Sanfranchrisko

One of the first things I learned to say in my Greek lessons was Οι Éλληνες οδηγούν παρα πολύ γρήγορα–The Greeks drive too fast. I’d wondered why that would come before negotiating prices at the vegetable market, but now I know. Not only do they drive too fast, they come out of nowhere, driving twice as fast as you, and sniff your car butt until you get out of the way. Then they glare at you as they pass. I’m talking about guys, this is obviously a testosterone thing. And if they’re coming in the opposite direction, and want to pass cars on the opposite side of the road, you just have to figure out how the heck to get out of the way, because the possibility of a head-on catastrophe is made your responsibility, they seem oblivious to the notion. People of the United States, you have no idea what it’s like. Traffic signals are taken as suggestions. Stop signs and pedestrian boundaries and welfare are ignored. I remain a calm driver in spite of it all, humming Nancy Sinatra tunes as I’m passed and beeped at…

Rhodes was actually a pleasure to drive around in. There are so many tourists, all driving carefully along the steep cliffs and twisted medieval one lane roads, far outnumbering the road-ragey Greek guys.

Rhodes old town is a beautifully preserved medieval city, with several grand museums. And you can see Turkey! Most of the architecture dates from the period of the Knights Hospitaller (14th to 16th century), who rebuilt much of the city on a grand scale before taking off for Malta.

The italians controlled the island for only 30 years in the beginning of the 20th century, but restored everything, built a delightfully curvilinear seaside spa in Kalithea and deco buildings in Rhodes town, a beautiful fascist-y church to Saint Francis, a fake Alpine retreat, fountains everywhere… and then turned the keys over to Greece.

Inland, south of Rhodes town is Petaloudes, the Valley of the Butterflies. The oriental sweet gum trees attract a sub-species of the Jersey Tiger moth, which had not yet arrived in the great numbers that we thought were to be expected around this time of year. “June 20th,” the ticket seller told us, annoyed and with awesome specificity. The valley is beautiful though, lushly green and cool, and a hiking trail winds through it alongside a stream and up the hill to—I’m told, I didn’t quite make it—a monastery.

We spent several nights in Lindos, one of the most lovely towns in the Dodecanese, built under the shadow of a grand acropolis, on a tiny peninsula jutting out to the sea. Every restaurant has a rooftop terrace with stunning views of the sea and acropolis. And transportation through town on donkeys!

We met up with Stavros’ friend Markus, whom Stavros calls his son, because of his youth and clear need for a parental sort of guidance. Sitting on the open air terrace of a restaurant in Lindos, the acropolis and our burly furry-fingered bushy-eyebrowed waiter glowing and hovering warmly over us, I was again moved to tears as my dinner companions kind of ignored the fabulous atmosphere, unbelievably sexy staff, and wonderful food. “Meh, this view’s okay,” Stavros said as he looked into my teary eyes. “I hate lamb,” said Markus, as once again my eyes welled up as I took a bite of the delicious roasted lamb and chickpeas.

The Blue Star ferry to Paros has the most scenic mensroom anywhere–a floor to ceiling window framing nothing but sea and sky, undulating waves of blue zipping by to the sound of splishing, splashing and flushing. Stavros and I decided to spend the night in Paros, on our way to Santorini, to split up the 8-hour ferry ride. Paros is where Parian marble is from, where Praxiteles got his marbles.

There’s a remarkable byzantine church there, founded by Constantine’s mom in the 4th century AD, Panagia Ekatontapyliani, which means “Church of 100 Doors.” I counted only a handful of doors, delighted by the conceptual conundrum of not only where these 100 supposed doors lead, but where they are in the first place.

Up the hill from the church are the intriguing remains of a castle, built in 1260 by the Venetian Duke of Naxos. The castle was constructed using materials salvaged from the remains of nearby archaic and classical temples. The columns, stones and other architectural elements are stacked linearly, neatly, as if William Randolph Hearst were preparing to ship the temples back to the States for reassembly, a horrific and exhilarating assemblage of cultural and architectural obliteration.

Santorini is what remains after an enormous volcanic eruption about 3,600 years ago destroyed much of what was a single island, and created the current unbelievably scenic tourist destination: a central lagoon surrounded by 1,000 foot high cliffs on three sides. Entering the lagoon by ferry, you look up at these shimmery white towns perched on the top of the gray cliffs, spilling down like vanilla icing on a giant partially eaten bundt cake.

On the bus from the ferry landing to Thira, the main town, looking out the window you see what appear to be many low-growing shrubs, which are actually grape vines. The grape growers weave the vines into circular sort of baskets, very low to the ground, so that the grapes grow on the insides of the baskets, protecting them from the harsh wind and heat. After about 75 years, the vines are cut to the roots, and new vines grafted on. Some of the roots are centuries old, very helpful in an environment that offers little moisture retention.

We explored Akrotiri, a Minoan Bronze Age settlement that was buried under the volcanic ash of the big eruption that I mentioned. Only 10% of the site has been excavated and archaeologists have already uncovered remains of multi-story buildings and frescoes, incredibly preserved. You can see some pottery at the site, but the major finds are nearby in the Museum of Prehistoric Thira, including the delightful Blue Monkeys fresco.

As at Pompeii, plaster has been poured into empty spaces in the ash, revealing the forms of buried objects that deteriorated and disappeared centuries ago. One cabriole-legged table, in particular, anticipated the Queen Anne leg by some 33 centuries.

Everywhere on the island are Asian brides and their photographic entourages, zipping gleefully from one photogenic spot to the next with their white gowns and grooms. At night music pulsed, drunk guys peed in dark corners, aggressive touts beckoned us into their restaurants, stray cats screeched… but as we spilled down the hill, one block towards the caldera, all was silent, no one in sight, just moonlight illuminating the simple curves and angles of Cycladic buildings, churches, and terraces.

We took the express catamaran ferry back to Piraeus. It was supposed to have cut three hours off the trip, but our departure was delayed by two hours and the trip took an hour longer than scheduled. The ferry is about 1/8 the size of the majestic Blue Star ferry that brought us to Santorini, everyone crammed into airplane-like sardine can seating. It was a crazy bumpy ride, like being in the space shuttle. I got up to pee and was tossed back and forth in the aisles, and, imagining the scene I’d confront in the bathroom, bounced back into my seat. When we arrived in Piraeus, there was the Blue Star Ferry from Santorini, everyone disembarked hours before. I looked up at the window into that beautiful mensroom and made a beeline for the nearest dark corner.

Next stop, Rhodes… Stay tuned!

Here I am, back in Greece, back in Plateia Amerikis, the plaza of my people. I’ve been traveling around the country with Stavropoochie for the past month, now in Athens for a breather and a blog update before heading back to San Francisco next week.

We started our adventure in Monemvasia, a walled medieval city on a big rock of an island just off the coast of the southeastern Peloponnese. It’s so romantic there, like unbelievably romantic, medieval towers, surrounded by the sea below and ruins of the older town above… Lyrical, pastoral, melancholic… We ate in a restaurant in a 16th century building with stunningly beautiful views of the sea. I was almost moved to compose an Ode on my spinach pie. The French couple sitting next to us, after their second bottle of wine, couldn’t control their Frenchiness and abruptly grabbed each other across the table and started French kissing, right over their salata horiatiki, cigarettes dangling from their roving hands and enveloping the rest of us in a smoky haze as they licked each other’s faces, audibly, a symphony of cats joining in with their own hungry meows.

Our next stop was for galaktoboureko in Kosmas, a sweet little confection in a sweet little hilltop town shaded by beautiful old plane trees. Galaktoboureko is an intense experience of sugar conveyed through the mediums of custard and filo, the whole thing actually submerged in drippy sugar syrup. It’s like drugs. I sat in the empty square with Stavros, under the plane trees, silently composing “Ode on a Slice of Galaktoboureko” in my hyperglycemic stupor. The town was destroyed in WWII but rebuilt exactly as it was before, and hopefully as it will stay forever. We visited Leonidio, a town surrounded by dramatic red cliffs. The older inhabitants there speak a language called Tsakonian, sort of like garbled Greek.

We based our exploration of Laconia, Aracadia and Argolis in Nafplio, a lovely port city with many neoclassical buildings and the nicest sidewalks in Greece. You can actually walk on them. Sidewalks in Greece are generally not very safe, aesthetically pleasing, coherent, or even seemingly designed to walk on. They have these ridged yellow tiles that are supposed to help the blind, but they lead to nowhere, they’re often covered by cafe seats or other obstacles, and trees are planted right in the middle of their path. I’ve never seen a blind person attempt to navigate the sidewalks. Everybody walks in the streets instead. In these narrow streets filled with insane Greek drivers and even crazier velo-terrorists who see their bikes as an extension of their pedestrianism. Anyway, Nafplio, it was named the first capital in 1829 by the first head of the newly liberated Greek state. It was also where he was assassinated two years later. Walking around the streets we watched the final moments of the Eurovision song contest, projected on a big screen, and savored the victory of Conchita Wurst, the bearded queen of Austria. There wasn’t a controversy in Greece over her outfit, as the guys here have been wearing dresses for quite some time.

After visiting the theater at Argos we visited the temple and stadium at Ancient Nemea. The site has been funded, excavated and restored by a team from the University of California at Berkeley. It’s the only archaeological site I’ve been to that has a rose-lined path, grass, a ha-ha, actual “Watch your step!” signs, and plaques everywhere with the names of Greek-American project sponsors. Even the marble picnic table had a sponsor’s name carved into it!

One souvlaki pita each at Pita Pan, and we headed back to Athens… Next up: Paros and Santorini. Stay tuned!