an article reporting a physical altercation. A grainy video features the very same carnival rides shifting to and fro while a few people scuffle in the foreground, punching and shoving each other back and forth. The article was published just two days after I was present. The interruption of the lively festival with such a petty squabble felt a bit disappointing, to say the least.

But these disruptions aren’t present in places of higher regard. And certainly not in the ancient city of Mystras.

High above the valley, once fortified with walls that now reach barely to the knees in some cases, the mystique of this castle’s bygone era still attracts travelers from far and wide. Now, the only thing guarding the entrance is the small fee to explore the premises. Once inside, the site opens up considerably. While guided tours are an option, just like in Mammoth Cave, one may also take in the legends for themselves at their own pace.

The city speaks for itself. Even in its battered state the grounds inspire a sense of awe that modern places simply fail to replicate. Maybe it’s the valley below, an expansive sight that seems to span the entire Southeastern quadrant of the Peloponnese. Maybe it’s the mountain above, the sheer cliffs banded with winding paths and dotted with ancient structures, foreshadowing their own presence before you can get a closer look. Maybe it’s the very ground where you stand, the scale of it all, every wall, arch, and corridor fulfilling the need for housing as well as defense against incoming enemies.

Or maybe it’s all of this. And maybe it’s the fact that a thousand years ago, before the age of industry and machinery to assist in this process, the ancient peoples existing here could even conceive of gritting their teeth, buckling down, and constructing a fortress that seems to stretch up to the very heavens themselves.

This is very apparent in two particular places, the first being the monastery known as Pantanassa. Although not the highest point on the mountain, it’s perhaps the most striking feature of the entire site when first entering. Looming over the rest of the city ruins, a gothic tower imposes a sense of regality onto the lower levels. It’s a long trek up the pathway to reach it, but once inside, the barren ruins give way to something unexpected. A lush garden greets those who make it this far, leafy vines and colorful flowers adorning the central walkway. Inside, a nun greets travelers and sells trinkets to take as mementos. Upstairs you can enter the main cathedral, as well as traverse the balcony lined with smooth marble columns. Several cats seem to call this place their home; one curls up in the sunlight next to the central chamber, its multicolored fur warming in the sunlight.

The rest of this side of the city holds palace grounds, more ancient churches, and an assortment of what would now be considered trails between them. Many tourists tread carefully over the polished rocks, and some seem close to slipping.

But none of this is the second point of interest mentioned earlier. That honor goes to the castle.

It takes another drive to an even higher parking lot to arrive at the entrance. Far above the valley, even further than the crumbling walls and monastic trappings of the lower sectors, lies perhaps the most impressive piece of the site. The mountain spires seem to know this; the very earth twists and rises in an otherworldly way. It would be no surprise if the devout pioneers believed God wanted them to build their fortress here.

Unfortunately my timing was off, and I was unable to see the inside of this castle before closing time. But from the outside, with the evening shadows beginning to cast over the mountain, the fortress is still nothing less than breathtaking.

Mystras is without a doubt an incredible sight. But just at the foot of the mountain lies a place that may be even more enticing to tourists, certainly one more well-known than the fortress above it. It’s hard to even think of Greece without this place coming to mind, the legends captivating audiences as they toe the line between history and folklore. This is the birthing ground of soldiers, the place where the king known as Leonidas mustered his 300 warriors to face the god-king Xerxes in a confrontation that a graphic novel and Hollywood blockbuster would heavily stylize. It’s a place forever immortalized in a single line just before a rugged Gerard Butler kills a Persian messenger in a brutal act of defiance.

This is Sparta.

The city has become almost synonymous with strength and masculinity, and one would expect those values to extend to the modern culture of the town. But in terms of their storied history, there are only two major attractions within the city: a statue of Leonidas, and his tomb.

The statue lies raised upon its own staging area in the nicest part of town. Turning around reveals the main road, a wide street with a median containing grassy patches of bushes and palm trees. The sides of the staging area open up to parking spaces for visitors, and the fence above it is adorned with Spartan shields and crossed spears.

The statue is indeed impressive, and presents an obvious source of pride for the modern Spartans. Leonidas stands tall against his incoming foes, and even appears to block out the sun from various angles. Three banners, including the Greek flag, flutter behind him. The inscription on the pedestal reveals its construction date: 1968, just six years after the film The 300 Spartans was released. The Greeks certainly know how to capitalize.

The obvious draw seems to work; a bus arrives at the staging area, and it’s soon flooded with tourists. A queue forms for each one to get their picture under the statue, a sure sign that it’s time to move on.

The only other main draw in the township of Sparta is perhaps even more sacred: the very tomb of Leonidas is just a few blocks away from the statue. However, this pilgrimage is anything but ancient.

The path away from the statue takes you well into Sparta as it stands today. Just off the main road, thin side streets are made even more claustrophobic by the rows of cars parked up and down them. Stucco houses with wrought-iron gates impose upon those who would tread here. The streets are quiet, save for the occasional barking dog or a resident talking from their balcony. They notice you, but don’t pay you any mind. They know why you’re here.

One might expect the actual location of the tomb to be more grandiose, but that is not so. At the last turn, the streets open up into a simple park. Patches of trees and benches dot what is mostly a flat stone area. There are more people here, sitting at tables and talking over coffee. Overlooking the courtyard is more of the tightly stacked apartment buildings like the ones in Messini. Some of the walls are tagged with graffiti.

And in the center of the courtyard is the tomb itself. It’s behind an iron gate, but through the bars one may see the place Leonidas has been laid to rest. Despite the significance, it’s not much to look at. Little more than a stack of giant stone bricks, there is no placard or sign anywhere around it that even indicates what it would be. Travelers would have to know what it is, and the locals are certainly well-versed.

It’s hard not to linger there for a moment, hoping that you’re missing something. You’re not. The only other landmarks are the cafés and restaurants lining the sides of the courtyard; one proudly calls itself “Leonidas Grill House.”

This is a theme throughout the city. A cursory glance at Google Maps reveals landmarks like “LEONIDAS WRESTLING TEAM” or “300 PRODUCTS FROM SPARTAN LAND.” On the main road just past the statue lies a “Spartan Gift Shop,” peddling cheap mugs with macho phrases like “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” And near the entrance of the town, one of the main roundabouts sports a spartan helmet, in the center of a few bushes arranged to look like the design on their shields.

But that era is over. And returning from Mystras, it’s hard not to see that. In the late evening, streetlights illuminate not impressive brickwork or dazzling architecture, but prefabricated urban balconies stacked story after story. With the night sky as their backdrop they seem to reach even further toward the stars, and as you drive deeper into the city before you are allowed to leave it they feel entrapping. The residents of Sparta drive back and forth, their routines uninterrupted, likely used to the visitors of their city stopping by and leaving quickly once their business is done. None of them seem to be warriors.

With a western-centric view and the preconceived notions it brings, it’s difficult to detach from those expectations. Why should the modern state of this once-great land be any less regarded now? How much criticism of another nation comes not from a high ground of morals, intellect, or development, but a fear of the unknown?

These were questions I asked myself as I reflected on my time in Greece. All of it, not just the sanitized strongholds where Westerners could remain in their bubbles. As the country of my heritage, I was determined to experience how my family lived, and understand why they would leave a place so known for its beauty and history.

And in all of the Peloponnese, the place that may have helped me understand this best was the Kalamata courthouse.

Light peers through dirty translucent windows. The tiled hallway and pillars marking the entrance seem to point towards some semblance of nobility that simply isn’t present. There’s trash everywhere; a half-eaten bag of chips lies unattended on a table in a sitting area. Behind the front desk lies old newspapers and an ashtray filled to the top, also with no owner to be found. Open doors in the middle of the building lead to an open air courtyard in the middle, with two floors. On the lower terrace are the broken down remnants of a café that looks like it hasn’t been open in years. On the upper, two policemen chat with a man smoking a cigarette. Just inside the doors, nearly within eyesight, is a no smoking sign.

A few others mill around the lobby. In a room with an open door, many more sit and listen to a lecture; likely a courtroom in session. They stare as I pass; it’s not clear to them what I want from this place. I’m not certain it’s clear to me either.

Around the lobby, several staircases lead up and down. And while the building wasn’t quite designed for those traveling from afar, it also seemed open to the public. I ascend the stairs.

The hallways are dimmer here. Gone is the exterior light from the open windows; within the upper halls, burnt-out fluorescent bulbs create darkness where it shouldn’t be. A small working area is once again abandoned; old office furniture is piled into the corner just so it’s out of the way. Closed doors with numbers and Greek text line the halls until they reach a left turn. I’m no longer convinced that I should be here; nevertheless, I turn the corner.

The place looks even more abandoned now. From one end of the hallway, the line of doors faintly visible under low light almost seems to extend to the horizon. It’s quiet. The turns in the staircases block most sound from the first floor, and were it not for my own shuffling and shallow breathing I would think my hearing had gone.

Flyers taped to the walls in Greek surely provide more context, but I can’t read them. What I can read are numerals; many of them are dated from 2020. I wonder if the pandemic that stopped the world played a role in things never bouncing back.

The hallway encircles the top floor, but indeed, there aren’t many draws for tourists. As it turns out, there are in fact others working here; a woman sits through one of the open doors, typing away. A man passing by explains that the top floor is used for offices. When explaining why I’m here, he seems surprised.

“Why? What is there to see?”

Descending the steps, there is one more spot I haven’t yet visited: the bottom floor, where the café is located. Going down the steps again, I find myself in an even darker section of the building. Whereas the top floor still offered some exterior light, the only windows in the bottom are connected to the central courtyard. This far down, the outer edges of the building are encased within the ground.

This floor is somehow even more abandoned. A few old Macintosh monitors are piled in the corner, likely out of commission for decades. All of the overhead lights are off here, and the dirty, smudged windows to the inner courtyard are the only things letting in any light. Through these, the exterior of the café is visible. Broken chairs and tables dot the terrace, a detail that wasn’t quite noticeable from above.

And through another doorway, where the café should be located, is silence. A coffee bar lies completely dormant. Seating for dozens of people goes unused; chairs are stacked on each table, and I can almost see a layer of dust over them. This is perhaps the most striking scene of the whole courthouse, and it’s the moment I realized I should no longer be in this place.

Suddenly, there are footsteps at the other end of the café. I freeze. A man in a suit strides forward, and I’m afraid he’ll notice my presence, alert someone that I’m trespassing. He breaks left just before the café, and as soon as he does, I back away from the doors, creep back towards the steps, and practically jog out of the building. There is nothing else for me here.

Outside the courthouse, things are the same as when I entered- towering white tiled walls with modern, blue-trimmed windows dominate the street. It looked like a museum at first. In some ways it is; it’s just that the culture displayed here is far more modern than the sculpted pillars and ancient pottery we’ve come to expect.

Maybe I’m being too judgemental, comparing my own preconceptions to a way of life that doesn’t come naturally to me. But I also can’t compare the modern landscape of the country to the heights it reached long before any of us walked the earth. The man’s reaction inside said it all. It’s not what people come to Greece for. And it’s not a side of this ancient, storied land that people want to believe in.

I left Kalamata knowing this was not the land it used to be. And I left the Peloponnese knowing that the glory many still cling to is gone.

Additional information courtesy of UNESCO.

*The conversion of Greek words to the Roman alphabet is not always one-to-one from what I can tell; even among brochures from the same locations, certain words were spelled differently. Asclepieion is one of these words, but it was spelled this way in at least one printed material from the site.