“Vrionis, Vrionis Everywhere”

In Greece, it is customary to name your children after the grandfather or grandmother. So my grandfather was Nikolaos Alexandrou (his father) Athanassiadis, and I am Nikolaos Alexandrou (my father) Athanassiadis. Easy, right?

Well, not always. One day I got a call at the office:

“We are calling from the tax office about the tag of your car. You have not paid your tax.”

“Which car?” I asked.

“The Triumph.”

“I don’t have a Triumph.”

“Are you Nikolaos Alexandrou Athanassiadis?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you owe us the tax.”

It took me a while to realize they were looking for my grandfather, who did own a Triumph—but has been in heaven for a few years now. So yes, it can get a little confusing.

The Greek phone book is full of the same last names, and family trees can be very convoluted. It often feels like everyone is a cousin. Remember the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Everyone was Nick, Nikos, Nikki, Nikolaos, Nikoleta… It was played for laughs, but honestly, it’s not far from the truth.

When we rented our place in Kalamata, our landlady casually mentioned that her last name is Vrioni, adding, “You know, of the famous Vrioni family.”

Ok, I thought. Which Vrioni?

Would that be Omer Vrionis, the infamous Ottoman from Albania with Byzantine ancestry?

“Omer Vriones, descended from the noble Byzantine family of Bryennias, served long in Egypt, and defeated near Rosetta a party of English troops—an exploit of which he always boasted highly. Returning home with great wealth, he joined the faction of Ali Pasha; but the latter not only stripped him of his fortune, but even attempted to poison him.”

Or the prominent Vrionis family that settled in Piraeus, then became ship chandlers across the Mediterranean, and even have a whole neighborhood named after them?

Or maybe just one of the fifty-three Vrionis listed right here in Kalamata?

A few days ago we were walking up our little cement street, past our little chapel, said hello to our neighbors, and continued along Giani Morali (though our electricity bill insists we live on Manoli Korre). Eventually we reached Manoli Korre, passed the garbage, left the Vrioni Distribution company on our right, and arrived at the Vrioni Taverna for a nice dinner.

I had the chance to chat with the owner, Kostas, who introduced me to his sister Olga, the cook. I asked the obvious question: “We rent an apartment from Eirini Vrioni. Are you somehow related?”

“Of course,” came the response. “We are 41 first cousins, so we are all somehow related.”

I was intrigued.

And several more I haven’t quite figured out—but they’ve pretty much covered the full range of professional services.

Last night, after a lovely dinner and a movie, we were strolling back home past our favorite restaurant, Kokkari. It was past midnight and still open, with a big gathering outside. Ilektra, the co-owner, greeted us with a mini dessert—it was her birthday.

While we were chatting, Stelios, the owner, turned to his mother and said, “They rent the apartment of the doctor,” as if there were only one doctor in all of Kalamata. The “doctor” is our landlady’s husband, but the building itself is known as “Eirini’s.”

His mother nodded. “Oh yes, we’re related to Eirini.”

“Are you another Vrioni?” I asked.

“Oh no, I am Pratti,” she said. “We’re related through Eirini’s mother. Her father is a Vrionis. But around here—she made a gesture pointing in the distance, everyone is a Vrionis. They own the entire hill.”

That’s when I realized one thing: I’d better stay on the right side of our landlady. Not because the Vrionises are to be feared, but because they’re the heart of this place.

After all, the hill overlooking Kalamata isn’t just theirs by title—it’s theirs by love, history, and presence.

God bless the Vrionises! May their hill always stand tall over us.

And who knows. Maybe we are distant cousins too. We are all Greeks after all.