"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)
08 February 2009
χταπόδι των Κυκλάδων
17 January 2009
Guinness in the Caribbean
“I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.”
– Susan Sontag, American author, filmmaker, philosopher (1933-2004)
I was in a bar. Nursing a cocktail. Not unusual in and of itself. However, the old real estate adage rang true: location, location, location.
The bar was a too plastic and steel 'fun zone' near the beach in Freeport, the Bahamas. Certainly not my usual watering hole. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon. Certainly not my usual hour of imbibing. I was drinking a rum and coke. Certainly (certainly) not my usual cocktail.
As a general rule, I like just about everything that is brewed, vinted, or distilled. Sambuca? Love it. Pernod? Absinth? I have a bottle of each at home. Fernet? Definitely. And it goes without saying that your gins, vodkas, tequilas, whiskeys (particularly Irish whiskeys), beers in all their various forms, and wine, port, sherry, and cognac are close friends of mine. And then there's rum. Crazy ol' rum. For some reason rum falls to the very bottom rung on the ladder of libation for me. I think it's because it's such a sweet liquor. I'm generally a fan of savory over sweet. Don't put sugar in my espresso (or milk for that matter), and I'll pass up the dessert for the appetizer just about every time. (Unless the dessert is a cheese plate.)
So back to our story. I'm drinking rum. Strange. It's because although it's my last choice of alcohol, that still doesn't mean that I don't like it. I just happen to like, well, just about everything else a little (or a lot) more. But one thing I do love to do, is drink the local drink (and eat the local food) of the particular place that I'm traveling through. So in the islands - it was all about the rum. Good enough for me. And as an aside - I love Mojitos! Give me mint with anything and I'm happy.
Again, I digress...
I was in a bar. Drinking rum. In the Bahamas. Stacie and I had taken a cruise - a first for both of us. Probably something we won't ever do again. It was nice enough, but it was about the exact opposite in every way of how I prefer to travel. I enjoy having a very loose itinerary, and playing most everything by ear. Find a place to stay when you get to where you feel like staying. Stay as long or as short a time as feels right. Move on, or not, at your whim. A cruise is all about structure, schedules, and deadlines. It was relaxing at times, and I enjoyed staring out to sea in the night with the moon out above the dark water - hypnotized. But the schedules, man, they're soul-crushing on a cruise. And if you miss your deadline, it's not like you can catch the next train or bus - your boat is gone jack.
Stacie was getting her hair braided. We both knew it was a rip-off, but it was something she wanted to try. At that time she had long, luxurious red hair that reached almost to her ass. That was a lot of braids. This took an inordinate amount of time. So there I was in a bar in Freeport in the Bahamas drinking rum in the middle of the afternoon by myself. A minor annoyance was that there was not a bar nearby where Stacie was getting her hair braided. I had to walk through a couple different neighborhoods, across a long, empty, souless, weedy parking lot, and then through another neighborhood to get to the nearest bar. But I like to persevere...
So I would have a drink, and then make the long walk to check on the progress. Progress was slow. (Progress was glacial). So I made many trips back and forth, the long walk this way and the long walk that way.
The first time I had crossed the parking lot I had noticed three guys sitting under one of the few random trees in the acres of baking pavement. It so happened that I had to walk directly past them to get to and from the bar. The first time I passed we all gave each other the ubiquitous 'head nod' of acknowledgment. They appeared to be locals, and if I had to guess were roughly my age or a bit younger.
My second pass, one of the three asked the now familiar question that I'm faced with most places I travel. "Smoke?" he inquired. Meaning pot. I must look sketchy. Where ever I travel, I'm always asked in a quiet, under-the-breath way if I'm in need of anything to smoke, snort, or shoot. I realize I'm far from the only person these guys are trying to sell to... but man, it's a constant thing.
"Smoke?"
I just shook my head and kept walking. I used to partake in various and sundry forms of, how shall we say it, mind and spirit altering substances from time to time. But that was back in high school and college. My main bad habits these days were good old alcohol, and perhaps a preponderance of caffeine. So I kept walking.
"Smoke? Blow?"
This was the next time past. Again I just shook my head. I entertained the thought that if these guys were sellers of much quantity of these drugs, then they quite possibly carried some kind of protection. The parking lot was vast. It could have been used for a Super Walmart. You could hardly see the other side and it took me all of fifteen minutes to cross it. And it was truly deserted. If they decided they wanted to see how much money I was carrying, there wouldn't be much I would be able to do about it. Gave one pause.
"Smoke? Blow? Pills?"
This was the third time past and when they saw me approaching they smiled a bit. Maybe more like a smirk. It was like a formality. They knew I would probably refuse, but they were wired to ask everyone that walked past, no matter what. So now it was a bit humorous, to all of us. I smiled and shook my head again, "No thanks..."
"Smoke? Blow? Pills? Cid?"
They had broken out into big grins upon my approach. As did I, knowing what was going to be asked. I laughed. "No thanks, man, I don't do that stuff anymore." They shrugged and smiled.
"Smoke? Blow? Acid?"
Stacie was just over half way through her braiding session, and I had made the walk to and from the bar now half a dozen times. At one end was a drink, at the other was a check on the hair progression. And in between was a goofy, funny ritual between myself and three Bahamian drug dealers. This time I stopped and laughed. Again, I said, "I don't really do that shit anymore, but I'll tell you what... how about I buy some beer and come back and we knock a few back?" Their eyes lit up and they laughed. They said that would be great. It was hot out, and they had been out there for an hour and a half at least, with just the scrubby shade of one lone palm tree. I asked them what kind of beer they liked and the one who always spoke to me immediately blurted, "Guinness!" I laughed and agreed that this too was my favorite beer. Might not normally be my first choice in the hot tropical climes - but I'll drink that dark, rich goodness anywhere, anytime.
I walked back into the town and found a convenience store and bought a six-pack of Guinness in bottles. I returned to the parking lot and sat down on the ground with my new-found comrades. We cracked open the beers, clicked the necks together, and toasted each others health. I asked the main guy what his name was, and he said, "Kevan" pronouncing it with a cool island flair. I almost choked on my beer and laughed. He asked why I laughed, and I told him that my name was Kevin too. He raised his bottle again toasting, and said, "Brothers!"
We drank the beers and talked for about half an hour. I went and checked on Stacie and she said she still had about another hour. I went back to the parking lot and we shared the last beer. Kevan asked me if I wanted to smoke as he pulled a joint out. "Free" he smiled. So we sat under a palm tree in the Bahamas and smoked up, talking of politics, of travel, of books, and of beer. It turned out Kevan was quite intelligent, but I never felt the right place to ask him about his occupation. After a bit he asked if I was getting hungry? Duh? So he told me of a great little place that was close, cheap, and some of the best food on the island. Sounded great to me.
He led us across the parking lot and down a couple alleys and into another deserted parking lot. Pot paranoia made me think just for a moment, "Is this where they take my money at knifepoint?" He stopped at a small, wooden shack. It had a pass-through window in the front and one door in the back. It was only about four feet square and maybe eight feel tall. He explained that the guy who ran the shack dived every day and caught the fish and brought them here alive. His wife made fresh bread every morning. He pointed to a large bucket of water on the floor of the shack. Swimming around in it where brightly colored fish, a little bigger than the size of my palm. Kevan held up two fingers and the guy grabbed two fish out of the bucket. He made a couple slices on each side with a sharp knife, and rubbed a dry spice mix into the cuts - then dropped the fish into the hot oil. While they were cooking he cut huge slices of the fresh bread and scooped a big piece of butter onto each. The fish were done shortly and put on the plates next to the bread. I offered and paid and we sat down under some trees. The skin of the fish peeled back revealing tender, white, succulent meat underneath. The moist hotness and flavor of the spice rub was unreal. I wolfed it down, along with the ambrosia-like bread. I thanked Kevan profusely for this wonderful, unexpected bounty. I knew I had to have Stacie try this fantastic meal.
I walked back to where she was just finishing up her braiding and told her of my adventures. She rolled her eyes and laughed, but was intrigued with the fish. We went back to the shack and we each had another plate of fish and bread. On her first bite her eyes opened wide and she smiled. "This is the best fish I've had since I left Texas over 10 years ago," she gushed. We all laughed. After the meal, and a couple more beers with Kevan we had to head back to the ship (deadlines).
KJT - Freeport, The Bahamas (1999)
(Top picture is myself and Kevan, taken by Stacie;
bottom pic I'm drinking rum from a 'rum pipe' and smoking a Cuban cigar -
and Stacie is showing off her braids)
06 December 2008
Journey to Verdun, part 2
"And there went out another horse that was red:
The city of Verdun was built along a shallow valley of the Meuse river, with gradual bluffs climbing up on either side of it. Under the reign of Charlemagne it was part of his Frankish empire. After his death it, and the area now known as Lorraine were given to his grandson Lothair in the Treaty of Verdun in 843. From the 10th to the 11th centuries a series of walls and towers were built which would eventually encircle the whole town. The city and surrounding countryside would change hands many times through the centuries, swapping from Frankish to Prussian control and back. In 1552, the French King Henri II occupied Verdun, Metz and Toul, marking the beginning of majority French rule. From 1624 to 1636 Henri IV's engineers built a fortified 'city' into the high bluff in the center of Verdun: La Citadelle Souterraine (the Underground Citadel).
Two reinforced forts stand on a bluff overlooking the river valley near the city, Fort de Douaumont and Fort de Vaux. These combined with La Citadelle Souterraine made the area one of the strongest in the French line of defense at the start of the Great War in 1914. The German armies wisely skirted these defenses and crossed the Meuse on the left bank in their bid to reach Paris. The Battle of the Marne halted this advance. Throughout 1914-1915 the two countries fought for control of the high ground, and as the front lines stabilized the armies dug underground trenches to try to get some protection from the constant shelling and machine gun fire. In an effort to outflank each other, both armies began to extend their trench lines in each direction, north and south - the race to the sea. Eventually this resulted in a series of trenches stretching from the English Channel in the north, down through Belgium, France, and ending near the border of Switzerland in the far south. Roughly 400 miles...
At daybreak on February 21, 1916 the Germans turned 1,225 guns on Verdun in an attempt to break this stalemate. By February 25th Fort de Douaumont had fallen, and in June Fort de Vaux also fell into German hands. The French still held the high ground of the hills called Mort-Homme (Deadman) and Cote 304, defending the city and preventing the Germans from actually taking Verdun itself. With help from their colonial Moroccan troops, the French retook Douaumont in October. By November 2nd Fort Vaux was back in French hands, and the battle of Verdun ceased - for a time. In 1917 the hills of Mort-Homme and Cote 304 were taken by the Germans, and the city would surly haven fallen but not for the reinforcement of American troops in 1918. On November 11, 1918 an armistice was signed in a railroad car in the Compiègne Forest, ending the actual fighting between nations. Seven months later, in June 1919, The Treaty of Versailles was signed in the Hall of Mirrors in the great French chateaux - formally ending World War I (and unwittingly laying the very seeds for World War II).
With all this swirling around my head, I made my way from Gare de Verdun into the city proper under a cold drizzle. At the Porte de St. Paul I turned right and walked past Rodin's actual bronze statue "La Defense," showing the agony of triumph in bloody battle. I crossed the Meuse and stopped at La Monument aux Enfants de Verdun (Monument to the children of Verdun) - a huge statue of five French soldiers, one from each of the French armies in full military dress, standing shoulder to shoulder - their chests forming an impassable wall.
I made my way into downtown, hoping to pay for a tour of the battlefields and monuments. At the tourist office I was informed that there were "no more English tours." Of course. It was a re-occurring theme that had followed us almost every step of our European journey. Where ever we went, the tours given in English had either been the day before we arrived, the day after we departed, or had been canceled or were non-existent. "Ce n'est pas possible" (It's not possible) - this was another common phrase we heard far too often.
Frustrated, I bought a ticket to get into La Citadelle Souterraine, and took a mildly cheesy, but still respectable tour of the underground city - still laid out as it had been during the Great War. I still longed to walk through the forts and battlefields and decided to try to walk and hitchhike. The forts are about 10km from the city and I began trudging through the mud and rain, fields and ditches. After about half an hour a car pulled up as I held my thumb out. I managed to get my point across that I wanted to go to the battlefields, and the kind old man behind the wheel acquiesced.
He let me off near the Mémorial Ossuarie (the Ossuary), near Fort de Douaumont. The memorial houses the remains of 130,000 unknown French and German soldiers who died during the battle. Small windows open on alcoves containing the bones. A sobering site. The day was now dark grey and windy, as rain slashed sideways. To the north, I walked to Les Tranchées des Baïonnettes (The Trench of Bayonets). On June 12th, 1916 a part of the French 137th Infantry Regiment was caught under heavy bombardment as they huddled in their trench. After the battle cleared it was discovered that the entire trench had been covered in with earth from the explosions and just the tips of the soldier's bayonets could be seen sticking up out of the ground. They had been buried alive, standing, still holding their guns. A concrete memorial now housed this gruesome reminder of the horrors of war.
By now it was pissing rain and the wind was howling and I was soaked and a bit miserable. I caught another ride back to Verdun where I stepped into a small café and shivered to the bar. I asked for an espresso and as the bartender was preparing it he poured me a small glass of cognac. Smiling as the liquor warmed my belly and the coffee perked me back up, I made my way back through the rain to the train station. I would soon be back in Paris. C'est Possible! (It is possible).
KJT - Verdun, France (1998)
27 November 2008
Journey to Verdun, part 1
"Ils ne passeront pas..."
Gare de l'Est was only two stops away, and that was made in good time. I ran through the station, dodging people, jumping to the next platforms, scanning the boards for the train I needed heading east. The decidedly 19th-century mechanical "tick-tick-tick" sound of the destination board updating added to my anxiety. I saw my train just as it started to rock, shudder, and move forward. I grabbed a handle and pulled myself aboard as it began to pull away. If I had needed to stop and buy a ticket I would have missed it, but I had my Eurail pass and so I settled back to catch my breath and enjoy the journey. So much for my plans of getting up early, having a nice breakfast with lots of espresso, and then making my way to the train station at a leisurely pace.
We made our way out of the capital, the tracks playing out under the avenues and beneath the ancient buildings, eventually leaving Paris proper and then the suburbs behind. I bought a coffee, a Toblerone, and a baguette from the man with the food cart. After a brief stop to switch trains at Châlons-sur-Marne (today called Châlons-en-Champagne) I was soon headed toward my destination.
The French countryside, between the Marne river and the German border, was rolling hills. Vast fields of deep blue-green grass and endless stretches of bright yellow field-flowers broken up by intermitent waterways and canals that followed beside us, chasing the tracks and crossing under and back. The hills rose to high bluffs and then dropped into low valleys of geometric farmlands. The sky was overcast and a misty rain fell, wetting the grasslands and the windows. To the north were the vestages of the Ardennes forest, and to the south the forest of Argonnes. Some of the deeper valleys were cloaked in a low fog, wisps snaking between the trees, giving the landscape an ethereal, dreamy quality. In the distance an old, stone farmhouse had a light in one window and smoke curling from the chimney.
I had decided to leave RJ in Paris while I made a day-trip to a place that had held morbid fascination to me for years. Being a history buff I was particularly enamored of the period at the end of the 19th century through the two world wars, and especially the World War I era. The battles of the Marne, Ypres, Passchendaele & Flanders Fields, and the Somme had captivated me from reading about them as a young boy through studying them in college. The most terrifying battle of the war could be summed up by one cryptic, chilling word: "Verdun." Known as the 'Mincing Machine of Verdun' or the 'Meuse Mill', the battle of Verdun came to symbolize both the atrocious waste of the strategy of 'war of attrition' and the indescribable horrors of what would become known as The Great War.
Straddling the Meuse river not 50 miles from the German border, Verdun was 139 miles east of Paris and had been a key strategic city for over a thousand years. Attilla the Hun had been foiled at the gates of Verdun in the 5th century as his horde swept through Gaul from the Central Asian steppes. It became part of the Holy Roman Empire under Charlemagne in 843 A.D. In the 1600s it became the possession of the French, and was an important part of their defensive line after the Franco-Prussian War in 1870.
After 1914, once the war had bogged down into the stalemate of trench warfare and both sides dug in for the long haul, Verdun would again play a crucial role. In late February 1916 the Germans began a bombardment at Verdun that was to last through almost to the end December. Just in those short months almost half a million French and German lives would be lost in and around Verdun. The city's forts would be lost and recaptured, and by the end of the battle, as the guns finally fell silent for a time, the front lines had moved little. Because of the system of French troop rotation, nearly 75% of all French soldiers fought at Verdun at some point during the war. Heavy artillery, poison gas, and for the first time flamethrowers were put in use during the battle.
My train was taking me toward a city shrouded in history and steeped in human suffering...
To be continued... Click here to see "Journey to Verdun, Part 2"
KJT - Verdun, France (1998)
08 October 2008
Tejas Bound
07 October 2008
Joy Amidst Anguish:
An Impression of Cuba
28 September 2008
Vegas Sucks:
Observations from Interbike
17 September 2008
Commuting
03 September 2008
Quick Trip Up the Hill
01 September 2008
Palermo, WTF?
