I once wrote about ELTA and the fact that, technically speaking, we do not have a proper address.
So we did what any rational people would do:
We rented a PO Box in Kalamata.
Fast forward a year and a half.
My New Yorker wife is now a little heartbroken.
Every visit to the post office follows the same ritual. She opens our PO Box the way one opens a Swiss bank deposit box in an old movie. Slowly. Carefully. With hope. Expectation. A faint belief that this time will be different.
And every time:
Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch.
Empty.
It has been a hardship.
So we’ve decided on Plan B. At the end of the year, we’ll give up the PO Box entirely. That way, not receiving mail will at least be out of sight, out of mind.
I hope.
Maybe, secretly, I’ll start mailing postcards to her at home. Just to keep the dream alive.
Which brings us to… our address.
Ah yes.
Our address.
This mythical beast.
By now, you know the story. There are many variations of where we supposedly live, none of which are correct.
Manoli Korre 0 (No, we don’t have a number.)
Giani Morali and Manoli Korre (As if we live at an intersection. We do not.)
The official lease says one thing.
DEH, the electricity company, who provides us with juice, says another.
Surely they must know where we live, right?
Wrong.
Enter DEYAM, the Municipal Water Supply and Sewerage Company of Messinia, who insists we live somewhere else entirely.
Somehow, all these locations are magically connected, allowing electricity to meet water in perfect harmony, yet without electrocuting us. A modern miracle.
Enough silliness.
I decided to take action.
I went to ELTA and spoke to my “friend” Takis about our dilemma.
We want to give up the PO Box and start receiving mail at home.
“Ahhh, I understand,” he said immediately.
The solution was simple.
“Go to the ELTA distribution center. Find your mailman. He or she will guide you.”
Of course.
“Where is the distribution center?” I asked.
“You know,” he said, “the new entrance of Kalamata.”
Yes. Of course. I’ve written about this before.
A 6.4-kilometer stretch of a four-lane road—two lanes each way—with no numbers.
I am not making this up.
The main police station:
Iroon Polytechneiou Street, 24100 Kalamata.
No number.
The ELTA Distribution Center:
Same street.
Same side.
Near the police.
Also no number.
Absolutely no problem.
I knew exactly how to find it.
Armed with confidence, on a lovely Monday morning, I arrived.
The building looked like… a prison.
Bars on the doors.
Bars on the windows.
Everything locked down.
I proceeded with caution. The police station was down the block. I didn’t want anyone shooting at me by accident.
Then I noticed one window open behind the bars. A gentleman was standing there, shifting through mail.
“One moment!” he shouted.
I nodded politely.
“How can I help?”
“Well… um… Takis sent me,” I mumbled.
That opened the door.
Not literally.
But it got his attention.
I explained: we want to receive mail, but we don’t really have an address. Or a number.
He nodded slowly.
“Where do you live?”
“Off Leikon,” I said. “You know Taverna Politis? Up the street, near the Vrionis distribution.”
He thought for a moment.
“You should find your mailman,” he said. “Let me think… it’s either him or her.”
Naturally.
“Giannis delivers in Leika, not around Leikon,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me.
“Look… come back around 2 PM. All three who serve that area will be here. You can talk to them.”
Ahhh.
Of course.
Around 2 PM I returned.
“Hello,” I waved. “It’s me again.”
“Ahhh,” he said. “Go to the door. I’ll open.”
He unlocked the door and waved me in.
“Antoni!” he shouted toward the back. “I’m sending you a gentleman—he needs to ask you something.”
I entered the sorting area.
Envelopes everywhere.
Stacks, piles, organized chaos. The beating heart of Greek mail.
I explained—well, attempted to explain—the situation.
“I’m not your mailman,” Antoni said. “Ilias is. But he’s not back yet. Took him a little longer today.”
Naturally.
“Let’s see,” he said. “Where do you live?”
“Leikon. Politis. Vrionis.”
“Ahhh,” he said confidently. “I’ve been delivering mail in that neighborhood for 20 years. I know everybody.”
Of course you do.
“What’s your name?”
“Athanassiadis,” I said. “And my wife is Davis.”
“Davis… at Leikon 87?”
“No.”
“Not her. Hmm. Which polykatoikia?”
“Vrioni.”
“Maria Vrioni?” he asked. Then paused. “No wait… she’s dead.”
“Yes,” I said gently. “Irini Vrioni.”
“Ahhh! At the doctor’s house!”
“I know the place.”
Progress.
“What are you waiting for?”
“A bank card.”
He went through the pile of mail that couldn’t be delivered.
“I don’t see anything.”
Then he pointed to another envelope with a different name on it.
“Is that your polykatoikia?”
“Yes,” I said, “but the lady doesn’t live there anymore. She was the previous renter.”
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll send it back.”
He picked up another envelope.
“That’s a DEH bill.” Is this gentleman living at your place?
“Maybe,” I said, “I don’t remember the last name, but I think it’s Giannis on the ground floor.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I kept looking around because something felt off. I couldn’t figure out why, until I thought about every USPS office I’d ever been in.
Here, there were piles and piles of white envelopes. No color. No postcards. No handwritten letters with little hearts (sorry, wife). Every envelope was white. Official. Serious. Bills. Banks. Taxes.
No pizza coupons. No mattress sales. No “FINAL NOTICE” in aggressive red from a gym I don’t belong to and never will (In the US, estimates suggest around 50% or more of all mail is marketing-related, with some claiming over 90% of mailbox content is unwanted, much of it never even opened. That’s billions of pieces a year, roughly 16 pieces a week per household, versus about 1.5 personal letters.)
Then came the verdict.
“From now on,” he said, “just write the street intersection. Ilias will find you.”
Of course he will.
He handed me a sticker.
“Write your names and address. I’ll let him know.”
Then, as an afterthought:
“Tell the doctor to put a number outside the gate. Any number. It’ll make things easier for all of us.”
Right you are.
Because in Greece, the final authority on where you live is not the lease, not the electricity company, not the water company, not even ELTA.
It’s the mailman. The only person who truly knows where you live.
In Greece, if something arrives by mail, it matters.
Which makes not receiving it even more important.
So if you’re thinking of moving to Greece, here’s one piece of advice: forget PO boxes and your imaginary address. Walk your neighborhood until you find the mailman. Introduce yourself. Learn his or her name. And if you’re in Kalamata, bring diples. The mailman will immediately know you, your extended family, your building’s full backstory, who lived there before you, why they moved out, and the exact moment you leave this Earth, possibly delivering your mail long after, as Maria can attest.
If you enjoy stories about Greece that make you laugh instead of scream, subscribe for free. Mail may not arrive, but stories always do.
Siga, siga
Nick in Kalamata
Efharisto!
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