Panegyri on Serifos

It hadn’t even been 24 hours since my arrival on Serifos and I was already on my way to a party. My home exchange partner had invited me to a panegyri.

Truth be told, I dithered about whether to go. Who would I talk to? How would I get home? That was the introvert in me talking. But the traveller in me was desperate to go. And in the end I went because I could hear in my head the voice of my dearest friend, saying, “What do you mean you didn’t go?”

Panegyria are a centuries-old tradition in Greece. The word comes from the Greek word pan (meaning all) + ageiro (meaning to gather). Originally, they were large gatherings dedicated to the worship of a deity, but, over time, they have shifted to celebrating Christian Orthodox saints.

Panegyria are especially common in rural communities and on the islands where local families take on the responsibility of maintaining and caring for the many small churches. As each saint’s day is celebrated, the family responsible for the church dedicated to that particular saint hosts a community feast, complete with live music and dancing.

Tourists are always welcome. On my first visit to a Greek island (decades ago, when I was travelling the European continent on a train pass), my friend and I ended up at three such festivals within four days.

The panegyri I attended on Serifos was at the church of Agios Ioannis (Saint John the Apostle). We were too late for the religious service, but made our way into the chapel anyways, just for a moment, where we left a donation and my home exchange partner lit a candle.

Outside was a table where everyone ate in shifts; my home exchange partner introduced me to her friends and we stood and chatted until it was our turn to eat. There was wine, potatoes, some kind of grilled meat, fava bean soup, and lots of bread. It was clearly a family affair with the men grilling the meat, the women running the kitchen, and the children serving the food.

Eventually the music started up in the portion of the building next to the kitchen and we moved indoors to listen. Someone played a violin, another a bouzouki. The songs were long and when they ended, there was lots of applause. The musicians would rest for a bit, then the bouzouki player started picking out another tune and it would all start up again.

It was quite late when my home exchange partner turned to me and laughed at the fatigue she could clearly see on my face. She jumped up and said she would find me a ride home. And a few minutes later, as I walked up the hill to the main road with the Serbian couple who were willing to give me a lift (they were also staying in the Chora), a group of young women, clearly tourists, passed us on their way down. They thought they had missed the panegyri. I assured them they hadn’t, but they were alarmed that they couldn’t hear any music.

“The music is indoors,” I said. “Go on down, you can’t miss it.”

Nor had I — and I was so glad I hadn’t.