Leaving on a Jet Plan (and toilet chronicles)

Today brings to a close a chapter of my life. In a matter of hours I'll climb aboard a train bound for the airport, where I hope to disembark - volcanic activity free. It's been an interesting last, and unforeseen, week in Greece. Work was slow, personalities were grating, and yet somehow I realized that over the past three months I have come to dislike the food less. I'm fairly sure I put on a good amount of fat while I've been here, thanks to the superfluous amounts of olive oil everything is drenched in, and lost a fair amount of muscle, thanks to my complete lack of exercise. (Unless you count my daily walks to that snack stand?) All that considered I am actually looking forward to (and this is not like me at all) going to the airport today. Two inch thick slabs of beef, one pound hamburgers, copious amounts of cheese and salsa are all calling my name, "Douglas, come partake of our glorious splendor.... how we have pined for each pined for our twain!" So clearly I have that to look forward to. On my short list of things to do - eat everything (no exceptions... everything.), drive, take Tristan for a walk, reintroduce myself to the gym, quality time with my nieces (and nephew), go to the movies, and the wonder that is the American mall. (In reality my short list should include find a job but that sounds oh so boring!) The last time I returned from a prolonged stay out of the country I think I spent 3 days straight watching vhs after vhs of recorded television, (my poor mother... I can't believe I had her record 4 months of at least 8 shows... here is a belated apology for that...) but I don't think that will be a problem this go round. 

So I will leave Greece tonight, glad to go, but also glad to have come, and entirely unsure when (if ever) I will come back here. As this chapter in my life closes... I wait in anticipation to see what the fates will deal me next, because while I cannot fathom in the least what it will be, I know it will be a challenge and a blessing.

And now, because this is my last posting from Greece, I will finally tell the Athens toilet story I have so long alluded to...

Friday afternoon.... the American School of Classical Studies is hosting its yearly "Open Meeting" this night followed by a reception at the residence hall, and James has encouraged me to attend. My wardrobe in Greece is lacking, and so while many people would be showing up in suits and dresses, I did my best to put together a somewhat respectable ensemble of black pants with a shawl neck black wool sweater. "Hopefully," I reasoned, "wearing all black will disguise the fact that I am completely under dressed." I got a ride into Athens with the school's director, Guy Sanders, and after an hour and a half emerged in front of the schools campus in Athens, complete with a skim coat of Jack Russel Terrier hair. I had booked a hotel for that night in the tourist friendly Montastiraki area, and as the meeting did not begin for a few hours I decided to make my way over and check in. Hotel Cecil was nothing special from the outside, or really for that matter, from the inside either. The lobby was dimly lit with an old wood hewn desk to one side and an antique iron and marble spiral staircase encircling a vintage birdcage lift. 

I made my way up to my room on the 4th floor (with a great deal of confusion, as the stairs dead ended into an exterior door on the 4th floor... it turned out you had to exit onto a roof terrace to reach my room) and was pleasantly surprised with the room. After casting my bags aside, I decided to grab my camera and take a picture of the view of the Parthenon and Acropolis from the Terrace. 

I think quickly went to the bathroom and began to freshen myself up, planning to do a little shopping and grab a quick gyro before having to head back to the school for the lecture. 10 minutes later I am furiously looking for my hotel key... WHERE CAN IT HAVE GONE???!?! I move all of my bags searching beneath them, glancing under the bed and desk, but alas... no key. I  pull back the furniture.... still no key. I decide to unpack my previously unopened bags on the off chance that by some miracle the key has migrated through the zippers to rest with my other belongings.... no key. I open and check all of the drawers and cabinets... no key. I move the bed pillows and pull back the coverlet... still NO KEY. 

All of this has taken about 30 minutes, and at this point I have been through multiple iterations of each step. Finally I call to the front desk, explaining the situation and asking for an extra key... but I am told, "There is no extra key, you must find that one." GREAT! It seems like a great idea to not have extra keys to a hotel room because who has ever heard of someone losing one... right? So I begin to retrace my steps... first I took a picture on the terrace... LOOK OUTSIDE! I go out and look around the terrace even going as far as to hoist myself up to peer over the parapet in case somehow a fantastic gush of wind, without me knowing, swept the keys from my hand, over the wall, and onto the ledge below. Hmmm.... still no keys. 

What did I do next? .... I went to the bathroom, washed my hands and brushed my teeth. "Maybe somehow I dropped them in the trashcan?" I wonder. But upon further investigation, the rubbish bin contains only the gum wrapper I had thrown away... Now I know what you are thinking, I didn't mention having gum before, but I assure you, had I swallowed the keys I would have noticed, so I thought that lead to be a red herring. One option left.... the toilet. Could, somehow, the keys have fallen from my pocket into the toilet? I'm not sure but it seems possible. As I reasoned, the weak flushing toilets in Greece would not have spirited my keys far if that were the case, but they must be sitting at the bottom of the trap just out of site. And that is when I knew what had to be done... I had to reach into the toilet. Now let me clarify a few things, Greek sanitation is nothing to write home about, and further more standards for cleanliness are far below that which they are in America. Long story short I was not looking forward to this. It reminded me of a game I would play in college, where everyone would have to tell what they would be willing to reach into a Mexican toilet for. Generally the answers were passport and A&M ring, and while Greece is no Mexico, I'm not sure it is that far removed. My A&M ring wasn't in the toilet, (and wasn't going to be if I could help it, so I removed it before the actual action took place) yet I was about to reach in. One quick action, my hand was in and out like I had just saved a baby from the ominous clench of an alligator, and what did I find? .... NOTHING. In that moment the first thing you can possibly think is, "I just put my hand in a Greek toilet for no reason." I scrubbed my hands with the dedication of a surgeon, and walked out of the bathroom fully humiliated and possibly  ready to vomit. When I emerged from my den of shame, there before me lying on the bed was nothing more than the infamous room key. Oh how innocent it looked, yet I knew this key was evil and had intentionally beguiled my hand into the loo. At that point there was nothing to be done, so I grabbed the key and left, wondering if my hand would ever again be the same.

Poppies

There are tons of poppies blooming wild everywhere right now. Evidently bees also like them.

Digging in Corinth

I wasn’t supposed to be here in April. I wasn’t supposed to meet the 7 students who descended from Athens on April 5th. Originally, I wasn’t invited to take part in the actual excavations here. My invitation was to come to Corinth from January 18th to March 31st, leaving in time to make room for those who would come for the first session of excavations in April. However mid February James, upon deciding I was not useless, invited me to stay through the end of April and participate in the dig. It took me some time to decide whether or not I was up to it or even wanted to stay in Greece that long, but I eventually decided to stay through April 18th, the last day of my 90 day tourist visa.

To be honest I was nervous about how it all would go. Archaeology phD candidates with multiple years of experience would be heading up the digging, and I would be drawing any architecture that was uncovered, a skill I hadn’t even learned when the opportunity was afforded. I decided I would take a quick trip to Santorini, coming back in time for Easter, after which the dig would begin immediately. “How bad can it be?” I thought. Sure I might screw up, but after all it would be two weeks and I would likely never see any of these people again.

Well those two weeks have come and gone, and successfully I might add.

Excavation life is interesting. The first addition it brought to my life was a roommate, Mark, who I have been getting to know these past 3 months. 6:40 am and the alarm clock beckons us to wake, and 10 minutes later my feet finally hit the floor. Contacts, brush my teeth, dusty jeans, t-shirt, allergy meds, sunglasses, water… check. Now its off to breakfast, and there is no lingering smell of bacon to draw me in. I stumble to the breakfast table - its now ten after seven – and fill my cup with hot tea. Within moments a scrambled egg appears in front of me, lovingly prepared by one of the house ladies, and then a voice yells “TOAST!” I thrust my plate out just in time to catch an oddly shaped piece of slightly toasted bread hurling through the air. Butter. Jam. Eat. One shot of orange juice followed by chugging a glass of water. I wonder, “Why am I awake?” but because there is no time to cogitate on that I am up from the table and down the hall to collect my drawing supplies. Out the door, down the street, through the gate, and down the treacherous maze of scarps, planks, and stones into the trench. It’s time for the excavation to begin.

All in a line we make our way - hands full of notebooks, bags, and toolkits – five twenty-something Americans into the trenches where the Greeks await to be told what to do. It’s still cold in the morning when we arrive on site, with dew on the rocks and makeshift ramps. Until the sun reveals itself from behind the trees to the east, it will be. Things get going, but it’s not the noisy ruckus of commands ordered in foreign tongues that Agatha Christie has led me to believe. It’s actually fairly quiet. Around 10 am the air comes to life with the intermittent sounds of  the mobile fish salesman announcing his good, screaming school children competing on the playground across the street, and the whistle of the guard on the archaeological site below us, warning tourists to stay off of the monuments. With the sounds comes the sun, and when the sun comes layers of clothes begin to go. It quickly gets very warm. In a country where people on the street are wearing coats and scarves in 70 degree weather, seeing the workman getting down to t-shirts means it’s hot.

Two things characterize the sensory experience of the excavation… sun and dirt. As I stand over a tape measure triangulating points with a ruler and plumb bob, I can feel my farmers tan getting worse. Occasionally it gets so hot that I pull my sleeves up over my shoulders, also offering them an opportunity at the sun, but for the most part I have a very nice t-shirt line being reinforced day after day. Then beats down relentlessly, heating my skin and hurting my eyes, but because it’s difficult to draw looking through a shaded lens, my sunglasses spend most of their time on the top of my head. As much as the feeling of the sun on my neck is emblazoned in my memory, so is the taste and feel of freshly loosened dirt. By the time lunch rolls around my hands, clothes, face, and nostrils are thoroughly dusted in late antique dirt.

Some mornings are slow, and for me it is hit or miss. I help with the surveying and wait for something to draw. I’m here to draw architecture, so revealing a pit or cash of pots is somewhat irrelevant to me. I wait for something built to be uncovered – a wall, tiled floor, well, foundations, etc – and that’s when I strike into action. It’s actually entirely unexciting, but fairly interesting. The site architect, James, would normally be on site to draw these features as they are revealed, but because I am here he isn’t, which I’m not necessarily saying is a good thing. Every feature has to be accurately recorded - stone by stone, block by block, and cut by cut. It can be difficult at times with some of the trench leaders, who would rather keep digging then wait for the time necessary for things to be properly recorded, but as James told me the first week…. “Students don’t tell architects what to do.”

The time can really drag on, and it seems like an eternity before the mid morning break fondly referred to as “Bookman”. The origins of the term are disputable, but the workman love trying to beat the director by being first the yell it out, and once it has been, for 15 minutes the site is deserted. Those of us from the school go up to the area just south and above the excavation for tea, sandwiches and fruit, while the workman head off who knows where for cigarettes and beer most likely. By 10:30 we are all back to work, and so goes the day until 2:00pm when a vegetarian lunch greets me at the house. 

Volcanic Tuesday

Today is Tuesday, April 20th, 2010. For those of you who have been following my schedule, you will recognize this as the day after I returned to Texas from my three months in Greece. However, instead I'm having a volcanic Tuesday. I've already had a volcanic Monday, Sunday, and Saturday. The plume of ash from the April 15th eruption of Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland descended across northern Europe, bringing air travel to an immediate halt. You may be surmising that I am not in northern Europe, and that my friends, is true, but useless, considering my homeward journey requires a jaunt through that utopia otherwise known as London Heathrowe. My Sunday flight was cancelled by Saturday afternoon, and by Saturday evening I had no idea how or when I would be coming home. The people in my computer kept telling me to rebook online, and yet it did not happen. The people in my phone told me I would likely wait 357 minutes to speak to a real human. Finally around midnight I found Stella in Jacksonville, Florida. Stella, that dear soul, put me on a flight for this Saturday, April 24th. A full 6 days after I was supposed to leave, I will hopefully by making my way home, and with any luck.... not paying a 1400 euro fine at the airport for overstaying my visa. 

In the mean time, I remain here in ancient Corinth. Unlike the thousands of stranded travelers around the world, I still have a bed... even if I do have to work for it. I did feel a little silly telling all of the house staff goodbye on Saturday, then showing up for breakfast on Monday, but hey, what's a guy to do? So for the next 4 days I will do what I've been doing for the last 15 - intern excavation architect for the Corinth excavations. I guess its good practice, honing my hand drawing and documenting skills, although I'm not sure when I will next need to know how to record a one thousand year old wall or fifteen hundred year old opus sectile marble floor. But it is something to do. Until Friday I will continue on the routine of a 6:30 wake up, 7:00 breakfast, and 7:30 work arrival, followed by 10:15 snack break, 2:00 lunch, and 3:00 sorting. Here's to you Eyjafjallajokull, for spurting toxic bits of ash and glass into my path, and yet I come away slightly unfazed.

Post-Easter Wrap Up

         Easter Sunday was a wonderful day. I began the day with a verse that I thought was incredibly appropriate considering my surroundings...

"But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep. For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead comes also through a man. For as in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive."          

            1 Corinthians 15:20-22

        It wasn't until a dear friend pointed it out to me that I realized how appropriate this verse was. I had chosen it simply because I thought it was a wonderful and succinct summation of what Easter is about, but I realized that this verse was actually a message given over a thousand years ago to people living exactly where I am now. How amazing!

       My Easter was slow, filled with company, tiring, and ultimately enjoyable. Mark, Sarah, and I (Mark is the other 'young person' always here and Sarah was here when I arrived and has just recently come back from Toronto) began the day by cooking breakfast together... bacon, eggs, and fried toast with milk and orange juice. After a shower and shave, I made my way down the back patio to James and Iullia's house at the back of the property. "Christos Anesti!" Iullia greeted me. Fumbling to try to remember the correct response I sputtered out "Alithos Anesti!" and was luckily correct. Just as the early church in Corinth would greet each other on Easter, they still do today, proclaiming, "Christ is Risen! He is risen indeed!" 

       Iullia's two sisters, mother, father, and nephew had come for Easter,along with Panos, the neighbor. Altogether there were  12 between adults, children, family, and visitors, and the central focus was the milk-fed lamb slowly turning over a bed of burning embers. Easter delicacies consisting of the various insides of said lamb were served with drinks and bread, as we all sat around a small child's table, listening to Greek music and baking in the hot Corinthian sun. I have to admit the lung and liver were not my favorite things to sample that day, but in the spirit of the celebration I of course partook. At a certain time, Nikos, the patriarch from Macedonia, declared the lamb done, and it fell to him and James to bring it to the table and skillfully remove the five foot metal spit that had ever so delicately been rammed through from stern to bow. A hefty leg of lamb was thrust onto my plate, and the feast had begun. The hours passed, and eventually we found ourselves at Guy's house, where another feast had been laid out. We spent the afternoon talking, eating chocolate covered raisins and almonds, playing dice games, and touring Guy's garden, and then headed back to the dig house. Tomatoes, onions, cheese, and bread made for a nice light dinner while Mark, Sarah and I watched the first two episodes of Cummunity, which I had just introduced the two of them to.

      Today I somehow slept straight until 12:30pm. I guess a belly full of lamb will do that to you.

Happy Easter

This week is an important week for people in the village. The women that clean and cook our meals at the house even have work off from this past Thursday until Wednesday. Many people here genuinely celebrate their Orthodox rituals, which although they do seem somewhat bizarre to me, are clearly rooted in a deep faith for those who live here. Last night I joined the villagers in a procession in which the "empty tomb" of Christ was carried throughout the village between its churches followed by what must have been nearly a thousand people - from old men and women to young children - all carrying candles. In a few moments I will go to a midnight service in which the Priest will declare that Christ has risen, and the holy flame that he brings forth will be spread among the congregation, who will then use it to bless their homes. Tomorrow will be a day of celebration, as families join together in feasting, and I will spend the day with James's and Iullia's family, while they roast a lamb on a spit among other things. Being here has reminded me that while everyone's tradition for celebrating Christ's resurrection may be different, the fact is that tomorrow people all over the world will celebrate the gift bestowed upon man through that resurrection. I find that far to often I forget to thank God for that simple yet ultimate gift, and so I am glad to have such a cogent reminder of the fact. Happy Easter everyone!


Behold, we go up to Jerusalem; and the Son of man shall be betrayed unto the chief priests and unto the scribes, and they shall condemn him to death, And shall deliver him to the Gentiles to mock, and to scourge, and to crucify him: and the third day he shall rise again. 
Matthew 20:18-19

And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots. 
Luke 23:33,34 

On the first day of the week, very early in the morning, the women took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were wondering about this, suddenly two men in clothes that gleamed like lightning stood beside them. In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!
Luke 24:1-6

When Jesus rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had driven seven demons. She went and told those who had been with him and who were mourning and weeping. When they heard that Jesus was alive and that she had seen him, they did not believe it.Afterward Jesus appeared in a different form to two of them while they were walking in the country. These returned and reported it to the rest; but they did not believe them either.
Later Jesus appeared to the Eleven as they were eating; he rebuked them for their lack of faith and their stubborn refusal to believe those who had seen him after he had risen. 
Mark 16:9-14

After the Lord Jesus had spoken to them, he was taken up into heaven and he sat at the right hand of God. Then the disciples went out and preached everywhere, and the Lord worked with them and confirmed his word by the signs that accompanied it. 
Mark 16:19,20

Trouble in Olympia

A few weeks after my trip to Nafplion and Tyrins I went to Olympia. A total of eight hours on four busses got me to the site of ancient competition and worship, yet for me it ended up being the site of discomfort and annoyance.

Ancient Olympia:

James suggested I go to Olympia. “It’s an easy trip,” he told me. “Just catch a bus in Modern Corinth and it takes you straight there,” he claimed. At that point, I should have known that this was a doomed trip. It was, after all, in this same vein that he had recommended climbing the north ravine of Acrocorinth and walking the busy highway from Nafplion to Tyrins. James’s suggestions, it seems, are ALWAYS doomed to fail, but it would take me this third lesson to learn that tasty morsel of truth. I will take you through the course of the day with a rough timeline I that I actually made note of shortly after arrival in Olympia, when I realized just how horrible this trip would be.

At 7:30 that morning I awoke, full of vim and vigor, excited about my weekend excursion. 8:00 - kneeling in the bathroom, throwing up into the toilet. 8:30 - on the first bus from Ancient Corinth to Modern Corinth.  9:00 - watching the bus to the Canal drive away while I was asking the bus station attendant if that was the bus to the Canal. 9:30 - on my way to the Canal station. 10:00 – informed that the 10:30 bus the Olympia is full. WAIT. 12:00 – on 3^rd bus of the day, to Pyrgos. 16:00 – at Pyrgos bus station boarding 4^th and final bus to Olympia. 16:45 – disembarking Olympia bus, begin walking towards hotel. 16:50 – realizing I am one fleece jacket lighter than a few moments ago. 16:52 -  watching the bus drive away with my jacket inside. 17:00 – check into hostel… cannot say “bare but clean” to describe it. 17:15 – falling down stairs on my way out of the hostel, arm twisting behind me on the railing as I plummet to the bottom. 17:15:30 – attempting to move right arm…. unsuccessful. 17:15:50 – trying to adjust my shoulder back into place in order to regain arm mobility…. successful.

The unfortunate part of these occurrences, is that you are immediately soured toward your new location. However, on the upside, how can your trip possibly get any worse at this point? I tried to enjoy the rest of my night, taking a long dinner and enjoying an Agatha Christie novel while I ate. One more interesting thing happened that night… and his name is Giorgos. Giorgos is a typical Greek merchant, calling to the tourists walking by trying to lure you inside. Douglas (me) is a typical Texan, and feels obliged to smile and answer a question when asked directly, so when George asked me where I was from, I was caught. “Texas,” I replied. “Ahh TEXAS!” He seemed excited. “I have a brother in Houston,” he went on to tell me, “Where are you from?” After a short conversation, I made my excuses and continued on, only to find myself being followed by a car 15 minutes later. Who should be inside, you ask…. Giorgos. He wanted to give me a post card with his picture running with the Olympic Torch at the lighting ceremony in 2000. Weird. But evidently, not weird enough. Later that evening, I again walk by Giorgos’s, not even recognizing his shop. There is a different man sitting outside, who once again asks where I am from…. here I go again. In a few moments Giorgos reappears, and asks to inside to look at his jewelry. I browse around the kitchy, ostentatious cases trying to be polite, but he just won’t let me leave. First he askes if I have a girlfriend in Greece. Next, do I have a girlfriend in Texas?  Now comes the kicker… and you have to imagine this part in his thick accent. “Do you like the mints?” he asks…. Or at least I think this is what he asked. “I’m sorry, did you say mints?” I clarified. “Mints.” I still look confused. “Mints…. ments…. mens.” I finally understand. “Do you ever like to make some company with a mens?” he asks. “Nooo….” I say, unsure what to do. I make an excuse and leave, wondering, did that man follow me, give me his picture, and then proposition me?

 The next morning I toured the sanctuary of Olympia and the stadium of the Ancient Olympic Games, and cut the trip short, heading back early that afternoon. At the Pyrgos bus station I examined a pile of possibly contagious ‘lost and found’ articles, re-checked the bus from the day before, and then left. Olympia will always have a part of me…. my black fleece that is.

A Much Delayed Tale of Nafplion and Tyrnis

        My trip to Nafplion and Tyrins was actually the first real trip I made away from Ancient Corinth on my thirst weekend after arriving here. It's been almost 2 months now since I went there but it was a somewhat interesting trip so I thought I would make a post about it even thought it is effectively out of date. It was in fact my first experience with the regional Greek busses, my first time to see a movie in Greece, and my first time to find a beautiful place on the Peloponnese. 

Nafplion and Tyrins:

Several weeks ago, at James’s suggestion, I made the trek to Nafplion and nearby Tyrins, on the Saronic Gulf of the Peloponnese. The plan was to take a bus to Nafplion, a beautiful medieval city, and then on the second day walk to the half mile to Tyrins and explore the fortified Mycenaean town. The bus arrived in Nafplion and I was immediately piqued. Cobblestone streets stretched out in front of me, and buildings, more reminiscent of an Italian village than anywhere in Greece, lined the square. Rising above the building line were two hills, each with its own crenulated fortification walls. Nafplion was a breath of fresh air in the wasteland that I have come to believe the Greek mainland is. I walked to the waterfront and then to my hotel, a pleasant but small family hotel with a nautical theme. The room was cozy, small but comfortable, with a small balcony overlooking a picturesque street.

I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the town, up and down steeply sloped streets and stepped paths between a mix of buildings, some fairly modern, and some falling into ruins. I ventured up the smaller of the two hills, called Acronafplio, first. As I made my way up the road and away from the town I passed a defunct hotel which must have been a delight in its heyday. A modern building perched at the edge of the cliff, it had commanding views of the gulf and of the steep slopes blanketed in a rich cover of emerald green cactuses and agave plants merging into sharp rocks and crashing waves. From where I stood taking it all in, the wind blew ferociously and I found myself re-bundling my scarf to keep the cold air off of my neck. A little further up the hill I found myself all at once inside the ruins of a large round tower, now diminished in size by both the crumbling of the walls and the encroachment of the ground, but still impressive none the less. At the top of the hill, where the castle once stood no doubt, is a 1970s hotel, aptly named the ‘Nafplio Palace’. Its organically modern stylings are reminiscent of a Frank Lloyd Wright design, massive walls of natural hewn stones contrasted with sweeping expanses of glass and elaborately crafted bronze and wood doors.

From there I made my way back down, but not before discovering the hotels helipad, which it seemed was also a popular location for illicit encounters based on the litter on the ground. A few hundred meters away was the approach to the larger of the two hills dominating Naflion. Atop this hill is the Palamidi Castle, the last major construction of the Venetians in Greece. An exhausting 857 steps later I had climbed to the top of the hill. The stairs, now 300 years old, were worn and weathered, yet still withstood the traffic of tourists and locals looking to take in the scenery or exercise their calves, both of which I witnessed occurring. I knew I would not make it to the top before the gates were closed, as all of the sites in Greece close by 3pm this time of year, but it was an interesting experience no matter, and after catching my breath for a few moments I hustled back down.

Later that evening I sat in the square and enjoyed a lovely dinner complete with rich, honey covered dough balls before heading down to street to catch the local showing of Sherlock Holmes. Oddly enough, midway through the movie, in fact midway through a sentence, the movie stopped, and everyone shuffled outside for a smoking intermission. It seems that Greeks can’t even make it through an entire movie without a cigarette.

Day two – the plan was to walk to short (so I had been told) distance to Tyrins and see what is touted as the most important Mycenaean fortification. I began walking, and about 15 minutes into it, I began feeling drops of water ever so slightly wetting my forehead. At this point I considered going back for a taxi, but James had insisted that I should walk, and knowing the weather I had experienced so far in Greece, I knew there was just as much of a chance that after 5 this would end all together as there was of it turning into an actual rain, so I continued. I evidently put my money on the wrong horse, because it did indeed begin to rain, and for the next 45 minutes I walked down a busy two-lane highway with no shoulder. I can’t tell you much about Tyrins, because by the time I reached it, fully soaked, I had little desire to look around. I snapped a few pictures, read a few signs, and left, still raining, and still wet, to walk back another hour in the rain as well. When I got back to town, I found a place for lunch and to change my clothes, only to find that all the clothes in my backpack were also wet, and so begins the 3 hour damp bus ride back to Ancient Corinth. In the end, day two was a fail, and this was the second, but not last time I would regret taking one of James’s suggestions. 

Savoring Santorini

        I've been in Santorini almost exactly 24 hours, and it has been a good 24. I woke up incredibly confused about what time it was thanks to my crazy phone and daylight savings time, but the extra hour I would have had from waking up too early was lost to the nap I took after breakfast. One note on breakfast to Villa Evgenia Hotel.... I think you are trying to give me last season's honey, and I can tell. Although it was overcast and cloudy most of the morning, the sun came out by noon and I've spent the last couple of hours relaxing by the pool reading Dan Brown's 'Angels and Demons'. There is no water in the pool unfortunately right now as it is barely the beginning of spring here, but the pool area was nice withe comfy padded lounge chairs quite conducive to taking in a bit of sun. 

      To backtrack to where I left off yesterday... the ferry ride was at points miserable due to my random allergy outbursts, and there was virtually nothing to do about it. Half way through the ride, about 4 hours, almost half of the passengers got off at Paros, and the remainder of the journey was more enjoyable. I didn't expect to be picked up by the hotel when I arrived, but there was a driver waiting to bring me back so that was a good start to what hopefully proves to be a very good trip. 


    Some things the next few days hopefully have in store.... 
               laying out on the black sand beaches
               boat tour/hiking the caldera of the volcano
               sunset views in Oia
               donkey ride up the cliff

Poor Pitiful Piraeus

Piraeus, from first impressions, is one of the dirtiest places I’ve been. When I once before graced it with my presence – almost exactly 4 years ago – I don’t recall taking notes of piles of garbage and grafters on the sides of the roads. Getting TO Piraeus was made simple thanks to the new Suburban Rail line.  Built with EU money in preparation for the 2000 Olympics, it is one of the VERY FEW examples of EU money that was spent well and is successful. After waiting for a handful of minutes at the taxi stand in Ancient Corinth, I was at the Proastiokos just in time for the 3:45 train that makes its way to Piraeus via Athens. Two stops before Piraeus and just after and announcement by the conductor in Greek, the train stopped, and everyone began disembarking…. I mean EVERYONE. I decided it was best to get off as well, and asked a girl, “Does this train not continue to Piraeus?”  “It does,” she informed me in a this Greek accent, “we must move to the last train.” Soon after, I was crammed into one small train car with standing room only, and on my way to Piraeus. This last leg of the train was interesting to say the least. The track weaved its way between buildings and across busy streets with nothing more than a small traffic control arm to separate it from the traffic, literally so close I could have spit on a car if the windows had opened. These, my first views of Piraeus’s outer boundaries, was far from inspiring, as I passed through an area so depressed it was hard to believe I was not in a third world country.

                Off the train and two blocks later, I turn down a broad but unkempt street and find the door of ‘Hotel Delfini’ where I will be staying. I know not to expect much for the 28 euro I paid for the room. Inside the lobby is stifling from a heater working overtime on a 70 degree day, in typical Greek fashion. My room is sparse, and the faded hot pink zebra stripe wall to wall carpeting takes some getting used to. It looks somewhat like I would imagine a cheap motel where drug deals would go down in the USA, but for Greece I’m not sure it’s so bad. It occurred to me, that while I wouldn’t want to stay in a Motel 6 at home, it would easily be a few stars better than this place, and yet I wasn’t bothered by it…. it’s Europe after all, right? I had intended to take a shower once I got to the hotel, as I unexpectedly found the water turned off at the dig house before I left Ancient Corinth, but after I saw the shower, that idea fled my mind.

                It was 5:30pm, and my ferry was at 7:25am the next morning, so not wanting to be over-tired for the journey, I decided it would be best to pick up my tickets, eat something, and call it an early night, of course taking advantage of the presence television in the room. I ventured out…. Hoping that if I left the immediate port area I might find a more hospitable Piraeus, and to some extent I did. About 10 blocks away I found a large church, and wondered inside to look at the elaborate wall and ceiling paintings, mosaics, and crystal chandeliers. I snapped a few pictures sans flash before a parishioner motioned to me not to…. “tricks on you,” I thought to myself, “I was done anyway.” I walked around a little more, before returning in the direction of a McDonalds sign I had seen earlier. It seems so obnoxious – the idea of an American traveling to Greece and then eating in a McDonalds – but there is something SOOO comforting about having that familiar, reliable food to eat, not to mention having something different from the gyros and souvlaki I’ve been devouring for 2 months. That was about it for the night. By 7pm I was getting in bed and putting on a movie to fall asleep. (I was entirely unsuccessful at falling asleep early, but clearly it didn’t matter as I am currently typing from on board the ferry.)

                I made it successfully to the ferry well before 7:25, stowed my luggage, and found my seat, which is the last part of this story I will take note of. The ‘Business Class’ ticket I purchased for the 8 hour trip, is actually just a lounge full of tables with loose, unassigned chairs and upholstered banquets, which I am not all too happy about. I suppose this must be meant for people traveling without luggage perhaps, although everyone I see here has a carry-on bag or more, with no overhead been or under-seat area in which to stash it. I find these types of situations most annoying when one wants to go to the bathroom or get up and walk around, and, because you are alone, there is no one to keep your seat or watch your things.

                Well…. 40 minutes down, 7 hours and 20 minutes to go.

So Greek of Me

Sorry I haven't posted anything in a while, but what can I say, I'm just being Greek. I feel like I can use that interchangeably with the word lazy, because from what I've seen they are synonymous. I still owe you a quick recount of my disastrous trip to Olympia and my quick weekend in Athens from weeks ago now. Also in the mean time.. I've made and lost a new friend with a deceptively young face, learned some new drawing techniques, thrown rocks at a dog, gotten a haircut. One scintillating bit from my Athens trip I will leave you with, but won't elaborate on now, is that it involves me reaching my hand into a toilet. I think anytime you throw,  "reached in a toilet" out there, people's expectations hit the roof, so now I know you'll be checking back. Tomorrow is Greek Independence Day, which means I don't have to work, and hopefully I will take the time to write up a few anecdotes for my small but loyal audience (Mom, maybe Elizabeth... I'm guessing). Till then.

The Elusive Mister Dixon

For several days I have know of the possibility of his arrival. My suspicions were first aroused by two unknown names on the dinner list…. Lapinsky and Dixon. After due diligence, I gathered that Mister Dixon would be arriving on Wednesday, and began to suspect that, all the rooms being full, he might be forced in upon me. So, Wednesday night I gathered my things – toiletries put away in their case, clothes folded and stored in their drawer, shoes tucked neatly onto the bottom shelf, and drew my hanging clothes to one side of the closet – making room for this “Mister Dixon”. Yesterday he arrived. A perfectly nice man in many ways, or so I thought from my first impressions. He was dressed neatly enough, in a pair of casual brown loafers and socks with a red stripe up each side, a clean pair of decently fitted, dark, blue jeans, and a crimson button down shirt with a cream blazer buttoned atop it. His black wire rimmed glasses added to his impression as an academic, but his somewhat long, thin hair, together with his clothes gave him the appearance of a Brit. This, together with a slight brogue that comes and goes, has since led me to believe that he was either born in the UK but spent most of his life in the states, or, much like Madonna, chooses to affect the accent all as a part of an image he is actively maintaining.

I was correct in my assumption that he would be staying with me, and the people here were so kind as to give me absolutely no notice as to the fact, so I was rather glad that I had prepared myself for the possibility. My first inkling that I would not, after all, like Mister Dixon was no sooner than our first exchange. “Where are you from?” he asked me. “Texas,” I said, “My family is in Fort Worth, which is where I’ve spent most of my life.” “Oh,” he said, rather desparigingly, “and HOW is that?” Fully understanding his meaning, like any polite person I said “I’m not sure exactly what you mean,” giving him a chance to redeem himself. Only no redemption was to be found, as he replied. “Having to grow up in Texas…?” Not wanting to make much further conversation…  I simply replied, “I quite like it, its different than much of the south,” to which he replied,  “Its different than most of the world!” with a notable tone of disgust. Since then he has made no effort at politeness or decorum. When mentioned at dinner that ostrich skin boots are rather popular in Texas he added, “You’re kidding me! How disgusting!” When I commented that I had missed the culture of smiling at people from home, he asserted, “I always hate southerners who smile. You never know what they are thinking.” And finally, he exited breakfast with the salutary, “Well I’m from the east coast, and that is MUCH preferred.”

My opinion on Mister Dixon is now complete, and I think fair. I have one more night to spend sharing a room with him, and as far as I’m concerned it cannot come and go fast enough. There is something to be said for Southern Hospitality, and perhaps it is time for the rest of the world to take a course in manners.

A Benadryl Kind of Day

Wet. It's been raining for two days. Gray sky and soggy ground kept me inside most of the day yesterday, except for what was supposed to be a brief outing to return the rental car from Saturday. Instead, it turned into another example of what happens when Greeks design streets and their signage. After a quick (relatively) trip up the exit-less stretch of the Auto-strada to Nemea (a mere 20 kilometers) and back, we had returned the car, narrowly escaping a toll for unintentionally traversing the wrong rode and, an overage fee on the vehicle mileage due to our digression. Sitting at lunch we discussed the condition of Greek cities, which in my opinion are an advertisement for why architects are necessary – without them places end up looking like modern Corinth.

Today, for the most part, hasn’t been all that entirely different. The ground is wetter and the sky is still gray. As the sun peeked out this morning, everything took on a hazy yellow-brown glow. For a while, Ancient Corinth had a beautiful warm luster, much in the same manner of an old sepia photograph or vision through a pair of tinted lenses. All too soon, however, everything transitioned back to gray. I’ve spent the day camped out in the library at hill house, sneezing my way through a pile of drawings. I feel like I must look awful – three Benadryl and a Claritan later I still feel like the best thing to do would be to get in bed and escape and let the itch in the back of sinuses disappear. Blergh.

In the next day or so I have to make a decision about when I will be leaving Greece and what I will do and see in the mean time. April 25^th seems far away, too far, but that will likely be my bon voyage. As far as ‘the mean time’ goes, I’m considering a trip to Istanbul via Bucharest and back via Thessaloniki. Flying directly there and back would be easier and less expensive, but the idea of a train trip through the countryside seems exciting and romantic.

Here is to hoping tomorrow is a nicer day.

Tomb Raider

Driving is easy… when you know where you are going. Today started out well, went for a little loop towards the end, but finished superbly. Big Mark thought we should rent a car and see the sites and sights of Korinthia. Little Mark wanted to learn to learn to drive a stick. Lindy needed a ride to the train station. I wanted to get out of the compound. First stop…. Isthmia – museum and archaeological site. Rating… underwhelmed. For a Pan-Hellenic sanctuary site, very little remains, as most of it was dismantled to build a later fortification wall, but still Mark, Mark, Lindy, and myself sat amongst the ruins of a Roman bath and had a lunch of rice cakes, mortadella, Greek cheese, and potato chips.

(Mark H. and Lindy looking at the hypocaust system.)

Next stop… the beach and excavations at Cenchreae. Litter intermixed with fine, smooth pebbles, and sea washed pottery sherds crunched under our feet as we made our way to the main archaeological area. The remains of a basilica fall partially on the beach, but reach every so gradually out into the surf, being captured by the sea over the past thousand years. At one time this must have been a grand building, with rows of monumental columns and walls adorned with intricate glass mosaics. You can still make out the end of the apse, whose foundation blocks lie just below the surface of the water. A litte further up the beach on a higher terrace, an ongoing archaeological dig is fenced off, ostensibly to keep people like us out. However, like most Greek fences, its easy to find a way through, and usually its as easy as finding where someone else has cut a large hole, as it was in this case.

The site did not disappoint. The remains of what we postulated to be a grand house remained to a great extent. You could easily identify what seemed to be a colonnaded inner courtyard with two long wings on either side extending out into what is now the gulf. Tiny black and white squares of marble paved the porches, somehow, unbelievably still intact. Still one terrace higher… a large area of graves was being excavated. Easily the most impressive of these were the large, multi-burial chamber tombs cut deep into the bedrock. Although all traces of any burials that once existed here are gone, presumably removed and catalogued by the excavators, the smells of a damp cave filled with old bones still lingered heavy in the air as I descended the rock cut steps and crouched through the doorway. This was not just damp cave however. Motifs of birds, leopards, warriors, and garlands could still be made out in the painted plaster work that remained. I was the first to enter, and the first to see it, and so called back to the others in astonishment, “You have to see this, there’s a ton of wall painting in here!”

(Mark A., Mark H., and Lindy in the first tomb)

Shortly we made our way on, and after a quick detour to the train station, were examining a few more tombs closer to our village. Once sufficiently dirtied, we returned to Hill House to make dinner plans. I was tasked with collecting suggestions, and came back with James’s recommendations. We could either drive east into modern Corinth, which would be a fast easy drive, and try a new restaurant in a unique vaulted basement setting, or if we were feeling more adventurous, head west up the coast road to a little village where an American trained chef did wonderful things with traditional Greek flavors at Stis Annas. We decided to go into modern Corinth, or at least we thought we had. After a near miss with a road sign, Big Mark asked, “Are we driving west or east… east right?” The backseat thought west. The backseat was right. In no time at all we found ourselves in the village of Vrachati – we would be sampling the flavors of Stis Annas after all.

We did have to wait for an hour for the restaurant to open, but who eats dinner at 8:00pm anyway, right? It was well worth the wait. A spinach salad with sweetened, dried tomatoes, prosciutto, parmesan cheese, and balsamic vinaigrette whet my taste buds for the delicious morsels still to come, including a salmon and dill potato salad, fried Greek cheese with roasted red peppers, shepherd’s pie with lamb, beef, and mushrooms, chocolate-pear mousse, and ligonberry pana cotta. By far the best meal I have had in 7 weeks.