Greece, part 2

From top to bottom: We name a donkey Maria and sing West Side Story tunes to her; we watched sunset at the chapel in the hillside; sunset on Amorgos; Brett's excited about riding our ATVs; on the Acropolis

Greece, part 1

Top to bottom: On the ferry to Amorgos; a cat on a chair in the middle of Katapola harbor at 7 am after a sleepless night; Brett samples the local fare; getting greek sweets from the locals is always fun when they look exactly like the family from My Big Fat Greek Wedding; a pathway to paradise outside the restaurant we ate lunch at in Amorgos.

Romania

From top to bottom:

Brett drinks away the last of our breakfast yogurt in Chernivtsi, Ukraine; our layover in the train station in Ploesti, Romania was uneventful; the city of Brasov, Romania, near to where Drac sucked his first blood; the hill with the Hollywood-ish sign where you can overlook the city; and me, ready to go, in Bucharest before we leave for Athens

L'viv

From top to bottom: the grave of Archbishop Shiptiski, hero of L'viv and Ukraine who prevailed against the soviet and nazi occupation, hid jews and baptised my grandmother, he used to come out and bless her and her friends as they played in the courtyard of St. George's; St. George's Cathedral in L'viv where my grandmother used to play in the courtyard; Ukrainian soldiers at the Bankomat; a L'vivian woman holds up a glass to her eye as I take her picture; friends playing spoons for the first time.

Escape from Munich

Mr. Pimpl rolled his eyes and sighed again at our request.

"Yah, und I have zee times fur Lausanne," he said, "and Basel, and Zurich, and Bern."

We nodded solemnly and looked blankly at each other: let's get the hell out of Munich. As far as cities go, Munich was one of the most expensive we'd been to, not good for two twenty-three year olds who were still wearing clothes they owned in the 9th grade. I liked Bavaria, Brett thinks Bavaria is the greatest thing since Bach's Branderburg Concerto, and we both like beer, but c'mon: 5 bucks for a pretzel? I don't even get mustard!

We thanked Pimpl, a balding man in his 60s with round glasses and a long face. He grunted behind the DeutscheBahn ticket window and we disappeared into the train station. After 4 hours of looking for a train, bus or plane to Lausanne to be with Aunt Kate, we were stuck in Munich for another night.

Being stuck in the world capital of great beer isn't a bad thing, just expensive. We made the mistake of eating on the square near Marienplatz in the downtown area: 45 euros for dinner, please.

we ended up staying the night in an A&O hostel, a chain of hostels that provides cheap lodging for obnoxious schoolchildren all over europe. Our neighbor was a college student from Arkansas, Katie, who had been studying in Salzburg for a month.

We booked a train to Lausanne for the next morning at 7 and called my Aunt Kate, who lives on Lake Geneva in Switzerland to let her know, and then we wandered into a local Hungarian restaurant. We drank litres of beer while eating sausages and cheesy spaetzel. We talked philosophy until the sun went down and walked along the Marienplatz. A small band of a violin, cello, flute and trumpet played 'Ave Maria' near the subway for passersby. We walked back to the dorm exhausted, and collapsed into our bunks before our train the next morning.

Greece in reverse

Tuesday, July 2nd, 12:00 pm


I'm in McDonald's in the Athens airport, and all I can think of is punching this Swede. I'm just trying to sleep on the couch with a belly full of bad McChicken salad, and this guy just keeps yelling.

"When does our flight leave?" I mumble.

"2:30" Brett says.

This is my first flight cancellation ever. Our 9:30 to Munich just got rescheduled on Air Berlin on the same day. We're anxious for german food but I can still taste the honey covered fried Feta cheese of Amorgos.

Monday, July 1st, 8 pm

Mike welcomes us back to the Marble House Hotel, pleasantly surprised at our return. Unlike other Meditteranean peoples, Greeks have these brilliant blue and green eyes that pierce the soul. Mike's pleased we followed his directions to Amorgos, yes, the ferry rides went smoothly. Mike shakes his greying head, Naxos is too touristy for him.


We find blackcurrant sorbet in a supermarket and finish the rest of our Ouzo on the porch, perched on cheap white lawn chairs. Our bellies full of gyros from Savvas, a small restaurant with juicy lamb-packed pitas and greek beer, we talk about our time in Greece and culture in America under our wet underwear drying on the clothesline.

A door slams and Mike walks out towards the street. He's the kindest man I've met in Greece.

"Thank you!" we yell. He turns and waves as he walks home, his eyes glowing in the dark. It's the last time I'll see him.

Sunday, June 30th, 7:30 pm

"What time is it?"
Brett looks at his watch and points: 7:32 pm.

We have finally made it to Aparanthos on our 4x4 ATVs, the objective of a 5 hour lacsidasical trek across the island. Now I'm racing to get back to Naxos town on the other side of the island in an hour and a half before the rental shop closes down and we lose our passports and our deposit of a 100 euros. The price is steep for staying out longer, but I'm seriously considering skipping our flight to Munich, forgetting about the due date and sleeping on the beach.

Neither of us have eaten anything since lunch and we have to hoof it back. But seriously, we're in Greece, riding ATVs. I'm torn between returning to the real world and wandering back to that town I saw a way back, 'Filoti' I think, maybe asking that Greek girl to dance to the guitar music at the restaurant and finding some wine and a little feta. Maybe I'll pick olives and be a farmer.

Brett smacks on the back of the head and we're off. Just around the corner, Brett and I ride our ATVs at 50 kph down a winding mountain highway overlooking the center of the island of Naxos. The mountain behind us and to the left is called Zas, or Zeus, because the father of all greek gods was once believed to inhabit the huge rain-carved monolith of granite bursting from the sea. We had mistakened the hill just down the road for Zas, a mountain that rose to a pointed cliff, almost like a hooked witche's nose, and at the very top stood a white church flying a greek flag.

Just a few hours ago we were across the island on the coast, and I was jumping into endless blue green waters on hot sandy beaches. We'd cool off, jump back on our 4x4s and keep riding.

I've lost myself in paradise. The Elysian Fields I was promised are here, on Naxos.


Saturday, June 29th, 9 pm

"See Cygnus?" I point north towards the Milky Way, "that's the Northern Cross."

Brett and I are marveling at the brilliant specks of white scattered across the dark blue canvas of the Greek night sky. Constellations are clearer and more forceful than ever before, Greek names and constellations suddenly poignant on a crystal blue night.

Wandering on a near pitch black night, the trail back to the village of Aegali and our hotel is little more than stones in dirt, surrounded by olive trees and beying donkeys. I know there's donkey dung on this trail somewhere, and I'm in sandals. I could really ruin this perfect night with one wrong step.

We walked up to a small chapel built up high on a hillside overlooking the northern valley of Amorgos, a small greek island just two hours from Naxos. We watched a beautiful sun smear a blood red sky before slipping behind the mountains in the distance, then wandered down to the village below for dinner. We ate mountain goat, an eggplant dish that was to die for, and drank the house wine while eating baklava. The owner hunts sharks and runs the only restaurant in town.

Donkeys rustle near the trail as we walk back, leaning closer for our conversation.

Thursday, June 28th, 11:58 pm

I roll over in bed, exhausted from a long day of travel. Even with the fan on high, I'm sweating profusely in the 90 degree heat, waiting for morning. Our arrival in Athens was completely ad hoc; no plans, just winging it with a few guesses. I really had no idea how we were getting to Amorgos the next day.

''What the hell are we going to do in this Godforsaken place?'' says Brett.

''I have no idea''

Transylvania will suck your blood, and your enthusiasm

After being kicked out of the same restaurant twice for wearing sandals, sneered at for putting Tabasco on my kebab and getting hopelessly lost in the labyrinth of streets in Bucharest, I came to an inevitable conclusion: Romania takes the fun out of life.

Expectations were high as our train lurched into Brasov, Romania's most popular and beautiful city in the heart of Dracula country. I didn't lose a quart of blood to any fanged menaces in black capes, but I certainly lost my desire to return to the European Union's newest member. Romania, once a province of the old Roman Empire and home to the real dracula, has beautiful farmland, gorgeous mountains worthy of talented climbers and deep, dark forests that give chills even to the garlic-eating, cross doting doubter. 

Besides the castles, hiking and the scenery, there isn't much to see. We met some splendid Romanians on our train ride from Suceava to Brasov, who spoke in hushed tones of the incredible beauty of transylvania and how Brasov was the pride of their country. I really did enjoy the jam-filled pancake they gave me and our discussion, but felt far less nostalgic about Romania's capital city, Bucharest.

Our train-riding friends spoke better english than anyone else in Europe, and after a riveting discussion of American politics they disclosed their admiration for our political system. In Romania, the people expect to be robbed. Our friends did vote, but were highly cynical of politicians and thought the elections to be a farce. They were very impressed that the ex-Governor of Illinois, George Ryan, had been rightly indicted for corruption and fraud and put behind bars. Such a thing would never happen in Romania.

Although our friends were delightful to talk to, that same cynicism for government seemed to be the general outlook of all Romanians on life. Brett and I had heard from friends that Romanians were like this, but I have never experienced a people so cold, rude and unwelcoming as the folks in Bucharest. It is an incredibly dirty city, its streets even more confusing in layout than Rome(I got lost in Rome after living their for 5 months, Bucharest is worse) and without any green space to speak of within its walls. 

The owner of our hostel, Luigi, was from Bologna, Italy, and was thrilled to speak Italian with me. The girl who worked the front desk, Alex, was the only Romanian I got along with in the whole country. She was open enough to share some of her own problems in life; school, boyfriends, money and jobs with me, and I with her; travel, money, future and career. She and Luigi made the trip to Bucharest worth it.

The day we left, we bought a bus ticket for both of us to the airport,  but weren't told to validate it twice. Of course, that was the one time the ticket cop was on the bus and singled us out. I talked my way out of a 50 lei fine(about $20) and never looked back.