I’m asked that often.

Well… after nearly 30 years in the U.S. of A., my New Yorker wife and I decided to move to Greece—my homeland. Armed with a few suitcases and a trail of cardboard boxes bobbing somewhere in the high seas, we made our way east.

Those boxes took quite the detour. Their passports were stamped in Naples (no, not Italy—the one in Florida), Miami (South America), Chicago, New York, New Jersey, Damietta (Egypt), Dubrovnik and Rijeka (Croatia), Venice (this time, yes, Italy), Piraeus, and finally, Kalamata.

117,000 miles and 157 days later, they arrived at our doorstep safe and sound, delivered by a courier aptly named “Sparrow” (or Spourgitis in Greek).

So, back to the original question: Where do we live?

In Greece! Most foreigners think they know what that means, or at least the name rings a bell. Still, their expressions often resemble that of deer caught in headlights.

Just to stir the pot, we reply:

“In Kalamata.”

Jaw drops.

“Huh?”

“You know—Kalamata olives.” “Ahhhh, yes!”

“And where is that?” “In Greece.”

“I love Greece! I’ve always wanted to go.” “You should come visit.”

“Yes, yes! Send me your address?” Address? Hmm. Let me think about that. It’s like the name question I used to get.

For 30 years in the U.S., that conversation usually went something like this:

Name?

Nick. Or Nikolaos—before I became Nick. After a decade in the States, I made it official

The NY DMV couldn’t fit my full name on the driver’s license. Instead, they settled for “N” and my last name.

N for...? Nick? Nicolas? Nikolaos? Nikos? Nikki?

Last name?

Here we go. You sure you want to know? Smirk.

Let me spell it for you: A-T-H-A-N-A-S-S-I-A-D-I-S. (Two s’s in the middle)

Reactions have ranged from:

“OMG.”

“Oh sh*t.” “Nervous chuckle.” “That’s a mouthful!”

“That’s the whole alphabet.” And, my favorite: “Beautiful.”

In three decades in the U.S., I’ve stepped into a courtroom twice. Once as a juror—yes, in Miami (if that even counts cause the best thing about Miami? Its proximity to the United States.) So... yeah.

The other time? Let’s rewind to the Blackberry era. (For the record, it was neither black nor a berry, but it could make calls. Sweet.)

The State Police in Upstate New York didn’t share my enthusiasm for multitasking. I was yapping away on my Blackberry, cruising in a convertible, one of those hands-free earpieces dangling from my ear. Long black cord and all.

Court date: In the past

Case 123456.

“Calling Officer XYZ.”

No show.

“Calling N. Asdhdfsfhjfs?” “Calling N. Aewyterwfewh?”

I raised my hand.

The judge waved me up to the bench and whispered,

“How do you pronounce your name?”

I answered in one breath: “ATHANASSIADIS.”

He smiled.

“Beautiful.”

Case dismissed. (True story.)

Where Do We Live? (Part II)

The Greek Address Mystery, or Why the Mailman Has a PhD in Local Gossip

Here’s the thing:

We don’t really have an address.

Yes, we live in Kalamata—a medium-sized Greek city of 61,872 people (plus us two), a gazillion cats, a bunch of sheepdogs, and other “domestic” animals, like wild boar.

Roughly 83.4% of establishments (might be a slight exaggeration) —homes and businesses—do not have a real street address or a street number. Want proof?

Our local Peugeot dealer’s address is:

Ε.Ο. ΑΘΗΝΩΝ ΑΣΠΡΟΧΩΜΑ, ΚΑΛΑΜΑΤΑ 24100

Which translates to:

National Road Athens–Asprohoma (literally “White Dirt”), Kalamata 24100. Helpful? Not really.

Our furniture store, Petrakos, has this as an address:

ΝΕΑ ΕΙΣΟΔΟΣ, ΚΑΛΑΜΑΤΑ 24100

Translation: “New Entrance,” Kalamata 24100.

This refers to a 6-kilometer stretch of new road built to connect the city to the main highway to Athens.

Where’s the store on that stretch? Somewhere. Good luck!

Before we recently moved into “the city,” we lived in a house up in the woods—about 2 miles from downtown Kalamata.

A lovely place. Peaceful. Scenic. But asking for an address?

I got three different versions from the landlord, the realtor, and a neighbor. None of them existed on Google Maps, Apple Maps, or even old-fashioned paper ones.

Possible location names included:

Gianitsanika (skoupidotopos which translates to old garbage dump). Melissopoules. Agriomata.

(You can’t make this stuff up.)

Well, here’s how I’d give directions to our old place:

“You know Lakonikis? Drive to where it meets the road to Mani. Take Anapafseos, the road by the cemetery. Turn left before the cemetery. Then right at the fork, continue for half a mile, past the trash bins. Then take the next left fork, and go up the hill for half a mile. Look for a grey gate and some barking sheepdogs. If you're there—you made it!”

Mission accomplished.

No Streets, No Numbers? No Problem.

Outside of Greece’s major cities, street names and numbers are more of a suggestion than a reality.

How does the Greek postal service (ELTA) deliver snail mail? (Yes this thing still exists in Greece)

Simple.

They just know.

“Giorgo, you’ve got mail!”

Doesn’t matter if the mailman has never met Giorgo. He’ll find him. And when all else fails?

The church in the village receives mail.

Or the local coffee shop (kafenio), which moonlights as a mail hub. Your letter could sit there for generations, just waiting for someone to say, “Hey, isn’t that yours?”

My Address Adventure

For context, Athens has 23 streets named Antheon. If you don’t know the zip code or the neighborhood, you’ll never find your hidden treasure.

When we first moved to Greece, I used my brother’s address in Athens—he lives on one of those 23 Antheon streets.

I needed it for setting up basic things like utilities and banking.

Here’s what happened:

The bank teller picked the wrong Antheon based on the wrong zip code, and suddenly, my tax domicile changed neighborhoods. Good luck changing it.

Maybe in a year or two.

But that’s a story for another day...

Expecting a lot of mail from the U.S., I consulted our friendly local mailman. (Yes, ELTA gave me his personal cell number—because that's how things roll here.)

Our house wasn’t on his delivery route. Options:

We went with option 2. It was faster than trying to teach the map apps what “Agriomata” means.

Hoorah! We Moved to the City! Now We Have an Address!... Right?

After 11 months, we moved into a city apartment. Real, paved streets. Sidewalks. I even saw actual street signs with numbers on buildings!

We loved the place. We signed the lease. And then...

Surprise!

Where Do We Live? (Part III)

The Address That Wasn't, the Zip Code That Lies, and the Couriers That Could

So.

We finally moved into the city—the city—with real buildings, street signs, sidewalks, even numbered doors.

Or so we thought.

Address:

MANOLI KORRE (OT 1140)

No street number. Just that mysterious code—OT 1140.

What does OT 1140 mean?

No one knows.

Not the city. Not the post office. Not even the engineer we asked. It might as well be a code from The Matrix.

And the zip code?

According to the City Master Plan, Google Maps, and Apple Maps, our area’s zip code is 24134.

But the official Government rental portal insists on 24100, the generic catch-all code for Kalamata.

Try using 24134 while shopping online.

The system will laugh at you. 24100 or bust.

The Courier System of Miracles

Now, here's the kicker.

There are roughly 1,287 courier companies in Greece—give or take a dozen.

Some of the players:

None

That’s it. No street, no number, no problem.

Don’t ask why. Just download it.

A letter showed up from ELTA. That must mean they finally figured out the address, right?

Drumroll please… It really said:

“1st Sideway (Byway? Goat Path?) of ΛΕΪΚΑ”

(and yes, it’s ΛΕΪΚΑ, not ΛΑΪΚΑ or ΛΑΙΙΚΑ—spelling wars rage on)

next to Agios Theodoros.

And there it is.

The tiny church next to our house.

Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery is solved.

The address was never on Google Maps. It was never in the lease. It was never even known by us.

But it was always known by the Church.

Because in Greece, when all else fails—the church always knows.

Default Directions (a.k.a. Greek GPS)

You know Leikon?

Good. Go straight up, heading north toward the national road intersection. You know Taverna Politis?

No? That’s OK.

At the upcoming sharp left turn, go straight toward Papadopoulio. In about 50 meters, you’ll see Vryonis, the soda distributor.

Make a right turn where the garbage is (yes, really).

Keep going straight. Do not turn—even if it looks like a mistake. You’ll pass a small church on the left, Agioi Theodoroi.

Keep going.

We’re the first polykatoikia (multi-story building) on the right. Yes, yes—you can turn around.

I’ll open the gate.

See you soon!

By the way, our souvlaki arrived safe and sound, delivered by Wolt or maybe eFood. I don’t remember. Everything’s kind of fuzzy now. Between the directions, the pineza, and the church locator beacon, who can say?

So... WHERE DO WE LIVE?

In KALAMATA 24100.

That’s all you really need to know. We’ll take care of the rest.

Come visit. We’ll guide you.

Pineza, vague landmarks, and soda distributors included.

(…and if everything fails, ask Gianni at the kafenio or coffee shop as it is now called. He’ll bring you to us.)