The Atlantic Crossing

Atlantic Crossing

This has been my first sailboat crossing of any large body of water, and it has a unique character unlike any other cruise I’ve been on.  Without ports, and without any ability to leave the ship, each person finds their unique way of being entertained knowing that they have many unstructured days ahead.

What made this a little less than delightful (for Beatrice, not Bob) was that we lost the internet antenna, so that all those who needed to be connected to the ‘outside’ world were prohibited from carrying on their online lives. Whereas we had previously been complaining about the cost of the internet on the ship, after a few days with no connection I think many would have paid in gold dubloons.  Di and Russ are in the middle of selling a house, and were getting offers to which they couldn’t reply; I was trying to hook up our internet for the Florida condo so it would be waiting for us.  And without Facebook and email, we were restricted to our on-board friends.  What was eerie was the inability to have any world news since the in-room TV is connected to the same supplier, and it too didn’t work, and we felt that had there been a world catastrophe, we’d have learned about it upon our arrival in St. Maarten.

Many of our fellow passengers have done some form of crossing either on their own, on bigger cruise ships or on one of the sister Clipper ships.  Therefore they know the routine:  read e-books; draw, paint, play cards or join in the vast variety of team sports provided by the sports crew: quoits, darts, sack races, deck golf, walk-a-mile, frog races (wooden frogs), quiz shows, or shanty sing-alongs and more.  There were opportunities to climb the mast to the crow’s nest; and all manner of exercise classes including walk-a-mile; morning aerobics, Zumba, tai chi, or water aerobics.  Some were doing a more discreet exercise routine -  going for the ‘most you can drink award’ and the ‘who can start earliest’ drinking group – 8:30 was the earliest I saw; and of course the most popular program – who can close the bar latest – a sport in itself requiring a steady arm, endurance, and a healthy liver.

Our routine consisted of breakfast; reading, in the lounge, library, or on the fantail; games of computer solitaire; naps; walking the decks and hanging out at the bar chatting with fellow passengers, 5pm cocktails & trivia quiz, 7:30 cocktails, dinner …and bed.  We hold a record for not having participated in anything else – somehow group games just don’t appeal and while the quiz might have been fun, if you were lucky enough to win, you had to write the 10 quiz questions for the next day.  And without Google for fact-checking we were at a serious disadvantage.

The weather was iffy at the beginning making for rolling seas, bumpy nights, and grumpy staff. According to them, this has been the roughest trip ever!  But, from mid-Atlantic, nearing the Caribbean, the seas have been calm, the temperature a good deal warmer, and the deck chairs are suddenly filled with bikini-clad people desperate to return to much colder climes with the tan to prove that they were on holiday.  More lunches were served al fresco at the Tropical Bar, and the mood is considerably cheerier.

The conversations began to turn towards home: what airlines were being used; what routes were being taken; which bags needed packing.  Psychologically we were each getting ready for a return to the real world. For some it was work the following week, for others another cruise, a few days in the Caribbean or simply a long flight home.

The most astounding piece of data provided by our cruise director was that of the 27 people who had gotten on in Athens, and who were disembarking at St. Maarten, three had absolutely no charges on their room bill.  How was that possible? Not a soda? Not a tour? No laundry? No wine? What were these people doing for 35 days?  We kept trying to figure out who the three were – but gave up. We certainly were not part of that group.

But as we prepared to depart the ship…turning in our stateroom key, paying our last bill and being given our passports, there was a bit of sadness.  We had made some new friends, shared some interesting times, and suddenly – it was over.

Our flights back were uneventful, and now the cruise is history.

 

 

 

 

Last Ports in the Canaries

The Canary Islands – Nov. 9-10

Having left the beauty of Morocco (that was sarcasm), we continued our southerly journey to the Canary Islands – part of Spain, but a good four hour plane ride from the mainland.  The Canary Islands are not named for those cute yellow songbirds, but rather for the word in Latin for DOG.  It is comprised of a series of volcanic islands whose main industry is tourism.

Our first reaction when learning about the tour on the island of Lanzarote was – who needs to see lava fields and dead volcanoes.  But knowing that for the next weeks there were no stops being made, we decided to get on the bus and see the countryside.  And are we glad we did!  The comfortable, two-decker, coach was filled to the gunnels as we headed out of the town of Arrecife to the southern part of the island. It is called the island of 100 volcanoes, but it actually has over 300. The last time that there was volcanic activity on this island was in the1820’s, with the last major eruptions in the 1730’s, and that is the ‘recent’ activity of which our guide made continuing reference.  But she hadn’t told us that critical piece of information at the beginning of the tour, and when one hears ‘recent activity’ it does put your teeth on edge.

The landscape was barren, black and inhospitable, but the buildings were white, the streets were immaculate, and where possible there were little spots of green.  Not much grows in fresh lava soil and with only 20 days of rain/year, hydroponic was definitely not an option.  So with no rainfall, the entire island has agreed that no water will be used for plants.  Theoretically lava soil absorbs the little bit of rainfall and retains it, but for the most part what one saw was beautiful black dirt. The best part of the tour was the National Park, Timanfaya, a natural museum whose only goal is to preserve the effects of the volcanos. The geothermal energy still present after 300+ years is so strong that when we were asked to hold a bit of lava soil, just shoveled off the surface of the ground, every pebble was hot.  They then demonstrated the heat right below the surface by putting some dry brush into a hole dug in the soil – within seconds the brush was ablaze. Next they poured some water down a cement tube, and whoosh! A geyser spurted up before our eyes. And lastly they showed us how the restaurant in the park cooks its chicken and pork over another hole in the ground, allowing the thermal energy to cook the chicken. (Many of us with rubber-soled shoes were a wee bit worried about having them melt as we walked on this ‘recent’ volcanic soil.

Having stopped to appreciate the effects, we hopped back in our bus and rode through this lunar landscape. It was easy to see why people film movies here – it was other worldly. The islanders  are allowing nature to bring this soil back to life  with no human intervention – first with lichens and small insects. To ensure that this process can continue without human intervention, no one is allowed to walk in this area. We could only take pictures from the bus as we drove through miles of eerie, black, red and green landscape.

They are trying to grow grapes here on the island - Malvasia wine - and we sampled some. Awful would be the word to use, but they get an E for effort.  Tourism has made this island famous, and it is one of the few places where the entire island has been named a UNESCO biosphere site.  While they are at risk of losing this title, the citizens appear to work very hard to maintain it and to protect their island from over-development. No buildings can be more than 2-3 stories high, everything is recycled, and you could see how neat and orderly they keep everything.  Normally when one arrives at a Caribbean port, the town is orderly and clean, but as you move outside the urban area things get less clean and the housing becomes more primitive.  Here at Lanzarote it appeared that this was not the case, and while tourists flock here for the beaches and the climate, the locals are working hard to keep everything in balance.

We returned to the ship for a lazy afternoon on the aft deck reading, while many of our fellow sailors began the task of packing their bags.  Tomorrow is the last port of call and those not going on the transatlantic portion will disembark, and a whole group of newbies will join us.

We enjoyed a last dinner with Jim and Karen, a delightful couple from Alabama, and Karen of Santa Rosa, CA. Both Karens’ were curly red heads, had wicked senses of humor and a cheerful positive attitude towards life.  On this particular leg there seemed to be quite a few ‘poms’ – British snobs who were hard to engage in conversation, and a few Americans who seemed just a wee bit too big for their britches. So it was fun to dine with more earthly people, and we drank to each other’s’ health, fair voyages, and the future chance to meet in some distant town. 

Saturday, November 10 – Las Palmas on Gran Canaria Island

Our last port, and early in the morning the disembarkation began.  We four waited until late morning to head out looking for WiFi – our last chance for speedy connections to the outside world.  The town of Las Palmas is a large commercial town with a lovely ‘old town’, great beaches and a thriving harbor where yachts, cruise ships, tug boats and other square-rigged sailboats (Esmerelda – a Chilean naval training ship and Christian Radich) coated the docks. The harbor was a welcoming location with large department stores, pharmacies and newsstands convenient to the tourist getting off a ship for a brief period of time.  We took a cab to the big Spanish department store where the top floor promised a café with free WiFi and the lower level promised a grocery store. What more could one want.  For about 1 ½ hours we sat in silence each one staring at a screen doing email, sending a blog, catching up on Facebook or reading the news.  We are starved for more data since BBC really doesn’t care much about our election now that all is decided.  We learned that Florida would go to Obama, that Gen. Petraeus was leaving the CIA having had a long-standing affair, and that the budget crisis was still front and center in Washington with both sides mouthing words of cooperation, but taking hard stands already.  Election? What election. It’s back to business as usual. Let us hope that Obama uses his mandate to be a wee bit more forceful with the intransigent republicans.  Things have got to get moving.

With all messages sent, we quickly got our groceries and hopped into another cab heading to the old town for a tapas lunch. Yum! Our only criteria were that there had to be tapas, beer and comfy chairs, and our cab dropped us right in front of just such an establishment. We dined al fresco on a sampler of four different tapas, we chatted, and we returned to the ship where the newbies were just coming on board.

Mandatory life-boat drill for everyone, dinner and off to bed. Adios Europe & Africa…. With a full complement of sailors – 122 in total - we’re heading South & West, and won’t see land for the next two weeks. The Atlantic Ocean lies before us…and Bob is in sailor-boy Heaven!

 

 

Morocco - Nov. 6 - 8

Casablanca – Election Day

We awoke to a sunny day as the ship worked its way through the highly industrial harbor of Casablanca, Morocco. All the dreams of Bogie and Ilsa were lost amidst the cranes, cargo ships and ferries that filled the harbor.  Again we were greeted with a mixture of men in jalabas, jeans or military uniforms.  Northern Africa is not a calm place, based on the number of policemen and guards whom we observed everywhere.

We boarded our tour bus with Niama, a Muslim woman dressed in jeans with her scarf on her head. She was a lively and enthusiastic woman who regaled us with history, stories and data relevant to our tour as we drove out of the port and into the metropolis of Casablanca.  Evidence of the time when it was under French rule was seen in the signage, the cars and ‘little Paris’, a part of town primarily settled by the French. But that was left quickly as we headed to the area where the government buildings were located, as well as the king’s palace.  We walked around the palace as we learned about the new king who is working hard to improve things for his people. He is married to a younger woman who studied IT and was not herself from a wealthy family.  She seemed to have a marked influence on her husband as she supports the fight against breast cancer, supports unwed mothers, and improves the role of women in the society. 

While Naima spoke with pride of the beauty to be seen around us, we saw a run-down, fairly impoverished city which if not dirty (there were certainly enough street sweepers about), certainly seemed stained by time, the sea and deprivation.  One can imagine a time in the 30’s when this was a beautiful seaside town, but it seemed just plain seedy. Young men roamed the street, this being a national holiday, and there was to be a football match which had gangs of men dressed in red or green – which also happen to be the colors of the flag of Morocco  - loudly demonstrating in the streets.  We stopped at a shop (a staple of all tours in foreign countries) where we were promised that everything was authentically Moroccan and supported by the government.  Of course, we understood that the shop would give a good ‘cut’ to Naima for everything purchased.  We spent a good hour of our tour in that shop filled with all things Moroccan: tea services, samovars, leather shoes, silver jewelry with the hand of Fatima as a theme, rugs, spices and tourist tchotchke. I did fall sway to a uniquely Moroccan spice called Ras el Hanout – a mixture of spices which smelled good enough to try on chicken or fish (contents unknown).

Next stop the new Hassan II Mosque – currently the mosque with the highest minaret in the world, and third largest mosque anywhere, with an inside capacity of 25,000 worshippers; an electronically moveable wooden carved roof;  and an outside marble courtyard able to hold an additional 80,000 worshippers.  It was built in six years by over 10,000 craftsmen and is THE reason people of the Muslim world come to Casablanca.  It was large, and no costs were spared in its chandeliers, Italian marble floors, its elegant hammams, and its miles of Moroccan carpeting.  But Oman’s mosque struck me as more impressive. 

We got a full education on how and why Muslims pray five times a day; how one does the various ablutions, and when.  While one can now do the ablutions at home with a modern shower, one has to stay pure before prayers – and if you pee, have sex, or in any way taint your body, you better stop by one of the 41 ablution fountains at the mosque to re-clean yourself before prayers. 

The balance of the tour was a drive-by of:  the Corniche; the Catholic church; the Jewish synagogue; the tar paper shacks of fishermen and dock workers who left their villages hoping for a better life, but didn’t yet find it; a gym with the delightful name “body sweat gym”; the up-scale residential area with tree-lined streets and security guards in front of most walled homes; and of course – Rick’s Café. While the movie was filmed in Hollywood, and the idea for the café comes from one in Tangier, an ambitious woman has opened up a restaurant, named it ‘Rick’s Café’, and rakes in the money from sentimental tourists. 

Having covered it all from the old to the new; the royal to the impoverished, we returned back to our ship in time for late lunch and a beer. And tomorrow when we awake, we’ll know who won the election.

Wednesday, Nov. 7^th

Neither of us slept well thinking of the election, but we awoke to BBC live as Obama was taking the stage in Chicago to give his acceptance speech. Whew! Thank god for the Electoral College.  There were many smiles at breakfast since most of our fellow passengers, in a straw poll on board had chosen overwhelmingly that we should stick to the known rather than the unknown. For us it was simple: whoever was in office over the next four years would choose the next two Supreme Court justices, and I knew whom I didn’t want in those life-long jobs.

With the promise of sunshine and warm weather, we piled onto our bus for our 3 hour ride to Marrakech. Neither of us was jumping up and down to be on the bus ride, but to sit on the boat in the industrial harbor of Safi for the full day did not give us any more delight.  While our tour guide droned on we stared out the window at a landscape of a truly third-world country: donkey carts as major means of transportation; men herding sheep and goats; men tilling the field behind a mule using a simple switch to urge the animal forward through the red soil; simple shacks with barefoot children playing outside; small road-side villages with all shops facing the road; men sitting in rudimentary cafes with their cups of mint tea; and everywhere red dirt.  The road reminded me of the ones we had driven in India – bumpy, narrow and poorly paved, with vast fields of fertile red soil sprouting green plants on both sides of the paved strip called a highway. The current economy of Morocco comes from three sources: fishing, agriculture and tourism.  With 50% of the population under 25 years of age, it will be at least a few generations before things move forward.

As we approached the metropolis of Marrakech, on either side of the road were enormous apartment complexes built by the king to encourage workers out of their shacks. The price was a mere $55,000 and most of them looked totally uninhabited.  We stopped at a McDonald’s – the only western bathrooms on the journey, and there we found all the comforts of home: Big Mac’s, fries and toilets. One gentleman on the bus actually ordered a big mac claiming that he tries to eat in a Mickey’D in every country he visits. Now there’s a lofty goal!!

Once in Marrakech we picked up our local guide in his brown jalaba, and elegant leather shoes, and he told us our itinerary: the main mosque (but only from the outside); the Medina; an old caravansary; the labyrinthine souk; the famous square with snake charmers, water pourers, clowns, monkeys and pick pockets; a traditional Moroccan lunch; the Kasbah (tombs of royalty); a shopping stop at one of the ‘best, most authentic, complete and perfect stores’ (aka the place he gets his cut of the action); and home again.

And that’s exactly what we did. We walked around the mosque, wended our way through the souk dropping bread crumbs as we went; dined on tomato salad, couscous and tandoor chicken at a restaurant which was once a private home; and walked our way through squares and tombs. What struck me no matter where we turned was not the beauty, but the red dirt.  The winding alleys of the souk were certainly colorful, filled with every known craftsman and product of the country, and our lunch was delicious, but the sense was one of going back in time to a more primitive period of man’s history. The cars may have replaced donkeys, the fake Rolex may be the new proof of wealth, but the poverty was palpable. It was India without India’s growing wealth.

I had hoped to see something of the mystical charm that envelops the name of this ancient city, and the weather certainly made everything shine in its own right, but I was very grateful to leave it after six hours and to return to the 21^st Century of our sailing boat.  I have seen Morocco, and I am certainly glad we went to both Casablanca and Marrakech, but I don’t feel that I need to return anytime soon.  (As I write this, I think of Daddy saying he had seen America, didn’t much like it, and was glad to be returning to Germany…so who knows, I may be fleeing to Morocco some day).

Only two more stops in the Canaries and then we start the transatlantic crossing. Wahoooo.

 

Motril to Tangiers - Nov. 1-4

Motril to Tangiers (Nov. 1 – 4)

Never have I seen so many happy passengers. We made it to Motril, Spain, late on Thursday evening  and docked, firmly to a long pier. The boat stood still, and everyone’s mood picked up. 

To reward us for our good behavior (no one mutinied, or tied the cruise director to the mast), we had our next-day tours to Granada, and the Alhambra, extended from a few hours to the full day. So, bright and shiny and ready for land, we boarded on our bus and left the fairly industrial town of Motril, heading for Granada.  The Spanish landscape reminded me of Greece with olive groves, fruit trees, barren rocky landscapes and goats hopping about.  In the background the Sierra Nevada mountain chain had a small coating of snow, and we were assured by our local tour guide that skiing in the area was quite popular.  After about an hour we arrived at the Alhambra – the zenith of Moorish culture – high overlooking the town of Granada.  It was a crisp fall morning, with blue skies and the promise of future warmth, as we met the very local expert guide Daniel – an Italian gentleman who turned out to be our best guide to date.

Entry to the Alhambra is limited for crowd control and our entry time was to be 9:30 am. If you dawdle about or miss your entry, you’re out of luck, so we hustled our way to the entry, listening to Daniel give us salient facts through our ear pieces.  This type of tour is always the best: each small group is on a unique frequency tied to your specific tour guide (If my chance you changed frequencies you may be listening to a tour in Japanese).  If you stay within a certain distance of the guide, you can hear him perfectly, but it also allows you the freedom to wander a bit to take that perfect picture without missing out on the information being provided. Its other benefit is that it allows the guide to speak in a natural way not having to scream or to constantly demand that we chickens stay close at hand.

To describe the Alhambra is for me impossible. It reminded me of Topkapi , in Istanbul– acres of carefully laid out grounds inside enclosed walls, containing palaces, gardens, fountains, and simpler homes for the common people. It was built over a series of years by the Moors as palaces for the sultans and survived intact until the 1490’s when the Christian influence won out. The Moors were driven out of Spain, and the Alhambra became an empty bastion used for some of the worst excesses of the Inquisition. 

Each of the palaces consisted of a vast series of rooms usually focused around a garden or small pond. From all rooms one could look out into one of these courtyards. On all walls there was elaborate and ornate tile work, sculpture, or engraved Arabic sayings & poems,(some of which Daniel would read to us).  Because Islam does not allow one to portray any humans or animals, the designs were primarily floral or geometric in nature.  Every inch from the floors to the ceilings was elaborately laid out and one could only imagine a time when the individual colors of tiles and paint were vivid, and when the white coating on the walls glistened. If you came as a visitor at that time, you would have to have been in awe as your eyes were drawn to the intricate and ornate detail of each space.

With every turn I wanted to take pictures, and yet I knew that no pictures could begin to capture the beauty, so I finally gave up and bought a guide book which had professional photographs taken when the sunlight was perfectly aligned, and the detail stood out with precision. 

After a good three hours, we wended our way back to the bus, which took us through ‘pre-siesta’, mid-day traffic to a hotel restaurant in Granada, where we had an enormous dining room to ourselves with a delicious buffet large enough to feed a group four times our size.

Our next stop was a quick walking tour through the old part of Granada, which Bob and I chose to skip (along with quite a few other weary passengers) and then as the sun was setting, we headed back to Motril, and our ship. We learned that the tall-ship, Sea Cloud, had been at our pier briefly that afternoon, on its way to the Caribbean also. This was the last night for those passengers who were getting off in Malaga, so there was much exchanging of email addresses and contact data, and while some of us went to bed, others stayed up and closed the bar. (Names hidden to protect the guilty).

Saturday – Malaga

With overcast skies and rain, we arrived at the very new ship’s terminal in Malaga. The departing guests were asked to be off the ship by 10:00 am, so those of us staying on dilly-dallied about until mid-day staying out of the way of the departures.  Then Russ, Di, Bob and I headed into the town of Malaga.  While this used to be a sleepy port, it is now part of the very touristy Costa del Sol (though we had no Sol to speak of). We were in search of free WI-FI, some beer and then a nice tapas lunch.  And all this was accomplished.  Malaga reminded me a bit of Barcelona, with a lot of pedestrian shopping streets, many upscale shops and department stores, and tiny alley ways filled with all manner of out-door eating establishments.  Being Saturday, there were many families out and about, and a large open-air market enclosed within walls which reminded me of the place in Budapest where Gay and I had wandered. 

Having enjoyed a lovely lunch, protected from the dripping skies by an awning, we wandered down to a large department store/grocery store - El Corte Ingles- which is a well-known chain in Spain. Each of us picked up necessities of life, not available on the ship, and ambled back to our floating home to meet the newbies who were joining us.  We were 71 passengers on the last leg, we lost quite a few at this port, but with the new influx we’ve grown to a compliment of 101….except six people who missed the boat –literally – so we left port as a group of 95, setting sail for North Africa where the missing six will hopefully catch up with us.

I noticed how those of us who have been on-board for a while tended to group together at dinner, while the newbies find their way about. It’s like they haven’t yet learned the secret handshake, so they’re not yet considered ‘one of us’.  This will disappear quickly, I’m sure.  We had dinner with one of the newbies – the ship’s doctor. It seems that with any ocean crossing, where ports of call are non-existent, it is required to have a doctor on board.  Dr. Irene Preis is a lovely woman from Wurzburg, Germany – part of Franconia. She regaled us with tales about her unique training required to be a ship’s doctor.  (On land she’s an anesthesiologist). The principal problems on a crossing, for which one requires training are: sea sickness, broken bones, and smoke inhalation.  It seems to be the case that ship-board fires are quite a regular happening – not large conflagrations, but small fires in waste baskets, in the galley or in the engine room.  We were curious as to whether she was visited often by crew members, but she said that because of the physicals which they are required to pass, it is not them, but the passengers who become her focus.  She was delightful to speak with and we’re assuming that we’ll see her in social occasions only.

Sunday – The Straits of Gibraltar and Tangiers

Early in the morning we staggered out of bed, grabbed some coffee and headed up on deck to watch as our ship passed the Rock of Gibraltar, and went through the Pillars of Hercules.  I always thought of the Rock as modestly inhabited, but it has 30,000 citizens and more Barbary Apes than there are citizens in Peacham (our measure of all populations). 

The straits are a narrow body of water, separating Africa from Europe, with just 7+ nautical miles separating them.  It is the area where one leaves the Mediterranean Sea and enters the Atlantic Ocean, and of course the weather was over-cast, with waves, and the wind once more on our nose.  As a result we arrived late in Tangiers, docking at an industrial dockside where men in Jalabas, suits or track outfits were awaiting us – along with the six missing passengers, who had to take a hydrofoil ferry from Malaga.

We chose to stay on-board since the write-up on Tangiers did not make it sound appealing. Its major site is a souk, but to get to it one had to fight off all manner of touts, beggars and youngsters and one was warned not to carry anything of value, and women should not travel alone.  So we sent Di and Russ as our emissaries, and we stayed on board relaxing, chatting with fellow passengers, reading and blogging.

I’m sure we should show much more get-up-and-go since it is highly unlikely that we will return to this part of North Africa, but it holds little charm, and at this point  and we are both wishing for the crossing to begin.  But first we have the Moroccan ports of Casablanca & Safi (tour to Marrakech), and Arrecife & Las Palmas in the Canary Islands.  And may the winds and waves be calmer so we can enjoy it all.

Note: A ‘straw poll was taken today on the US election…Obama won by a 5-1 ratio…one can only pray.

 

 

  

Days at Sea

The Trip to No Where – Five unexpected days at Sea

We made it to Trapani in Sicily on a sunny warm Saturday morning  and while there was a simple tour to see gardens, Bob and I chose instead to take a walk through the town which was a very up-scale tourist destination for Italians.  We poked into stores looking for needle and thread, found them and returned to the ship. Our next stops were to be Menorca and Mallorca and we had a planned day at sea before that. However, Mother Nature had other plans. As we left the pier in Trapani, the wind started kicking up – and as they say – That’s all She Wrote.

Since that Saturday afternoon, our valiant little sailing ship has been fighting 6 meter swells (18 feet) and wind sitting ‘on our nose’ which means that the ship has had to go under motor (sailing ain’t possible when the wind is in front of you)  at a blistering speed of 1-2 knots/hour.  At this rate we’ve been going more backwards than forwards and being bumped and battered with every wave.

The first signs of impending disaster were the white ‘barf bags’ being placed along all inside railings as we came from dinner on Saturday, then there was the metal bed protector put up by our steward to stop us from being thrown out of the bed – two very bad signs that we were in for a rough ride.

By mid-day Sunday, having been under motor for 24 hours, we’d gone about ¼ of the distance required to reach our next port and the captain said, well we we’ll skip the port of Cartagena to allow us to make our other ports of call.  That was followed the next day by the decision that we would skip going to Menorca and Mallorca so that we could make the last two ports:  Motril – the harbor which leads one to Granada &The Alhambra, and Malaga where we have to go because it is the end of this leg of the tour… there are people waiting to get on the ship, and another group waiting to get off.  At this point we’re thinking that most people would like to abandon ship….. but, not our merry quartet.

While the number of passengers at dinner has dwindled to about 25% of the total, and the crew is showing shades of green themselves, we four have maintained our cheery attitude, reminding ourselves that this is just part of the adventure of being on a sailing ship.  There are no big motors that can be brought to use, and if the wind is blowing from the wrong direction there can be no sails. So all one can do is hunker down, and slowly, slowly move from east to west. And so each night the bulletin slipped under our door to tell us about the exotic harbors we will see the next day simply says:  Mediterranean Sea or Balearic Sea.

Evidence of the strength of the storm we are passing through is that this morning – Tuesday – a calm day – the jib sails were found to be shredded to bits and the bow-sprit net, which one would normally enjoy lying on, had huge gaping holes in it as well.  Someone’s head was going to roll: strong storm, high winds, rough seas, and the sails were neither battened down, or better yet removed.  Instead the jibs are rags and new ones will be hoisted when the winds finally are cooperative.

This is an adventure. The hardy passengers sit up in the lounge with kindles, puzzles, computers and books at hand (being cooped up in a cabin in choppy seas does not engender calm stomachs). The staff try to provide games and quizzes to entertain us, and the poor galley crew has to try and create nice meals when they themselves would probably like to stretch out and sleep.  We await each update from the cruise director, hoping that we will get to Motril; that the storms will abate; and that we all will be able to get up on deck to walk, get some fresh air, and enjoy our days at sea.

We are feeling especially sorry for a young couple on board: “the kids” as they have been named. They are married less than a year, and chose for their first cruise ever, to be on a sailing vessel.  We assume that this is their first and last cruise since both have been sick as dogs for three days.  Then there are the ten people from Roads Scholar who thought they were coming on a tour to visit interesting harbors – which originally had included Tunisia, and instead they find themselves on a bucking, slow-moving sailboat going, very slowly, nowhere.

Otherwise, our fellow passengers seem to be of two different ilk: those who feel that they are experts on sailing, on square riggers, on weather and they articulate in quite sonorous voices their wisdom as to what has happened, what will happen, and what should happen – most of it drivel. And then the quiet ones who sit with their books, their puzzles, their alcohol …and these seem to be calm.  There are people we avoid at all costs because they appear to have verbal diarrhea – they do not stop yabbering and while there are a few gems amidst the drivel, it is too endless.  And if they’re not talking they’re asking inane questions which have been answered at least twice by the cruise director in his talks, but they chose not to absorb it, or simply that they want to ask again and again in case the words change.  Am I getting torqued?   Just a wee bit.

To date there have been only four people who fell over while sitting at dinner –  one moment they were calmly eating dinner,  the next – they were on the floor.  And then there’s the china closet in the dining room that simply tipped over breaking china inside; or the bar glasses which all slid off the bar and shattered with much noise.  The rule is: one hand for the ship, and one hand for you;  and for god’s sake don’t take your hands off your beer glass!

And so we await our arrival on Friday in Motril, Spain.  While the east coast of the states is suffering the chaos of the Superstorm, caused by hurricane Sandy, we jolly sailors enjoy one of the stronger storms in the Mediterranean.  And who says there’s no global warming?

But now it’s Wednesday morning, and we are creeping along about 20 miles off the coast of Algeria. Once again there are changes to our schedule.  We had planned to arrive in Almeria, Spain, (a new port which had been added simply to give people a chance to go ashore {and free WiFi!}) on Thursday at mid-day, but now that port has been scrapped as well and so we’re heading directly to Motril, to arrive sometime on Thursday …and we’ll stay there overnight.  This means that it will have been five days at sea. And right now we hear from the Star Flyer, ahead of us, that the Atlantic is quite rough as well.   JOY!

Oct. 22 - 25 = Pylos to Malta

Pylos – Syracuse – Valletta

The only problem with scarce internet access is that it makes the writing of the blog difficult, and thus it makes me lazy.  Here it is Friday, and already our last two sites are fading into history, so before it becomes a complete blur, I’m keying away like mad.

Our ship has become a familiar home where all nooks and crannies are known, and we can identify exactly where to place ourselves to get just the right view, just the right amount of privacy, or just the perfect place to read.  While it isn’t a large ship, and it is quite full on this first leg of the trip, there is always the right place to sit with a Kindle, a laptop or a puzzle.  It is astounding how many people have some form of e-book at this point. There are almost no physical books to be seen as we settle into the inside bar areas to read, and while the ship’s internet is not perfect, it is one hell of a lot better than the last time we were on a Star Clipper vessel – almost a requirement now that many people have come on board with their laptops, notebooks, iPads, etc. 

Our first real port of call, having skipped Monemvasia, was Pylos.  It is a typical,  sleepy harbor town, and so we used the day to walk about, admire a beautifully appointed catamaran at the quay, run some shopping errands, and have a last Greek meal by the water:  ‘marithes’ – small fried fish which one eats like French fries -  tails, heads, and all;  Greek salad; Mythos beer; and a frappé. What is astounding to us is that absolutely every little harbor and restaurant has a free WiFi hotspot so that when we wanted to ‘locate’ ourselves on Facebook, there were a plethora of opportunities.  Almost all cafes and restaurants offer you access, sometimes with the need of a crude password, but easily given by the waiter at hand.  We are behaving like most people who have some form of smartphone: we sit at a table awaiting whatever we asked for, and quickly check email, Facebook, and the news. We’re not conversing with each other, we’re staying ‘connected’. So it is a joy to think that on the ship we are semi-detached from this on-line real world.  And as to the election process in the USA, what election process? We hardly know it is going on. We’re not being bombarded night and day with nasty ads, pleas for money or angry diatribes by either side in this battle.  We have voted, and now we simply await the final result. It looks like the popular vote may be close (or at least that’s what we see in brief news snippets), but the electoral college seems to favor Obama – for now. Dear God we hope so. With two Supreme Court justice spaces opening up in the next four years, we can’t afford to go back to the stone ages where ‘binders full of women’ might have opportunities, if they can get home in time to cook dinner for their husbands. 

But, back to our cruise. We pulled away from Pylos as the late fall sun put a wonderful golden hue to the buildings …with a few locals watching in rapt attention.  The pleasure of our sailing boat is that it can pull into many small harbors where big cruise ships don’t fit. And we don’t make quite as large a blot on the landscape, lying low to the water-line, and ‘pointy’ thin at both ends. And, when our sails get hoisted, who can’t be impressed. It brings back memories of sailing days of yore (even if ‘yore’ was a good many years before any of us were born).

Our routine on board is that once the harbor has receded into history, the pilot has been disgorged and the sails are set, we head to our cabins to freshen up for cocktails and then dinner.  We four have identified ‘our’ place at the out-door Tropical bar, and ‘our’ place at the indoor bar, and we know that that’s where we belong up until 8:00 when we slowly head for dinner in the dining room.  Our barmen on board: Igor (from Russia), David (from Bali) and Alain (from the Philippines) know us at this point and are good natured as we tease them about one thing or another. As Di reminds us, at least we know their names and their nationality, and can, in her case, say please and thank you in their language.  They will be our best friends before this cruise is over.  

The dining room has no fixed seating so when we arrive we usually ask to sit with others just to spice up the conversations.  And for the most part it is an interesting group to chat with.  The first discussions focus on bragging rights as to how many cruises one has been on, when and where; then comes the series of ‘tier one’ conversations related to where one lives, what one did for a living, and why one is on this particular cruise.  This first leg has many Brits on board – a hard-core drinking crowd of young laddys whose accents identify them as northern English, who have yet to be seen sober; then there are the prize winners from a Tyre company in the UK; for them it is a short five day event since they’ll be getting off in Malta.

Our next port of call is Syracuse on the island of Sicily.  Based on all that we read, Syracuse was a happenin’ place in 500 BC. The Corinthians came here and developed a large city state; the Romans came after that and subsequently other nationalities including Arabs and Normans. Once our ship was tied off nicely at the dock, we hopped on our tour bus for a ‘Classical Tour’ of the ruins of Syracuse with our guide Maria. She was lively, enthusiastic and sounded an awful lot like a female Father Guido Sarducci. We went to the Archaeological Park where we examined a Greek theater made of limestone; the quarry used to build the theater; the famed ‘Ear of Dionysius’ a cavern with eerie acoustics where someone broke into an Italian aria, and where in ancient times slaves were imprisoned; and finally the Roman Theater which is just rubble at this point.  Maria droned on, talked more than listened, and left us all feeling like we were sure this could have been better, if someone had brought the site alive with stories and information. As it was, we piled back in the bus and went back to the island of Ortygia where our ship was docked. We wandered in the main streets, visiting the main cathedral, which was built around an old Doric temple so that the temple columns were inside the church. We located a pier side café, where we dined on fresh calamari and a ham, sausage and mushroom pizza…with lots of Moretti beer. Finally, we returned to the ship, where shortly thereafter sails were hoisted, and we set sail for Malta.

All that we’d found missing in Syracuse, we found in Malta:  it was a perfect day, a perfect tour, a perfect tour guide and an absolutely beautiful city.  Bob had been here in the Navy, 46 years ago, and had fond memories of the island. The last time he had made the dramatic approach into Grand harbor, Valletta, he was standing on the Bridge of his aircraft carrier…so he was up at 6am, in hoodie & slicker, to repeat the experience on the bridge of Star Clipper. He was thrilled!  

 Di and Russell had been here numerous times, either dropping or picking up sailing yachts for wealthy owners;  and I was the novice of the crowd.   But, not totally ignorant.  After all, Dorothy Dunnett set the third of her Francis Lymond series, “The Disorderly Knights”, here on the Malta of the 1560’s. The great Siege of Malta was a two-month long battle between the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, and the invading Turks of the Ottoman Empire. It was a battle between Christianity and the infidel Muslims, and at the end of two months of bitter and ruthless fighting, the Turks were beaten back, and Christianity in the Mediterranean, was saved.  The Knights of Malta with their leader the Grand Master Jean Parisot de la Valette (after whom the town is now named) were outnumbered ten to one, but valiantly they beat back the enemy and it remains a symbol of how the meek and mild with determination can beat back the bullies of life. 

Our tour leader was a lovely woman named Fabrizia. From the moment she switched on her mike on the bus until we parted ways four hours later, we were in the hands of a charming, knowledgeable, witty and engaging guide.  She knew how to keep her audience’s attention as we drove through the boring outskirts of the town, as we marched through town squares, down narrow streets and into cathedrals. She knew her history but doled it out in such a way to keep us all engaged and interested – a rare talent.

Our first stop was Mdina, the original ‘capital’ of Malta – a lovely medieval city to the south of Valetta where we walked the narrow streets, still wet after a night’s rain storm, looking up at balconies, down at cobblestones, and in between admiring the array of door knockers which seem to be famous and HUGE. We then returned to Valetta, the present capital, where we visited the St. John’s Cathedral an amazing site gilt-laden with all the knight’s tombs covering the floor with their in-laid marble tombstones, each more elaborate than the next.  I don’t usually like churches, but this one was amazing. I kept snapping pictures hoping that at least one of them will be able to show the amazing beauty of the place. 

Valetta is primarily a large tourist attraction at this point. It has all the modern stores from Marks & Spencer to Benneton’s, sprinkled in between cafes, restaurants and tourist kitsch shops.  Tourism is the primary source of revenue and the Maltesians are building and improving things as quickly as possible. You sense that there is significantly more prosperous a community than that we had seen the day before in Syracuse, and Bob was hard-pressed to identify the same avenues and sites he had seen many years before what with the scaffolding and changes made to modernize the city. 

At one point while we were waiting for our group to re-convene, there appeared uniformed guards on horses, sirens, police cars etc.  Our guide turned to one of the horsemen as he rode by to ask “who is it?” and the man replied with an embarrassed smile: “I don’t know”.

Once we had bid our guide good-bye, we headed for a beer – CISK is the brand of Malta, and a sandwich made with their special bread  FTIRA, and then we wandered back to the ship far below in the harbor, where upon arrival at the port we had to have another beer to fortify ourselves for the sail away.   

I thoroughly enjoyed Malta and can see that this is a country I would visit again. There is a wealth of history going back to the Stone Age, and up through WW II when Malta was bombed to smithereens by the Germans. There are sites to be visited in more leisure, parks to wander in, vistas to examine high above the sea, with ancient fortresses and narrow medieval streets as backdrop, foods to sample and stores to poke through. We all enjoyed our day and would gladly return sometime in the future. 

But now it was time to get back on board to meet our new sail-mates.  Today was a change over day. The Brits are gone, and in their place we were expecting a group from ‘Road Scholars’ and a few other stray individuals.  It is obvious that that we are a smaller band of sailors at this point. There are only 81 guests aboard (versus the 132 on the last leg), and we are beginning to look familiar to each other.  

Today we were at Porto Empedocle, Sicily, an industrial port with no charm, but an entry point for Agrigento. There was a tour to see some of the most complete Greek ruins in the world, but we were sort of “antiquity ruined-out”, so we called it our ‘sea day’ and took the time to catch up on email, reading and this blog. Tonight at dinner we’ll learn all about what we missed, as we sail out again on our way to Trapani, on the west coast.  These last two stops replace what we should have had as our stops in Tunisia, but the US State Department has warned people away from visiting Tunisia for the time being, and the ship has chosen small Italian ports as a safer alternative. From those who know Tunisia, I’m told we’re not missing anything, and we’ll have to believe them for now.                                                                                     

 

October 18 - 21, 2012 - GREECE

Nauplion to Monemvasia to Pylos

Thursday with the national strike freezing up most of Greece, Bob and I spent a leisurely day in Nauplion, sipping coffee frappé by the water, along with many Greeks who used the strike as a great day to relax and meet up with friends.  There were noisy demonstrations early in the morning, but we missed them all and only saw the last of the riot police and signage as we went to the Carrefour grocery store for a few last items.  It’s like we’re biding time waiting until we can get on the ship, forcing ourselves to do something, when what we really want to do is start sailing. 

In the evening, dinner again with ‘Steve Jobs’ (real name George) at SAVOURAS fish restaurant which was again very busy. Sadly, around us many of the restaurants were closed either in solidarity with the striking workers or because there just wasn’t enough traffic to make it worth their time to open.  We feasted on fresh calamari, fresh Sargos – a black sea bream, a bottle of wine and off to bed we went.

Friday, on a beautiful warm blue sky morning, we bid adieu to our lovely hostess, hopped into our Yaris and within two hours were back in Athens. A flawless, easy trip which left us in town with plenty of time to have lunch with Mr. Phyl  at the school cafeteria while we tended to two loads of laundry in the basement of the school.   I extended an offer to help out with the school, anyway that I can, since I very much want to see it survive these difficult times just in case Jessie gets the idea that she would like to come to Greece under its aegis. Forty-five years later and it remains one of the defining periods of my life, and so Mr. Phyl has asked me to write an article for the alumni magazine with reflections on the school then, and now. 

Saturday – at last we’re truly on our way.  We taxied down to Piraeus where buried amidst the many hydrofoil ferry boats, and a huge cruise cube called the Crown Princess, was our cute little sailing boat just waiting for us. It looked so miniscule sitting amidst these behemoths, and we’re set to sail it across an ocean. As we stood on line waiting to be checked in, we examined our fellow travelers to get a sense of who they were. Because the trip is broken up into four segments, there are those who are on for as little as 5 days, and others like us who will be aboard for the full 35 days.  Those who have the time and the wherewithal to do the entire trip are of an older nature; those who are on the shorter segments definitely under the age of 40. Everyone is a bit on tenterhooks as registration proceeds:  do we have the right paperwork; is our credit card ready for them to swipe; what happens to our passport (yes, yes, and they keep it). And that’s it. Through security, on to the transport bus, and voila - we’re on board being handed our welcome drink, shaking hands with the captain, and locating our new home – cabin 332…starboard side, one deck down.   And then there came the surprise of our life:

Three years earlier we had been on an Oceania cruise, from Istanbul to Singapore, where we had been part of a merry team of travelers: Doris, the oracle and inveterate traveler, who at 80+ years of age had been everywhere in the world; George and Betty Lou  a retired couple from Calgary, Canada;  and Russell and Di, from Australia and New Zealand, who worked on seismic ships helping oil companies to locate future oil ‘reserves’ under the ocean.  We have kept up with each other through Christmas letters, email and Facebook, and had agreed that we all needed to sail together again someday.  Well, as I’m unpacking in the cabin and Bob is topside enjoying a beer, who should knock on the stateroom door – but Russell and Di.  They had taken our idea that a clipper ship sail might be fun and had secretly booked themselves on to our same cruise way back in February, and had managed to keep this a secret throughout the year as we nattered back and forth on email and Facebook.  Just two days ago we had sent them a note telling them that we’d be in one of their home ports – Palma – and were sorry they wouldn’t be there.  Di had written back that she was sorry but they wouldn’t be there – what she didn’t happen to say is that the reason was because she would be WITH us on the ship. 

You could have knocked me over with a feather.  Suddenly this whole trip has become that much more fun to contemplate. Russ and Di are a party all by themselves. They are energized, witty, smart and engaged in the world with all the gusto they can muster.  Whereas we may cruise two times a year, they seem to be cruising almost continuously; only stopping long enough to get on a seismic ship, earn some revenue to refuel their cruising coffers, and off they go again.  As Di quotes:  “no pets, no kids, no plants”  ie: no responsibilities. Their life on land is probably less than 3-5 months in a year, and for the rest they’re on the water either working or playing.  And here they are with us for the next 35 days!

 

Pure joy.  

Having downed a few celebratory drinks, gone through the life-boat drill, and eaten a fairly simple dinner, we all headed for the main deck for the sail away at 9:45 pm.  Sail away is always a dramatic moment as they hoist all the sails, play the music of Vangelis from the movie “1492” (all about Columbus), and with a starry sky above you feel the wind grab the sails and you’re off!  (Granted, as soon as we’ve all gone to bed, they tend to go back to motor; but it is still is a wonderful introduction to a sailing vessel). 

And suddenly it’s Sunday and while we were supposed to stop in Monemvasia for six hours. Unfortunately, we  had to cancel that idea because the seas were too rough for the tenders to pull up next to the ship without the risk of someone falling overboard or losing a limb as the two floating units attempt to be linked.  So no sooner were we anchored, than once more anchors were raised, and we set sail for our next port on the western coast of the Peloponnese – Pylos. In Greek lore, Homer writes about Nestor, a famous Mycenaean ruler who lived in Pylos,  and there are remains of his palace. But as importantly, it is known to Greek children as the port of Navarino where there was a famous battle in the war for Greek Independence when the combined ships of the British and French navies, overcame the Turks and resulted, ultimately, in Greece becoming a nation…with its first capital at Nauplion.

 

 

 

 

Olympia and Nauplion

Olympia & Nauplion

Monday, Oct. 15^th, we awoke to threatening weather – but it was the day for our tour, so armed with umbrella and slickers off we drove to the site of ancient Olympia to meet Maria Loukaridou, our official guide.  She had been recommended by the fabulous guide we had used in Delphi. Private tours truly let you understand all those fallen pieces of marble and stone, and make what might otherwise be a very dull walk, an exciting adventure in the past. We walked from one end of the sanctuary to the other learning about the original purposes of the Olympic contests, the history of the site, and the philosophy of the Greeks – one which I have always loved.  The gods’ only purpose was to reflect different aspects of man. They weren’t to be feared, they were to be respected, and the image of the gods was always that of a human – each with faults and characteristics that one came to recognize.

 

As the thunder of Zeus rolled across the skies and the winds picked up we hastily beat a retreat to the newly built archaeological museum where we admired many remains from the site and my all-time favorite - the absolutely stunning statue of Hermes by Praxitiles – a perfect statue in all ways. The skin fairly ripples across his body; his face depending on which side you stand looks either sad or happy; he appears to be in motion and you can almost imagine him able to step off the plinth and approach you. 

 

Of course, as our tour of the museum ended, so did the rain. Perfect timing. We walked back amidst the puddles and the ruins, and examined the tourist mecca of Main Street Olympia where, when we had arrived, we had to be careful not to run over tourists, and by the time we left we could have bowled a ball down the middle of the street without hitting a single storekeeper. Olympia is a difficult site to get to, be it by land or by sea, so tour buses and cruise ships come in in waves.  One of the shop keepers with whom I spoke called them ‘packaged products’.  He was dismissive because they don’t hang around and truly spend money, they just mosey from one end to the other, and get on their buses and leave.

 

I confess that for us the site of Olympia doesn’t impress as does Delphi or the Acropolis. The vistas are missing, the majesty is missing.  It is a functional site meant for worship, sporting challenges, and attempts at peace and harmony on a periodic basis; but we came away cold.   We had a bit of a contretemps with one of the guards on the site when I took out Jinn, our traveling frog from the Peacham Library.  I had innocently placed him on a column to take a picture.  A very officious young lady came up and said I must put the frog away, and delete the picture from my camera because I was not being respectful of the site. Our Greek guide tried to talk sense into the guard, but she knew her rules, and by gum, I was not to show that frog anywhere in Olympia.  So with great show of buttons and clicks, I pretended to remove the picture, and put Jinn away.  Obviously he came out again later on, and the pictures were saved, but we were more careful and he missed being part of some of the finer aspects of Olympia.

 

We bid our bit of classical Greece adieu, and headed back to the Bacchus Hotel for dinner and sleep.

 

Tuesday morning, awaking to overcast skies we decided to take a less breath-taking, flatter road to Nauplion. It was a bit more circuitous, and required us to visit some very small villages at the outset where road signage was distinctly lacking, but ultimately we hit the National Road in Kalo Nero, just north of Kyparissia, and sped to our destination in what was definitely a shorter time.  We arrived in sunny warm weather at the AETOMA HOTEL greeted, with hugs and kisses, by its lovely owner, Panaiyioti and her son Akis.  We had stayed here five years ago when she was just starting the hotel, and since then she’s been consistently Number One on TripAdvisor, so we were delighted to see each other again.

 

Having established our ‘beach head’, we headed to the cafes which line the harbor for a beer and a chance to relax and enjoy the view: staring at boats, water and the little Venetian castle that sits inside the harbor.  The town is pretty empty, it being fall, and not a week-end, but there is a sense that things are going well for the merchants and there are just enough cruise ships and tourists to keep things moving along.  Having been here now about ten times, I feel no need to rush around to visit the sites, but am rather enjoying a simple stroll through the streets, poking in and out of shops, stopping for a coffee Frappe, or just staring at water.  We did splurge on dinner at SAVOURAS a fabulous fish restaurant along the water. It is the same one Bob and I have been to in the past, and Jessie and I were here in June.  The head waiter, who has a striking resemblance to Steve Jobs, pretended that he remembered Jessica who had asked for fish where both eyeballs and tail were removed…and even if he didn’t remember, he treated us with care since we were distinctly return customers.  With three lovely stray black cats as companions, and recipients of little snacks from our table, we ate a beautifully grilled dorade fish, a salad and a bottle of Greek white wine while in the background all Greek eyes were peeled on the large TV screen which showed the Slovak/Greek soccer game.  It was that or the news, and I think the Greeks must be tiring of the incessant drumbeat of disaster and financial ruin which taints all the newscasts.

 

Wednesday was to be our last day in Nauplion since we had a dinner date with Alexis Phyl in Athens on Thursday evening. But Greece has planned a nationwide strike for Thursday with all doctors, taxi drivers, shop keepers, kiosk owners and public and private sector businesses stopping all work. We had planned a route that would avoid most of down-town traffic… but why do it at all?  So we extended our stay in Nauplion, sent apologies to Alexis, and here on Thursday as Greece grinds to a halt for 24 hours, we will continue to enjoy the seaside, even if the shops remain closed in solidarity with all Greeks who fear cuts in their pensions.

 

This whole thing is nuts. It’s like they just don’t get it!  Their country is in the midst of a recession or depression, they are the laughing stock of the Euro, they have almost no successful industries remaining at this point as international companies like Coca Cola and CarreFour Grocery leave their Greek headquarters; and most shipping companies, frustrated with striking employees, move elsewhere. And yet, the Greeks keep whining about the rules and strictures being thrown at them by the EU.  For too long, Greece has lived on a system  which consists of bribery, graft and governments who are always beholden to their financiers. But now all their sins have come home to roost.  They loved getting into the Eurozone, and all its benefits, they just weren’t so clear on the rules and requirements of being a healthy member of the EU.  The squabbling is endless and when you speak with most Greeks they think it will take at least three generations to get things in order, and possibly even a dictatorship.  But through it all, they strike, thereby proving that they just don’t ‘get it’. Grrrrrr.

 

Peacham to Olympia

October 8 – 14: Peacham to Olympia

We’re one week into our Odyssey and it’s time to put this Blog into action. Outside Zeus has provided a serious thunder storm with driving rain and lightning, which leaves us with little to do – so here at the Bacchus Pensione, outside of Olympia, I’ll begin the tale which may be lengthy - after all it is a week!! Let’s just say right off the bat that with fall in the air, the tourists pretty much gone, and the temperatures in the reasonable 70’s we’ve been enjoying our pre-sail visit to Greece. 

 

On Monday, the 8^th of October with more luggage than we normally heft, we loaded up Harold the Honda and headed to the kids in Darien where we shared a dinner and caught up on each other’s news. It’s become our habit to drop off the car and to head out of JFK, and at this point all the pre-flight preliminaries moved like clockwork.  Tuesday we ‘limo’ed’ to JFK with plenty of time to spare, checked-in our bags and ourselves, and prepared to luxuriate in our Delta business class seats. Our fellow flyers were primarily people heading for various cruises which left from Athens. Taking a direct flight makes all the difference, cutting the travel time, and more importantly insuring that we and our luggage will arrive together. Before we knew it, it was Wednesday morning and we were landing at the Athens airport amidst sun and warmth. Theodoras, a taxi driver often used by CYA (College Year in Athens – my old alma mater), met us at the customs hall and drove us to our student digs on Eratosthenous Street where he handed us the keys, and we fell into our apartment.  It is a simple affair: two rooms with two beds each, a kitchen and a bathroom but it’s all we need since we don’t spend much time there and it has WIFI which keeps us connected to the outside world. A few hours nap and we headed out to get some basic groceries for our breakfasts, and to find some simple dinner.  As happens so often in this very friendly country, at the top of the street was a ‘supermarket’ and on the street we met Laura, a young Greek woman, who had lived IN VERMONT and in Essex NY, but who is now settled here in the area of Athens known as Pangrati. She saw our hesitation as we looked for things, stopped to help, and gave us all the hints and tips we needed, including a recommendation for dinner: VYRINI’s, a lovely taverna owned by a British woman Susan.  Choosing a wonderful array of appetizers and a FIX beer, we re-acquainted ourselves with the glories of Greek food before falling back into bed, assured that the next day we’d be on Athens Time.

 

There is such a comfort to be in a city where we know the ins and outs of getting about. While my Greek may be a bit rusty, it gets us all that we need, and I feel comfortable negotiating the everyday events of groceries, restaurants, directions and the niceties of life.

 

Feeling somewhat freshened (after 12 hours of sleep), we headed to CYA to meet with Vasso, the lovely Greek lady who had been our life-line on email as we prepared for our trip. She in turn introduced us to many of the administrative folk who make CYA tick: Jennifer the receptionist from Rockville Centre NY – where Bob was born; Georgia, the librarian who showed us the much improved high-tech library;  Nadia who acts as student affairs administrator;  and Poppi who handles the 48+ resident apartments, dining hall and that infrastructure. The school has flourished since I was here in 1967 and while these most recent years have been tough as nervous parents pull their children from the program, you can appreciate all that’s been done by Alexis Phylactopoulos to make this whole operation ‘classy’.  To be located right next to the old Olympic Stadium in a modern high-rise with all the amenities of an academic institution demonstrates an institution that is here to stay as it goes into its 50^th year of operation.  We met with Alexis briefly before touring the rest of the facility – including ISMENE – the dining hall. It was lovely to see “Mrs. Phyl” (Ismene), the current “Mr. Phyl’s” late mother, honored with a painting on the wall in the lobby, a dining hall with her name etched in glass on the doors, and sense that her presence was still there.  She was unique in her time – a Greek woman who went to Wellesley when Greek women were to stay at home, knit and sew and raise babies… and who started a simple ‘junior year abroad’ program in Greece using all her connections, and her guts to get the program off the ground.  I was impressed with her in 1967 and continue to admire her to this day.  She and her husband – the original  “Mr. Phyl”  - were critical to establishing my love affair with all things Greek.

 

After freshening up and taking a brief nap, we met up with Manos and Sophia for dinner at a lovely restaurant literally right across from our apartment. Manos had heard of the restaurant from friends, but little did he know just how close we were.  … so close that we had to dawdle away 90 minutes until the place opened. So we took an early evening ‘volta’ or stroll by the gardens opposite the official home of the Greek Presidents, past enough guards to make anyone sleep well…past many parked TV trucks & crews,  and through the back streets where embassies, and very wealthy Athenians make their home.  Of course, it wouldn’t be Manos if we didn’t go past a relative’s home – this time a cousin, Natalie (Nata) who at 85 remains a well known artist and sculptor in Athens.  Her atelier was still open in the evening where her assistant was working on a large piece, so we poked around before heading back to the Cucina Povera for dinner. We were the first there at 8:40pm and had a lovely table outside, but by the time we left two hours later there wasn’t a seat to be had. A hidden gem, obviously known by the youthful ‘in crowd’.  We caught up on personal news, the state of the Greek economy, the impending move from Stonington, and the sad news that two of Sophia’s children are leaving for Germany since neither feels they have a future in Greece. As she put it – they could have jobs, but not careers, and so they’re leaving and she doesn’t assume they’ll be back. And pretty much on that note, we parted ways.

 

The next day Bob and I walked through parts of the Plaka and on to the new Acropolis Museum. It continues to please me after so many visits to the sad old museum on top of the Acropolis.  Now instead of a warehouse of sculptures, crammed together in a gloomy space, every single piece from the site is given its own unique space where the viewer can walk around the object, read clear signage, appreciate the historic context of the piece, and understand how it fit within each of the main structures.  Through the use of models, video where appropriate and wall signage, the new airy and light museum is a welcoming place to walk around.  Some of my favorite new elements were:  the entry where one walks on glass flooring over new ‘digs’ discovered as the museum foundation was started; a video showing how the entire Acropolis was built and modified through time; the video which documents how things were moved from the old to the new museum (not an easy feat to accomplish); and the poignant top floor which represents the actual Parthenon both  in its size and its orientation to the Acropolis. The original friezes and metopes are displayed in their appropriate spot and at either end the vast open portions of the east and west pediments await the time when the British Museum returns the stolen Elgin Marbles to their rightful place in Athens. It is a poignant reminder of the loss felt by Greece, and the effort it has taken to earn back the right to have the Marbles returned.

We moseyed back through the Plaka, and past the Temple of Zeus, as most Athenians were rushing home for the week-end.

 

Saturday had threatened rain, but instead with our newly rented Toyota Yaris we drove out of Athens in bright sunlight with Bob as navigator and I as pilot.  While Google had said our trip would be about 3 ½ hours, they hadn’t counted on windy two-lane mountain roads, where my top speed was 40 kph.  But it was a beautiful ride past small mountain villages clinging to the sides of mountains, deep gorges, and herds of goats amidst the olive trees. After something closer to five hours we arrived in the ‘metropolis’ of Achaia Pissa and our pensione. Trip advisor,  and Bob’s thorough research, does it again! With a room overlooking olive groves , and the sounds of roosters, donkeys, goats and dogs (instead of motorcycles, buses and garbage trucks) we feel that we’re in a lovely calm oasis, not unlike Peacham, but with an even smaller population!! 

 

Our guide whom we had arranged to show us Olympia on Sunday asked that we do it on Monday instead, so with a day of leisure, we decided to visit the port of Katokolo where the cruise ships dock for tours of Olympia.  It was an excuse for a trip, but it was a bust.  The skies were overcast, the port was empty of ships, and the town whose only purpose seems to be grabbing Euro from the cruisers, was a sad and empty town.  We drove one end to the other, and headed back for a FIX beer at our oasis where the skies opened and left me here typing away.