"The Greek earth opens before me like the Book of Revelations. I never knew that the earth contains so much; I had walked blindfolded, with faltering steps... The light of Greece opened my eyes, penetrated my pores, expanded my whole being."
- Henry Miller, "The Colossus of Maroussi" (1941)
We took a ferry from the mainland. Deck passage. Threw our bags down in a heap, threw ourselves on top of them and hunkered in for the long, slow voyage. The Cyclades were the island group we were heading for, out of Athens via the commercial port of Piraeus. Our specific destination, the small island of Ios. Only 11 miles long and six miles wide with a population of about 1,500 - a hilly, arid island rising out of the sapphire of the Aegean Sea.
It was a foggy journey, small islands and rock outcroppings appearing suddenly off to the side or almost in front of us. Nervously, we trusted the Greek sailors who had been plying these waters since antiquity to see us through. We sat out on the bow cross-legged and shared a bag of pistachios. The fog muted the sounds and our senses. We napped.
Eventually we pulled into the small harbor on Ios, disembarked, and made our way up the twisting staircases to the main village of Chora - no vehicles here, just stairs, narrow walkways, and donkey paths. We checked into a small room at a cheap, but decent hostel, and set out to explore the village. It was a beautiful town of whitewashed stone houses with bright blue painted doors and windows. We felt like we were walking through a fairy tale - everything clean and bright and perfect.
One evening we stumbled across a small cafe, set at the very top of the village overlooking the houses and the bay. No one was around and we wondered if it was open. We poked around a bit and eventually a wild-haired man with a twisted beard, a tank top, and short short cut-off jeans appeared and asked if we wanted to eat. We asked if the cafe was really open, and he laughed and bade us to sit down. We took a table out on the small deck - the view was spectacular and the sun was just beginning to set. We could see a ferry down below in the harbor.
He had no menus so we asked if he had Greek salad and calamari. His eyes lit up and he explained that he went diving every morning for fish and calamari and he had some that were caught just hours ago. We both ordered a big plate of the calamari and Greek salads to start with. Also a bottle of the fantastic Greek resinated wine, Retsina.
Soon the salads arrived and we were in heaven. Such fresh produce, such thick ornery squares of fresh, handmade feta, locally pressed olive oil. The tomatoes and peppers were ripe to bursting with wholesome flavor and the romaine, onions, and cucumbers had a fresh crunch that was unequalled. The warm homemade pita bread pushed it over the top. Eventually the calamari arrived and we were treated to one of the best meals in my lifetime. We marveled at the juicy texture and light coating on the octopus. We were both fans of calamari, but neither of us had ever experienced anything like this. A squeeze of lemon and we were in heaven.
Crazyman cleared our plates and asked if we needed anything else. We looked at each other and I knew RJ was thinking the same thing as I was - how often would ever find ourselves in a position like this again? The setting, the warm breeze off the bay in the twilight, and the amazing food - we had to do it. We both ordered an exact repeat performance: another two Greek salads and another two orders of calamari. The man laughed and jumped around and ran off to start them. He brought us back some Ouzo and three glasses to which we all splashed a bit of water and lifted our glasses to each others health. The bitter anise-flavored liquor warmed our bellies and was a perfect apéritif to begin our second dinner as the stars began to burn in the night skies.
We stayed on the island almost a week, most days lounging on the beaches, swimming, snorkeling, hiking through the hills, and reading under the shade of the olive trees. The nights were a bit more hedonistic - the island a magnet for young travelers from across the globe. A few nights RJ didn't make it back to the room at all.
So enamored was I of the beauty of the Greek salads, that one day before we left I had one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner - that was all I ate all day, just Greek salads. It was bliss. Pure bliss.
KJT - Ios, Greece (1998)
(translation: Octopus of the Cyclades)
Showing posts with label ferry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ferry. Show all posts
08 February 2009
χταπόδι των Κυκλάδων
19 August 2008
Tangier Dysphoria
"Africa was a big place and would offer its own suggestions."
-Paul Bowles, "Let It Come Down" (1952)
We stowed our large packs in a locker in the run-down terminal in Algeciras, itself a run-down, rather lifeless city on the southern coast of Spain. Wanting to travel light, and knowing we would be back in less than a week, we took our smaller day-packs and boarded the ferry for the run across the Straits of Gibralter. We were tired and felt strung out. We'd been traveling for some time and had already journeyed through six or seven countries. A semi-sleepless night in a hot, squalid hotel room with the traffic noise outside the window a constant irritant didn't help matters.
The morning was cloudless but cool out on the deck. Very soon we saw the shadow of land looming up in the distance and we began to get excited. Africa — the dark continent. Sounded so exotic and poetic. Our nerves were tingling with anticipation and anxiety. We really had no idea what to expect. Soon enough we made landfall and disembarked in Morocco.
The first thing that hit us was the cacophony of noise and confusion. Even at that early hour hundreds upon hundreds of people were running all over the place, shouting, shoving, ranting and raving. A thousand rough hands pinched and prodded us. A steely grip attached itself to my elbow and tried to lure me away. The man's dark eyes showed no emotion. His fingers were deeply stained with tobacco and when he spoke he had no teeth. "Smoke, smoke, blow?" he whispered. I wrenched my arm free and stumbled away. RJ gave another miscreant an elbow in the chest and we began to make our way through the crowd of touts, con-artists and pseudo-guides. Our heads were spinning. Jostled at every step, hands on our shirts, pulling at our packs. Think of those vociferous border towns, Tijuana, Juárez, Matamoros. Then increase the insanity exponentially. Add to the mix the strange (to our ears) sibilants of Arabic, French, and Castilian Spanish and you might get some idea of the whirlwind we found ourselves in.
We were annoyed and dismayed. Here was a city whose roots were laid down before the Crusades, before Muhammad, before Christ. A city of true antiquity, founded by the Phoenicians, known to the Greeks and Romans, conquered by the Vandals. It became part of the Byzantine empire before falling under Arab control with the rapid spread of Islam in the early 8th century. Occupied by the Portuguese, the English, and then partitioned between France and Spain in the early 20th century. Tangier was made an "international zone" in 1923, with joint administration of France, Spain, Britain, and later Italy. This was when William S. Burroughs lived and worked and took the name (Interzone) for his book of short stories, which he would later weave into the masterpiece "Naked Lunch." Paul Bowles, Jean Genet, Tennessee Williams, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Truman Capote, and Henri Matisse all either lived in or visited the fabled city. That was the Tangier we had hoped to find. It was not the Tangier we found ourselves in. Morocco regained it's independence and reincorporated the city in 1956, but by the late 1990s Taniger had become an aging whore, besmirched and cheaply painted with litter, garbage, apathy and indifference. It's once great history tarnished by the lingering stain of colonialism and sullied by the poverty of an estranged government. Tangier seemed shattered by the abject neglect of a disaffected populace crushed by ennui.
The one bright spot was a solitary and lonely stroll through the old Medina area - the oldest part of the city. We managed this when we somehow escaped the teeming hoard, rounded a corner, and slipped into a time warp. Here we could feel the trembling of the past in the twisting, narrow streets. The myriad styles from one house to another. A wall splashed with cryptic Arabic graffiti. Broken steps leading... where? We heard the melodious Arabic chanting of the muezzin as he called the faithful to prayer. We stopped in a tiny cáfe, literally a hole in the wall, and had small glass cups of steaming mint tea. We sat on beautifully woven carpets and sipped the sweet nectar. The tea was spell-binding in its bright, fresh flavor. Our mood increased greatly, but we decided to move on into the hinterland. We booked passage on a night train to Marrakech.
KJT - Tangier, Morocco (1998)
11 July 2008
Baltic Unease
"Poor, poor ghost," she murmured;
"have you no place where you can sleep?"
"Far away beyond the pinewoods," he answered, in a low dreamy voice, "there is a garden. There the grass grows long and deep,
there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers."
Viginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.
"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.
Found scrawled on a door in Tallinn, Estonia
- From Oscar Wilde, "The Canterville Ghost" (1887)
We had trekked by train and ferry through Scandinavia and eventually found ourselves in Helsinki, Finland - the Jewel of the Baltic. In the train station we marveled at the exotic destinations on the enormous schedule board - Turka, Lahti, St. Petersburg, Moscow. Russia was so close. We explored the old city, reveling in the Art Nouveau and neo-classical architecture. Particularly the gigantic, white Helsinki Cathedral, helping lend the city it's epithet, "The White City of the North." We dined on reindeer, cold smoked perch, pea soup, and cloudberries. We also enjoyed some particularly hearty beers and a wicked vodka-like drink called Koskenkorva on a roving bar. It was an old trolley converted into a pub and it made it's way around the downtown area, people jumping on and off to imbibe. While perusing the harbor area, we stumbled across a fast ferry launch with trips to Tallinn, Estonia. We made a spur-of-the-moment decision and bought tickets for early the next morning.
We arrived on time and made the quick hour-and-a-half jaunt across the Gulf of Finland to the capital city of the old Soviet buffer state. The morning was grey and dreary and oddly quiet. The ferry dock was utilitarian and foreboding. Imposing guards with sub-machine guns stood at attention. We had a disquieting feeling, and thought back to those old Cold War movies depicting the harsh life behind the Iron Curtain. We made our way through the dense fog. We had to march through a cold, lonely industrial area to reach the medieval old town. We passed a gated iron door on which someone had scribbled a melancholy quote from Oscar Wilde. This added to our growing anxiety. Sounds were muted, and the occasional slam of a door was over-harsh and was like an attack on the quiet. It made us jump. We passed an old, bullet-pocked building. Burn marks and the scars of explosions etched it's surface. There seemed to be no one on the streets, and we felt as if we were intruding, or had missed the message to clear out of the area.
After some time the fog finally began to lift and the grey landscape regained some color. The sun began to shine down and suddenly people began appearing on the sidewalks, coming in and out of shops, talking in the lanes. We turned a corner and arrived at the central square to find cafés putting tables out on the sidewalks, waiters in starched collars laying out linen and flatware. Old people sat together gossiping and laughing. Young couples were shopping and smiling. In a matter of minutes our mood and outlook went from one of unease and nervousness to feelings of warmth, hospitality, and some relief. We ended up having a grand time in Tallinn.
KJT - Helsinki, Finland & Tallinn, Estonia (1998)
08 June 2008
Istanbul, Not Constantinople
"I love the burning odors
this glowing region heaves;
And round each gilded lattice,
the trembling writhing leaves;
And beneath the bending palm;
the gayly gushing spring;
And on the snow-white minaret,
the stork with snowy wing."
- Victor Hugo, "The Turkish Captive" from Eastern Poems (1829)
In a small boat, we crossed the Bosporus and the Golden Horn from western Istanbul into Anatolia: Asia Minor. We were no longer in Europe. Looking back across the Sea of Marmara, the sun glinted off the tall minarets of the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia. It was late afternoon and the adhan began to echo through the narrow stone alleyways and winding passages. The muezzin's hypnotic call-to-prayer, beautiful and haunting, reminded us just how far outside ourselves we had traveled.
KJT - Istanbul, Turkey (1998)
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