Greetings From The Byzantine Route

Sunday morning in Paros incense tastes like sweet chalk on my tongue. Myrrh, I think, I am not certain. It is burning fresh in all the small churches throughout the town and the odor falls thick into my mouth.
Seven thirty in the morning church bells call everyone in. I am awake anyway. Sunday is different than the other days, people rest. You can feel the energy settling everywhere.
Smells like Paros... honey, food cooking – grilled meats, garlic, something very sweet, tomatoes. Honeysuckle, but only in the morning. Cigarette smoke doesn’t really bother me, to my surprise.
Sometimes thick diesel fuel and oil, they don’t linger long, carried out to sea with the wind.
On the waterfront, odors of fish, seaweed and wet wood are stronger.
On one particular Sunday basil bouquets were given out at church coating the streets of Parikia with the scent. In addition to kissing the glass encased photos of the saints in alters of the Panagia Ekatonadapyliani Church, the people wave herbal bouquets over each sacred icon. It is a lot of work, a lot of attention. People, other than me know what to do; I feel like a voyeur.

Bus tickets to Lefkes are available in the mini-market. In Prodromos, at the bakery. In Naousa you pick them up at the newsstand with the red awning around the corner from the main square. You have to know it already or you must ask to find out; the rare signs in English are sometimes hidden and written in small letters. The Greek word for bus stop is easy to spot now.

Things make sense in Greece when one is patient and waits for the big picture to reveal itself. Things do not make sense when we are impatient, filled with expectation. It is simple.
There is a remedy for confusion about situations, just shrug your shoulders and give it over to fate. Why? is unimportant - so much of the time. Things just are the way they are and need little explanation, it fits. There is a lot of acceptance for certain things here.
Many would agree, not just Greeks.

The other day I told a few people I had not slept the night before and found out none of them had either. Interesting, so we all thought; energy is so easily shared on the island. It was in the air, we speculated, needing nothing more than that to appease us. There is no point in creating reasonable reasons for answerless questions. False satisfaction does not play well here.
It is a half hour bus ride from Parikia to Lefkes which is located in the middle of the island and on top of a mountain. The bus cuts inward away from the sea. Many Germans are on this ride with me, I understand more of their conversations than I would have quessed.
The Greek man is snoring but no one bothers him or even laughs. I sneak a photograph though, and hope no one is watching.

Christina told me about the Byzantine Route from Lefkes to Marpissa on the east of the island. She said I can walk the path down and then take the bus back around to Parikia in the west. She left out the length of the trail. Six kilometers feels like fifty miles wearing New York style flip-flops on rocky, uncertain terrain. Unprepared with the footwear, I am still reliable in many ways. Midday hot; I like it.

Like so many other towns here, Lefkes has a main street for vehicles to drive along and the winding, turning paths lined with homes are all pedestrian-only walkways. Houses are built up the side of the hill, into crevices, into the countryside. Sinuous ramped stone streets break into unexpected turns. I get mixed up and find myself passing by the same homes, stores, cats, several times before finding the route again.

The man kicking the fig down the street smiles at me. Signs are posted sporadically; maybe it is the same sign I saw before. Pristine whitewashed houses abut long ago deserted homes with broken roofs where birds now take up residence. As I come closer I hear the nervous flutter of winds inside.

The Byzantine Route starts in the village of Lefkes and finishes down the mountain. No living civilization after I leave the town until Prodromos six kilometers later. The route continues after Prodromos to Marpissa and Marmara, by then the terrain is relatively flat.

I keep following the signs through the village which eventually open up to the path proper. A dirt road flanked by stone walls on either side leading out into the hillside and far away from Lefkes.

Proud enough to have found it, I think nothing of starting out. Without the Scarecrow or Toto, I am reciting my numbers in Greek for practice. I can make it to forty-nine now without a problem. Still using time wisely.

It is an hour into the route and the village of Lefkes is long gone now. Not a soul on this road except these four French travelers headed up while I am headed down.

They are panting when we meet because of the steep uphill climb. We exchange information about how far we’ve come from in either direction. They tell me twenty minutes more for me before Prodromos. I point to my feet to show them the insufficient footwear instead of regulation hiking shoes each of them is sporting. I should be grateful that this flimsy pieces of rubber have lasted this long. The man changes his estimation for me to forty minutes to the town. When I explain my foolishness for wearing these shoes he says, "Because you are young, so it will be okay."
I consider moving to Paris to live with them forever as I watch the quartet leave me to continue up the hill to Lefkes.

It is all ruins of ancient stone buildings that had been abandoned long ago and a path that has been trod on for thousands of years. For some stretches, stone walls flank each side of the path. Every piece of slate was carried up individually and laid down specifically; so much of it remains. There is determination here; silence and space.

It is hard to look up when you are going down the Byzantine Route. Jagged rocks require attention and sticks poke out from holes in the stone walls. It is difficult but not impossible to keep looking up ahead and towards the sky.

More than an hour since meeting my French friends and having them miscalculate the remainder of my hike. Flip-flops are still holding up, no small miracle. At least I wore long pants instead of that short skirt I considered this morning because of the heat that was expected today. Dehydrated brambles and bushes would whip my bare thighs and cause me to carry home fresh wounds from this trek.

I crest over yet another hill and see Prodromos, like Valhalla, in the distance. Behind her, the sea and my old friend, Naxos rising in the distance.

Arriving in the town is uneventful despite having made it in these shoes. Prodromos is observing afternoon siesta and no one is around. Three cats sunbathing in the road almost look at me; the calico opens his left eye when I come close but then returns to napping. And the goats, they never stop chewing. Dogs, as usual, asleep in the shade.

The woman in the gas station tells me to buy my bus ticket at the bakery, so I act like I know something. I am going to miss the sunset in Parikia, I think, waiting for the bus with an old man who is crouching and staring at me while I write in my book. I am finding it hard to concentrate with him focused on me.
I would not have thought I had the courage to hike a long trail like this alone. I had convinced myself long ago that silence and isolation in remote places are adversaries. There is plenty of solitude on the Byzantine Route, but no fear. Not even a mosquito to worry about.

No Fear In Paros

It is raining in Paros.

We had been expecting it. The sky is a slate grey wall matching the grey of the sidewalk pavement.
Saturday, one twenty in the afternoon. Church bells ringing slow and somber because someone has died. They sound bottomless and important. A nearby gong…then the echo… pause… gong… echo again… silence. In the distance the same sound only far away. It may be that I hear chanting too, I’m not sure. This goes on for five minutes, maybe more.

The sound of the gentle rain drops falling through the Bougainvillea tree leaves outside my veranda and landing on the street below. Footsteps of people walking faster than usual to avoid getting wet. The sweet, soft music Christina plays in the courtyard of the hotel in the afternoons and evenings.

We have been expecting the rain. It is the first rain in five months. On the beaches a trench has been dug to pull the runoff from the streets into the sea. People have to think like that here or businesses will be destroyed.

A stone channel runs through the streets to move the water. When it rains very hard or very long the ditch does little to help. Every once in awhile rain comes and there is a lot of damage. Businesses, especially the cafes close down when it rains, they rely on the outdoor traffic. People take a day off; they invite friends over, have barbecues, make parties.

This morning Christina left flower petals in the shape of a heart on my bed.

When I thanked her she said, "It is nothing, not at all."
She’s wrong, it is something.

Yesterday, Peter offered me a lift.

"Let’s go for a ride, I’ll give you a tour."
We get on his motorbike. The one he bought the day before.
"I won’t go fast." Peter says.
"I’m not afraid." I tell him, tucking my short skirt under by ass so it does not fly up and reveal my behind on the ride.
"It’s not that. You can’t go fast in Paros."

We take off up the road towards Magaya Beach, Pounta, and points south.

Wind whipping my face feels good.

Earlier this week, I wrote in my journal that a ride on a motor bike around this island would be perfect.
I was sorry I had not gotten my international driver’s license after all.
Oh, well, too bad, probably better this way anyhow, I’d just get into trouble riding a bike out here.

Later I will tell Peter: I wished for it, let it go and it happened anyway.

"Paros is built on a block of marble, so there is a lot of stability here." Peter yells back to me as we are driving.
I think of Santorini, built on top of a volcano, and understand why I felt out of sorts there.

Perhaps that’s why there are so many artists living here, and ex-patriots? Paros satisfies wanderlust while also providing safe ground to rest on.
I tell Peter that I feel very creative here.

There is a palpable sense of freedom. Maybe people feel creative in Paros because they have the stability underneath them, a strong foundation under their feet; while on top there is a vastness that frees them to play and be expressive.
It’s about safety again.

I do feel safe here. Safe and creative, grounded and free.

Open.

It is late in the afternoon at Magaya Beach, Peter is ready to go. We are driving in the opposite direction of Parikia. Maybe a shortcut? He drives down to the port in Pounta and right up onto the waiting ferry in the dock.
Later he will tell me that he knew if the ferry had not been there ready for us I would have given him a fight about going to Antiparos for dinner.
He was right, I would have.

"For what? You have something you have to do instead? And anyway, I wanted to go to Antiparos one more time before it closes down completely."

Peter connects people to each other; he introduces people and shows them who their friends might be. Peter seems happy, he understands joy, he knows about the things that matter.

"Koritsaki." He calls me. Little Girl. Some people I know back in The States would find that interesting, amusing. I like it.

Earlier today, in Magaya, he ordered a plate of smoked pork, something special, because he knew we should try it.

Antiparos is a ten minute ferry ride from Paros. It is a tiny, magical island, distinct from Paros.
Much of Paros shuts down after the summer season, while almost the whole of Antiparos closes. Many of the bars and restaurants have already closed up for winter; some have only a few weeks left before they too will shut down until April. It’s quiet here, whispering silent, like a secret.

I am enveloped by the warmth of the island me as soon as we arrive. It is as if the breeze is made of long arms reaching out and pulling me in. It is just after siesta so the children are all out again running through the streets with renewed enthusiasm. Restaurants and shops are reopening. We are sitting in a café on the main street drinking wine; it is a pedestrian only walkway like so many in the Cyclades. No cars to be afraid of all the time, it makes a difference in how children play.

Peter overhears some people at the next table say in Greek, "Thetiki eneryia."

"It means, positive energy – that is Antiparos."

We reminisce about the day I first walked into the café. Peter says he liked me because I ordered a glass of red wine and then logged on to the computer to communicate with my people back home. Not rushing, relaxing.
He tells me he saw me smiling at the screen and thought that was good.

I think, sometimes people are watching out for us though we don’t know it.

Lost In Paros

I had not noticed the man sitting next to me at Cyber Cookies Café until he got up and walked away. I had been writing in my journal and was not really looking out at anything in particular. At one point, I remember noticing the sun had set. And I recall sensing the smell of honey again; but that is normal. I do not know if he was there when I sat down at the third table or if he arrived later, but when he left I noticed the absence of him.

I’ve taken to sitting at the third table each time I come here. I think I like it best because now the red canvas chair has molded to the shape of my butt and I feel comfortable.
The search for comfort and familiarity continues.

Cyber Cookies is located right the center in the sloping arc of Market Street and offers perfect, long views in both directions. It is an excellent observation spot. Sometimes in the evenings I sit in this seat and write and watch the people ramble along looking in the shop windows. There are no cars along Market Street, it is a narrow pedestrian thoroughfare open only to humans, stray dogs and cats, and the occasional after-hours motorcycle.

There are a few sounds are coming up frequently in Greece.

Church bells are particularly expressive at noon and six in the evening.

The sound of brooms sweeping stone in the morning.

Ferry horns. Music.

The sound of paper tickets being torn almost in half by the ticket takers on the bus.
Laughter and arguments which sometimes sound alike.

The fallen dark pink flowers of bougainvillea trees that have dried hard and are brushed along the street by the wind.

On Sunday mornings the sound of religious services echoes from the churches.
The squeaking sound of metal when waiters open the canvas awnings that hang over restaurant tables each evening at the end of Siesta.

When Greek football is broadcast on the large screens set up in the cafes and restaurants the roar of the crowd can be heard over the play-by-play commentary.

I have grown fond of the unmistakable sound of Greek men playing with their colorful kompoloi; two rows of beads that have been strung together on a cord and bound with a tassel or charm. The men flip the cords back and forth over their hands and the beads clang together.

Frank is drinking a Cuba Libre.

He is an artist living in Paros in self-imposed exile from France. His hair is white and black and cut into different lengths, his eyebrows are jet black. He is smart and warm and very, very French. He has a big heart, you can just tell and everyone knows him.

Sometimes we sit together at the same table now because we have become familiar. Frank says the last table is his table. From it he drinks, holds court and watches out for inquiring visitors who wander into his gallery next door. It is twilight.

Frank’s artwork is deep and interesting. He uses photographs of faces and bodies with paint on canvas. The one woman has thrown back her head and her eyes are closed as if she is resting but the paint overlay is aggressive, dark colors and severe angles. I like his work because I see calm from depletion in the faces of the people mixed with a certain hostility and anger in the colors and lines of paint. His paintings are evocative and dreamy and seem to be a window into his thoughts which I think are probably quite depraved.
"You are lost in Paros." Frank says, he is certain. He says it as if it is as true as sunrise.

Frank is right, quite literally. The streets of Parikia twist and curl around so that you can easily wind up right back where you started if you are not paying attention (and even if you think you are). I get lost on my way somewhere every day.

There are no street signs, you just have to remember landmarks, if you can. I tried to memorize my way back to the hotel several times but that was during the day. At night everything looks different, especially after a few glasses of wine.
"I agree, Frank, I am lost in Paros."

This conversation will come up again and again over the next couple of days. Frank will overhear his brother, Eddie say the same thing to me and he will nod and lift his drink in my direction and say something in French as if I have just been given more evidence of what he is sure is true.

"What do I do?" I ask him.
"There is nothing to do." Frank says, dripping his French accent all over me which makes it all seem perfectly wonderful to be lost.

I tell him how last night when I left the café at midnight I went in the wrong direction, up instead of down Market Street. It was a mess, I was all turned around. In the complete silence on the tiny little streets I dodged down paths I knew where wrong trying to find my way towards something recognizable.
I felt like a tight knot in the middle of a long length of string.
This town that is so charming began to look like a scene out of a really bad thriller movie. Every turn I made was a mistake.

Eventually I ran into a woman who was just leaving work at a restaurant, she was getting on her motorbike. In English I told her I was lost, as if she couldn’t figure that out for herself. In Greek I asked her if she knew where my hotel was, but she did not. The woman asked two kids who were also finishing up at the same restaurant, one of them knew the hotel.

I am not exactly sure what happened during the rest of their conversation but I have a feeling that the woman told the guy that he needed to walk me to the hotel. To which the young guy seemed to put up a little argument but then acquiesced. He was smiling, and I would like to believe he enjoyed being put out like that because even though it was late and he had other plans he wound up being a hero when he made sure I got back to my room safely.

He took me through a parking lot, around a bunch of corners and along streets I had never walked down before. He led me through a back way to the hotel. I would never have found it myself.
Frank shrugs when I finish my story, "You see," he says. "Completely lost."
I love the way our lives makes perfect sense to observers.

I am actually getting into this lost feeling now, it has bad connotations but when you give in to the experience of it there is a weightlessness that feels good.

Not a lot of expectation in the world of being lost, but there seems to be miles and miles of space.
Today I caught myself floating in the water at the beach and not worrying about sea monsters trying to get me from underneath. Just listening to the sound of the water in my ears and the easy breaths escaping from my mouth.