Living History

Anna, Amanda, and I enjoying the November rays atop our bleached white roof.
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To say that Greece has a rich history is an understatement.  To us western countries, it IS history.  The beginnings of it anyway.  Some of this rich history revealed itself to me as I bounced through the Cyclades, Peloponnese, Thessaly, and Macedonia.  However, as fascinating as I found the past, the present, surprisingly, left an equally memorable impression.  I was at least half-prepared for some of the archaeology and mythology that had entertained and intrigued me since I was a boy.  But the various lifestyles and the people who live them caught me wonderfully offguard.

Another of my favs.
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The islands of Greece are separated from the mainland not only by leagues of Aegean.  They differ in all facets of life from agriculture to architecture to tourism.  I visited two in the Cyclades chain, Santorini and Naxos, but these were enough to introduce me to island life.  For me and my companions, Amanda and Anna, Santorini was like eating dessert before dinner's main course.  Within a day of arriving in Athens, we had high-tailed it to Greece's most sought after island.  We escaped the rush of summer tourist madness and with it the high demand and costs of accommodation.  We lived one full week in the oft photographed town of Oia (EE-ya) in a small cliffside hut called "The Poet's House".  One week where alarms were set to watch sunrises instead of catching buses.  One week where a difficult decision was which puzzle to work on or which music to listen to while cooking dinner.  One week of needing sunscreen in mid-November.  And one week where every photograph could be a screensaver, advertisement, or postcard.

Walking on the ever warm black sandy beaches of Perissa on the side of Santorini opposite Oia.
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There was no cliffside view of the sea when we reached Naxos.  The stereotypical Greek images of stark white buildings with royal blue accents were gone as well.  And we traded the independence and solitude of our Poet's House for a family-run pension.  It was this family, though, that made our stay so memorable.  The patriarch greeted us to his home, not hotel, with glasses of his family's private wine reserve, cured sardines, homemade feta cheese, and tomatoes grown in his backyard.  He, his daughter, and his son-in-law advised us on what to see, where to eat, and how long to stay not as hotel proprietors but as people proud and excited to share their home.  At the end of our last day of island touring, we were graced with one of those rare travel opportunities that must be seized.  A rural local whom we later came to know as Kouros, flagged our car down and invited us to share his table.  We snacked on grilled pork, walnuts, olives, and dried figs.  But the real reason we, as well as some other friendly locals, had been gathered, was for the concoction in Kouros' large, mysterious boiler.  He poured me a small glass of what smelled like very strong wine and gestured for me to shoot it.  I did so and was greeted by almost instant coughing but also laughs, smiles, and shoulder pats from my company.

Sunset watching became a daily ritual with beauties like these.
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The drink is a grape-produced alcohol named raki, and November happens to be the ideal time to brew it.  We learned this on our last day in Naxos when Chora, the island's capital, hosted a festival in honor of the season.  Our pension family had informed us of the event and urged us to attend upon arrival, so we agreed.  Within a few minutes, we transitioned from spectators to participants, from foreigners to locals.  Our friendly son-in-law made sure we were well fed with figs, nuts, and honey cakes.  If we had a hand free, he'd fill it with a glass of wine or shot of raki.  If our pockets were exposed, he'd playfully dump discarded napkins or walnut shells in them.  And if we objected to anything, he'd punish us with another honey cake or sugar-powdered cookie, this time forcing us to eat it in a single bite.  When it came time to drop us at the port, he said farewell with a gesture atypical for a hotel manager to a customer, a hug.  Hard to duplicate the Pension Sofi.  Harder to forget it.

Bougainvillea still in bloom.
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Returning to Athens and its congestion, smog, and social drones was difficult for us after such fairy-tale island experiences, but a dream long-desired made the transition easier for me.  For any moderate fan of Greek archaeology, there are a handful of places in Athens that deserve attention:  the Ancient Agora with Hephaestus' remarkably intact temple, the once 17,000-seat Theatre of Dionysus, the gargantuan columns in the Temple of Olympian Zeus, and the plethora of treasures now safely kept in the National Museum of Archaeology.  But to not see the Acropolis would be foolish.  For me though, it would be a betrayal of myself.  From the epic poems and myths of heroes, I wished to walk upon that hill, but after studying it with a passionate professor, I needed to.  I nearly fell apart doing it.  The mixture of adrenaline and apprehension was too potent.  Never before had I been so thankful and yet so nervous to realize a dream.  I knew each step up the snaking path before I took it.  I recognized each building before I read its name.  The Parthenon with all that was stolen and all that needs repair and so much obscured by scaffolding was perfect to me.  My picture with it was truly one of triumph and, even as I write this, a memory of happy tears.

More of Oia's picturesque buildings with the rest of the island in the background.
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In Athens, Anna returned home leaving Amanda and I to wander away from the capital.  Our first stop was the Gulf of Corinth.  On the Peloponnese, we lept back to the beginnings of Greek domination.  In Corinth, we made the trek up to and around the still-fortified Acrocorinth half a kilometer above the city.  We found ourselves transported to the time of Homer as we walked in the footsteps of Agamemnon through his kingdom at Mycenae.  And across the gulf, we pondered unanswered questions as we trekked up Mount Parnassos to seek out the Oracle of Delphi.  Some places were hard to find, others had impromptu, irregular, or multi-staged transportation, but all possessed the power of a time machine.  History came alive as we listened to a spring that had bubbled for the last 3000 years.  The games of antiquity were easily imagined while staring into a stadium still fit for a classical chariot race or modern-day football match.  And the whispers of souls were all too real as we set foot into their tombs and grave circles.

Fiat Panda. Go for a ride.
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Amanda and I were gradually making our way north to Thessaloniki to depart Greece via train.  However, before we could feel completely satisfied with our travels, each of us had one more must-see.  Hers was hidden high in northern Thessaly, mine in southern Macedonia, but each linked by an environment dear to us both: the mountains.  We spent Thanksgiving in Meteora, and found it easy to be grateful.  The weather was ideal for climbing, hiking, and gazing at the magical monoliths.  Some we scaled to the top to visit the precariously teeterıng monasteries, while others we let tower over us as we searched for trails between them.  There was no turkey or pumpkin pie for dinner, but the feast of delicious Greek mezes (little dishes) was more than sufficient.

Becoming intimate with the marble at the Dimitras Temple on the island of Naxos.
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I finished the month of November, my 13th travel month, and my Greek experience all in one town.  Litohoro has a small population but a very big neighbor: Mount Olympus.  From May to October, the town acts as base for the flood of hikers seeking out the home of the ancient gods.  In November, however, the crowds dwindle to a trickle.  Zeus has covered his peaks with winter's blanket and Apollo keeps adventurers in their beds with his day's short chariot ride.  Well, most of them.  Amanda and I followed the Enipeas riverbed at Olympus' feet as well as dared the lower levels of the E-4 trail that summits it.  The snowy peaks were masked by wispy clouds, yet I still tried to steal a glimpse of immortal activity.  At times the clouds dispersed but only momentarily.  It was as though the gods were toying with me.  It was what they've done to mortals for millenia.  It was exactly as it should have been.