Keep Ithaka Always In Your Mind

Your hair is never going to be completely perfect, I think these words hard, almost like I am yelling each one directly on the angry and determined face of the woman blocking the exit on the F train as it pulls into the Delancey Street station. She has been fixing her sharp jet-black bangs by licking her fingers and smoothing them down over her extra long forehead again and again since 42nd Street. Too busy with her hair to move an inch for the oncoming passengers at West 4th Street who tolerated her behavior by exiting and entering single file through the other, unblocked door so as not to disturb her state of selfish oblivion. The surprisingly indulgent passengers in the car gingerly move around her when they exit and are quickly followed by a hoard of people impatiently waiting on the platform and then avoiding her as they enter.

I have been watching from my spot at the center bar that I share with three men and two women, one of whom balances at the steel using only the tips of three fingers and her thumb.
“I know how you feel, honey. The germs, right? This is exactly why I prefer to wear gloves on the subway in New York City.” I want to tell her, but I don’t because it might seem crazy.

The black haired woman at the doorway is annoyed that someone with an extra large backpack and a cup of coffee is infringing upon the extra personal space she has claimed for herself. She is staring the girl down. The girl, however, is too worried about potentially spilling her coffee to notice; she is not quite maintaining her equilibrium sandwiched between a man trying to read the Wall Street Journal and some dude listening to very loud music through his headphones.
These shenanigans do not fly in Greece. I can guarantee that.

People don’t understand the sense of blocking the way of others just so to make it easier for you when you want to exit some five, seven, eleven stations down the line.
I think it might be because the Greeks are not worried about being first so much, nor do they seem overly concerned with being on time. There is a prevailing faith that they will get out at their station, no doubt about that, and when they do, it will be magnificent. The doors will open for them and remain open until they exit and the people continuing on the train will move out of the way to let them pass, because it is the right thing to do seeing how we are all sharing space here anyway. In Greece, the people do not tend to make strangers responsible for their comfort; it’s an individual accountability thing.

I have improved my relationship with personal responsibility and full ownership of my actions since my trip to Greece. I am working on incorporating this evolution into my life here in The States. That, and understanding circumstances and the way things are, and loving everything about life, not just the really delicious parts. I figure, it is not so much about getting everything that you want; it's more about choosing the things that you get.

While in Greece, in every moment my actions were completely my own choice. A fact that was screamingly obvious as I moved through the strange crowds in an unfamiliar country. Every step I took, everything I ate, if I ate, the trouble I got into, the trouble I avoided, where I went, and how I got there… all of it was my choice, only me, solitary, solo, isolated, alone.

I have always been afraid of being alone. As if my ability to take care of myself was somehow insufficient, I worried, that if left alone, I might fail miserably.

In a creepy little hotel room in a precarious section of Athens, I wondered who was now going to watch over me? Who would check my actions, keep me safe and be ready to call foul on some absurd choice I was considering, or divert me from making terrible mistakes? This long running fantasy that I entertain where someone better, smarter and more reliable is seeing to my safety and general well-being exploded when I triple checked the dead bolt on the cardboard thin front door and pulled the dark curtains to cover the sliding glass door on the terrace.
I did not think I would sleep at all that night and took pains to heed the many precautions I have picked up along the way these last 40, or so, years. I put all my money in the pocket of my fleece jacket and wore it on top of my pajamas. My bags were packed and ready to go should I need to flee quickly, or toss my luggage off the side of the terrace in a heroic and dramatic escape. In the morning, I woke up unharmed and with all my belongings intact even if I was sweating through the layers of clothes I had worn to bed.

In Greece, there was no phantom proctor following me around when I got on and off ferryboats, when I made wrong turns and walked directionless down long stretches of road. This trip illuminated my solo flight and my ability to be with myself with confidence.

Call me crazy; or, you get what you need.

The blog essays too, all mine. No one saw them before they were posted, I did not discuss them with anyone, no one told me what to write about, what mattered, what didn’t, or how to say anything. Sometimes (most-times) I white-knuckled it through the very instances my finger hit that key to “post” because the words, my words, felt so vulnerable. Maybe I was being too open? Maybe I was showing too much of my hand? I’m no card player, I don’t know what’s good for me, what makes sense, or what I am doing. Still I managed to develop this experience where I consciously answered only to myself and I kind of liked it, after all.

This is all just a metaphor for my life, right? I wanted to go somewhere and find myself, or something romantic like that.

Lesson #8: Being with the unknown world was not the hardest aspect of my travel. Being with myself all the time, now that was the real challenge.

Back home, I am afraid of my own choices more often. I fret about little things, and all sorts of things I have no control over. I worry that I am being judged and that I am doing the wrong thing, in the wrong place, wearing the wrong shoes, wrong lipstick, wrong choices, and just plain wrong. When I left New York City, I wanted to experience life in another environment, that’s all I set out to do. What happened after that was just what happened. What happened after that was that I started to choose without all that judgment and the annoying voices in my head slowing me down with their doubt.

“Open,” I said on the first day and then every day after that. And I am still saying it now, particularly in times of confusion, when I am hearing only static in my head, and when rivers of uncertainty rise up and want to submerge me.
“Open, just open.” I tell myself and I feel my ribs cracking apart inside my chest to make more room. It’s painful, but it’s a good kind of pain, reminding me that I am intensely alive.

It has taken me four months to get up the courage and the stick-to-it-ive-ness to write a closing essay for this online travel blog. I am no longer in Greece, after all, so it seems that I have to move on to another blog title in order to stay current with my life. Right?

It does not escape me that I have taken my time coming through with this last essay. I have tried to convince myself that my lack of urgency in writing a final blog entry had to do with that I am on to new things. Or maybe I am not inspired to write about my Grecian journey when not in Greece. Perhaps I simply have not been able to get back to that traveler-voice, or maybe I just do not know what to say any more.
Maybe time just needed to pass a bit. Perhaps things just had to settle down so that some great revelation would take place prompting me to write incredibly insightful words about the trip and the lessons learned that would be worth both the write and the read.

Do not expect those things here, My Darlings.

There are a host of different reasons I might be able to come up with to defend my resistance to writing a final blog essay but the one that seems most apt tonight is this:

I have issues with commitment.

It’s true.

Now, before I have to argue with anyone, I want to express that I know I am a committed person. I am committed to things and people and can be counted on to do what I say I am going to do, for the most part. I am pretty much on time (not as on time as my friend, Simone, but closer than others); I am fairly reliable about my likes and dislikes. These things take some degree of commitment. However, these are not the kinds of commitments I am referring to in this essay. Here I am acknowledging a plain resistance to commitment in the form of thinking that if I commit to choosing something, any one thing, that thing must be the perfect choice, the best choice, and the real choice.
“Best,” “Perfect,” “Right.” These are tall orders; it is quite impossible to find all the evidence needed to be sure about anything. So perhaps finding an alternative, something not quite so unreasonably precise would be an improved way to pursue future endeavors.

Take, for example, the writing of this very essay, I want so much to encapsulate everything that I learned on my trip; to acknowledge the pivotal aspects of the journey; and, to pay homage to the Greek people (particularly their spirited kindness, persistence and great trait of never doing a single thing they don’t want to do – I love this about them). I want to salute the outstanding sunsets; the breathtaking beauty of the translucent turquoise water; and, the fact that I was unafraid to swim alone in the sea. I want to be thankful once again for great acts of extreme generosity such as decorating the bed in my small room with fresh, pink bougainvillea petals.
There is much to be thankful for and many people to thank, both there and here. Christina, Peter, and Andreas, Tomas and Vassilis, and Sweet Michele. And that man who reminded me to smile when I was wearing my New York City scowl through the grounds of the Acropolis, like a fool.
I feel the great love and support from new friends and life-long friends. All those truly stunning people who know me as well as, and sometimes better, than I know myself. Those who tolerate and even love me.

I am working out this commitment issue, and with this post working also, at least a little bit, on my troubles with completion. I know that my life only creeps slowly and painfully forward when I become entrenched in finding the signs that I am making appropriate decisions before acting on anything. But, better than that, I know that when I act with any trace or fume of grace, when any of us do, magnificent things happen, and always, always, in the midst of our terrors the remedy for fear is faith.

Thank you for reading.

Love,

Beth


Ithaka
By C.P. Cavafy
Posted here by me with many thanks and very big love to Jenny. –xob.

As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

The Find Yourself Tour

The connection from the long-distance bus in Athens to the ferry in Arkitsa which takes us to the northern most part of Evia could not be easier. The bus leaves us off right at the port where the boat waits patiently. A calm forty minute ferry ride in the late afternoon sun and we have arrived on Evia.
The return passage is not so straight forward.
It is a good thing I had a thermal bath and a massage in Edipsos and am relaxed enough to deal with the drama of trying to get back to Athens. I was naïve. Again. It will not be the last time.

I just missed the eight a.m. ferry so I am waiting an hour for the next one to depart. They move fairly quickly back and forth to the mainland all day so it could be within the hour, I am not certain. I am aware that I lately I have been arriving in destinations just minutes after my needed departures have left; causing me to wait, a lot. It happened at the bus station from Athens the other day when I met the San Francisco couple, and this morning I heard the horn of the leaving ferry just as I was rounding the corner into the dock. I am late these days.

Excited about heading to Athens now for an official few days of sightseeing and then it is New York City bound.
I am ready.

I have gotten comfortable with people staring at me now. They are curious because the tourist season has ended and I am one of the few remaining visitors still lingering around.

Last night, I met a group of terribly loud Americans in the only open taverna in the village. The women were getting drunk on white wine and the men were refraining because, "Someone needs to be able to carry her home."
I have spotted several Greek families on late season holidays and a few others who keep to themselves mostly. There is an unavoidable chill in the air in Evia.

I took a photo of a Greek couple on the street last night during sunset. They have visited America several times. Her husband has a deep, earthy voice and each carefully chosen word weeps slowly from his mouth when he tells me his impression of The States, "Like most countries, the people are good, it is the government that is bad.
"That’s how many of us feel too," I tell them.

His wife offers me advice on the eve of the eve of end of my Greek journey, "Forget all of the bad things; remember only the good things."
I say I will try, but secretly I wonder if this is possible, or even wise. Still, the more dangerously crazy moments do tend to fade to the back of my mind over time. Or maybe things just stop being so scary when you realize you survived them.

I have to specifically retrace the steps in my mind to recall the terror of my arrival in Santorini. However, I think I have an vividly clear memory of each delicious moment on Paros and Milos and other pauses along the way. I do not think it is a bad thing to remember moments of fear and uncertainty.

Waiting in the sun this morning I am reflecting...
I still see the expressions on the faces of the warm people in Parikia.

When I am quiet I can hear the soothing sounds of the church bells, and the smell of incense throughout the town, especially on Sunday mornings.

When I try I can recall the taste of feta baked with tomatoes and onions and want it now like I wanted it when it arrived at the table and the steam carried the odor into my senses.

I know what it sounds like when freshly caught octopus is beaten against a rock... ten times for every kilo it weighs.

… and the soft sweeping sound infiltrating the silence and darkness at dawn.

And I remember how nice the small hot pebbles of Paloeohori Beach felt on the bottoms of my feet; and how it was lovely-treacherous sliding on the big black rocks on the shore in Santorini. I was almost lost into the sea forever then, but no one knew it.

Ferry horn announces departure to the mainland.

There is no bus in sight when we arrive so I ask the man at the ferry ticket counter when the bus to Athens is due and he looks at me like I have lost my mind.
"You cannot get a bus to Athens at the port."
"But, the bus left me right here just two days ago. Does it do a pick up here on the way back?"
"No, you have to go to the station, one kilometer up the hill. You cannot miss it. There is a bus to Athens every hour." He tells me.
And now I am trudging up the hill.

Along a wide road with hardly any cars at all, I am walking as close to the shoulder as possible because I know that in Greece the cars, when they do come, have the right of way, always. I ask the builders constructing a house across the road if I am going in the right direction and they wave at me and tell me to press on ahead.
A road worker is laughing at me. I imagine he thought it was his imagination at first; the image of a lone woman lugging a suitcase along the road transformed from an unlikely mirage in his mind to a comic reality. He is amused and tells me that I am indeed going in the right direction. I stop a pick up truck and two men ask me if I am headed to Athens or Lamia because there are two different bus stations for the different routes. Clues, I think, come when you need them.
Things are getting complicated but I remind myself that in Greece confusing things make sense eventually, when I am patient. It is a stuggle against impatience now, that's all, it is a test. I am counting the hours left in daylight and creating plans B and C in my head for return to Athens. I am not a mathematician but this seems to be well longer than a kilometer. I am sweating through my sweatshirt, and this area is mostly deserted, no homes, no stores, no sheep. Still, the few people I do see all tell me I am heading in the right direction so I keep moving forward.

I would not call it a bus station exactly…

More like a wooden shelter at the crest of the highway off ramp. The only marking is written in black magic marker on the charred seat, "Demitri loves Vanessa." A sign of teenage mayhem.
There is a Mercedes Benz parked in front and Nikolai has his foot propped up on the road guard where he is tying his shoe. He does not hear me coming and is surprised to see me when I beg him to confirm that this is the bus station to Athens.
Nikolai assures me that I am in the right place. He too is waiting for the bus, he will give a mysterious envelope to the driver but not get on board. It is all very strange; but, I am relieved.
I am mindful that it has become a challenge for me to find my way in Greece these last few days. Lately it seems my life is a series of instances of being lost and found, and lost and found again... lost, at the moment. The time nearing the end of this journey has its heaviness.

Nikolai shows me photographs of his horses and his big house on Mykonos. I tell him I had a thermal bath and a massage on Evia. It doesn’t seem like a fair exchange.
He invites me to visit him on Mykonos where I can swim in the sea and ride horses on his vast land and he will teach me Greek. Then, quite suddenly, Nikolai gets into his car and drives away shouting to me out of the window that I should not worry, he will check on me in a little while.
I am very confused today in Greece.
There are precious few cars exiting on this offramp and now with Nikolai gone I am feeling quite isolated and maybe even a little frightened. I am wondering how all this is all going to turn out. I choose to be hopeful.

As promised, Nikolai returns several moments later. He is carrying three long stemmed roses, the cut ends wrapped in a wet paper towel. He presents them to me ceremoniously and tells me that when he saw me his heart began to beat faster. I am grateful for the effort but uncomfortable with my part in it. I pull my hand away when he tries to kiss the top of it. In and out of his car again, he gives me a feather that was dropped at his feet by a bird flying on Mykonos.

Nikolai is worried that the roses will die during the hot bus ride to Athens so he fetches a water bottle out of the overfilling trashcan next to the bus stop, wipes it down with his handkerchief and fixes the rose stems into the makeshift vase which he proudly offers to me. I do not tell him about my strict rule of not handling garbage unless fully outfitted in a hazmat suit.

Now I am wearing my heavy daypack on my back, my suitcase at my heels, carrying a used water bottle with three long-stemmed roses in my left hand and a single feather in my right. Desperate to ask Nikolai to take a photo but I refrain.
When the bus finally comes, Nikolai kisses my hand and tells me to call him as soon as I arrive in New York City so that he knows I am okay. The whole reality-dream is a little much for me today.
I eat dried figs and chocolate cookies with my sunglasses on. I am bus bound for Athens now…

Seven Weeks

It seems there was a small earthquake in Greece at about five a.m. this morning on the island of Evia. I am calling it an earthquake because that is what it felt like to me when, in terror I ripped the skin off the palms of my hands with my fingernails. Less dramatically (if you are Greek and not me) it turned out to be two tremors down in the earth somewhere. They were about ten minutes apart. You probably did not hear about it. It happens sometimes.

My bed shook as if a giant monster was pinned underneath trying to get out, and then there was the rumbling like a train speeding through the room. I tried to convince myself it was a dream which was working out fine because of my incredible desire for it to be truly all in my mind. But, when the second tremor happened I could no longer deny the reality that something loud and aggressive was going on and it was some kind of real.

I did not think earthquake at first, truthfully, I am still not altogether certain still. It made more sense to me that it was ghosts at the time. I am less afraid of ghosts because I think I can probably reason with them. Then I heard the people in the next room talking with what sounded like concern in their voices and I figured it was either a hotel full of ghosts or something more reasonable, like an earthquake.

I went out on the balcony to see if anyone else was concerned, or had part of the island of Evia fallen into the sea. I was looking for any indication that something unusual was happening and that other people were aware, and of course, that I was not alone. Sadly, or fortunately, everything was much the same as the last time I had looked outside about four hours earlier. It was still dark and no one was around.

It is nine in the morning now and the people do not seem to have minded the disturbance at all. It was the concierge who explained the regular happenings of small earthquakes in this area. She only offered that information after I inquired about strange sounds and tremors in the middle of the night; which she guessed must have frightened me, and then she laughed. None of the residents in this village were the least bit bothered when it happened, but, at five in the morning there was one American woman in room 202 who was dealing with a lot of faith to remedy her fear.
Oh, my Darlings, can you imagine me being woken by an earthquake?!

But, let me go back a few days in the history of me.

The family of English speaking tourists also staying at this hotel in Aegina had the same idea to come up to the roof to watch the sun set over Moni Island. They did not bring cheese and bread and tsipouro… but I did. The mother has a magazine and the boy is reluctant; the father is distracted by the dogs on the street and the girl is curled up in a ball in the corner because she does not like the cold.

The teenager is wrong when she says, "Okay, it’s over," just as the roundest tip of the sun dips below the mountain that takes up all of Moni Island across the bay from Perdika, Aegina. The whole quartet is incorrect as they tremble down the spiral staircase, holding tight to the railing and congratulating one another for watching the sun set tonight.

They left the roof too soon; the sun is really in the midst of setting, there is so much more to go. The sky is turning pale blue with various pink hues layered one on top of the other. The clouds are wearing golden halos and are making me very happy.

It may be trite, but watching dusk roll in has become a lovely pastime. I have neglected precious few sunsets these last seven weeks.

It was too windy take the five minute boat ride from Perdika to Moni Island today. I wanted very much to go because peacocks roam wild on the island and Demetra told me they will eat off of the palm of my hand. Sadly, I do not get what I want in the Saronic Gulf Islands; here, I only get what I need.

It is very windy here in Aegina, but few clouds. I have enjoyed spending the day on the rooftop wearing only the sun on my skin and listening to the roosters who crow at all times day and night. I intend to bring topless sunbathing with me back to the states, (I know I am not the first to try, but it is oh, so liberating), and sour cherry juice, and dining slowly through meals, and speaking loudly when emotional – which does not sound like yelling any more.

Demetra is the delightful owner of the Hotel Rosanthos, it is an oasis in the small little village of Perdika. Rosanthos means Rosebud in Greek. Demetra tells me this is her paradise and you can see it immediately from the particular care she has taken in the choices of colors on the walls and bedspreads, the lovely wall hangings and delicate decorations in the hallways, rooms and common areas. You can also feel her joy in the warm welcome she offers.

I have met some people who have found their paradise, I admire this very much. I wonder how one knows for sure when they have found it. Or if, like so many other declared certainties in life we wind up choosing with such conviction that the very act of brave confidence assures us we doing the right thing or are in the right place at any given time.
Over a glass of tsipouro Demetra tells me she thinks it was a good idea for me to run away from home. I tell her it is good to hear that today.

I am awake at six in the morning to catch the bus back to Aegina Town. The bus is late and I am cutting it pretty close to make the ten a.m. ferry which will take me to Pireaus. From the ferry port I will catch the metro into Athens and a city bus to the KTEL long-distance bus depot (one of three in the city, I hope to head to the correct station) and then it will be a three hour ride to Evia.

There is no usual bus stop sign so I am winging it waiting here near what looks to be a bus shelter. I am early, the bus is late, and it is just me and one other woman also waiting. Taxi cabs stop, roll down their windows and ask her something; she listens and then waves them away. The taxi drivers do not bother with me.

Last night I had three dreams that I remembered clearly when I woke up this morning. In the first I was kissing an unlikely and very handsome tall man and his lips were as soft as pillows. I took it as a sign that I should be more courageous and bold with my love.
In the second dream an unknown person smashed my computer, the sides and the corners were all bashed in and I was unable to use it at all. I took this dream to be a sign that I should be extra careful in the near future.
Elizabeth visited me in the third dream. She has visited me several times on this journey and it always feels like I am traveling with a good friend. My guardian angel, as she promised. Perhaps she is keeping me safe from dangers of which I am completely unaware. Or maybe she is just helping to pry open my heart when I am busy trying to lock it up.

I manage to make it to the KTEL bus terminal in Athens. I think my ability to remember how to do simple things like purchase tickets for buses, and transfer from trains to buses to ferries makes up for my abominable lack of direction.

I just missed the early bus to Evia, so I have a two hour wait for the next one. Evia is an island off the east coast of Greece. The southern part starts as south as Athens and the northern tip is almost as far up as Volos. The island is the second largest in Greece, Crete is first. Evia is famous for thermal baths which have healing powers. I am going to Edipsos, a small village that offers therapeutic spa treatments in both expensive spas and reasonable state run facilities. I am going to Evia because it is north and I quite like the people, terrain and food in the north of Greece. A massage and a healing thermal bath sound perfect.

I can tell by her kind smile when I lug my bags past her and sit in a row nearby that Sheila is friendly so I say, "Hello" and introduce myself. She and her husband are from San Francisco and headed to the island of Skyros, they too are waiting for a bus. Like me, they do not mind the adventure of finding places to stay when they arrive in new towns. They seem to like the mystery of it all, and the adventure. I understand.

Sheila reassures me that I will find accommodations up in Edipsos and reminds me that I always have in the past. I am aware of getting what you need when you need it. I tell them about Makrinitsa, above Volos, and encourage them to go if they ared in the area. And it occurs to me that part of the reason I am worried about anything could be that some of the best choices I have made have been on recommendations and vibrant stories told from fellow travelers. I am going to Evia because I read about it in a book, is that a good enough reason?
Because we are talking the hour passes very quickly and as they head out for their bus Sheila tells me, "Greece is just like its many mountains, lots of ups and downs."

The man sitting next to me on the bus and wearing the leather jacket has not loosened his grip on the handle of the seat in front of him since we left Athens and that was over an hour ago. He will not turn in my direction but I sometimes feel him staring at me through sideways eyes. He has an unfortunate mustache that makes him look creepy, but he is probably okay, only slightly smelly, but maybe I am too.

Note-to-self, NEVER lose or throw away transportation tickets until you are safely at your destination.

In the middle of the highway the bus pulls onto the shoulder and stops for no apparent reason. An inspector gets on and proceeds to check the tickets of every single passenger. Sudden panic that I have done something wrong and might be in trouble. What if I got on the wrong bus accidentally? Or maybe they have finally caught up with me when I took that bus ride in Athens a few weeks ago without purchasing and validating a ticket… it was a mistake, I swear! I didn’t know I had to buy it before I got on the bus. He will never believe me, I fear. After scrutinizing my ticket thoroughly the inspector smiles and thanks me in Greek.

The same is not true for the French speaking woman in the back who has been talking loudly on her phone since the trip began. She has been pissing everyone off and now has to pay a fine for having no ticket. No one on the bus is either surprised or compassionate. The woman is indignant.

To take a thermal bath in Evia you have to have a doctor’s note -- because you have to be healthy enough to take a healing bath??

I figure out how to pay people to get a ticket which is presented to a doctor who asks if I am on medication and then initials her agreement that I am healthy enough to take a sacred thermal bath. I pay a few euros and a woman directs me into an deep old tub with jets that channel hard water like a torrent on my shoulders, back and legs. I am cleansing the fear and trepidation right off of my body.
And tomorrow at five in the morning I will be woken suddenly by an earthquake.

The Spetses Run Away

I think I have developed a new superpower.

Not really a superpower in the strictest sense of the word, I suppose. I cannot use it to save anyone from a burning building, it will not help heal the wounded or see through matter to locate treasure. More accurate than superpower would be to call it a remarkable ability to go in the wrong direction each time I disembark from a ferry on a new island. That must be worth something, no?
It is really quite extraordinary how I always choose to head in the opposite direction of satisfactory accommodations.

The familiar sounds of rolling wheels staggering along newly discovered streets are unmistakably me for the first several moments after arrival in any new destination. Sometimes the roads are paved smooth, other times they are made of tiny pebbles or large cobblestones causing me to feel ever so much more self conscious rambling around the newest maze. I am louder when I am lost and uncertain in these new towns.

And so begins the hunt for a clean, perhaps even inspiring, room for my temporary stay in each new village or town.

With my head up – always, or so I hope… so I think… so I try.

After a kilometer, more or less, without success café patrons see me retracing my steps as I do the Charlie Brown return walk to the port with my head tilted downward in shame and disappointment.
And then I begin again, this time to the…. Left?

This reliably consistent method now makes me laugh. And try as I do (and I do try) to sense the new environment with an open heart, get a feel for the area, a clear picture of the surroundings and make the smart choice. Oh, for God’s sake, Beth, won’t you just read that Lonely Planet book a little more carefully, it is filled with instructions! And all along, I am making good choices, decent ones at least, but still the hunt for accommodations bedlam always starts out somewhere between something of a silly mishap or, in the worst of times, a complete disaster. Time and again I manage to take a left when I ought to have made a right. Or I walk right when the best path would have been straight ahead.

This is my newest personal challenge.

Those who dare travel with me in the future would be wise to remember that I am unreliable with the first steps out of the boat and onto the port. It is actually creepy how confidently I walk in the wrong direction.
For me, it is the long haul, I suppose.

It should be noted, this phenomena does not happen when arriving by bus.

Winter is starting to take over Greece now. The tourist season is waning all over and many businesses have closed down for the season.. The Cyclades are rainy and cold, as is the lush green Pelion, and parts up north. I had thought of a stop in Ikaria, an island near Turkey, but the weather there now is threatening and gloomy, and so, longing for the sun, I have headed further south.

I have learned that I want to be near the sea as much as possible and to stay mostly out of the cities.

One night in Athens with beautiful Michele was fantastic. We first met in our beloved Paros and arranged to come together again in Athens, which worked out perfectly. Funny to meet people in distant places and feel you feel you have known them for lifetimes. Michele and I became fast friends; we did not have a lot of time for the slow get-to-know-you, acquaintance dance. Lovely Michele is among the greatest surprises on this journey.

Athens is fun when you share it with someone. We stayed in Plaka and dined alfresco with the picture postcard Acropolis staring down at us. We drank too much Tsipouro, Ouzo and red wine and now I am nursing a hangover on the ferry to the still warm and sunny Saronic Gulf Islands off the eastern coast of the Peloponnese.
I am on the speed ferry to the island of Spetses, farthest of them all but still only two hours away from Athens. The speed ferry is a different boating experience than my usual trip. It is not nearly as friendly nor as comfortable as traveling on the slow boats. We are racing away in the enclosed pod in pre-assigned seats and I hope I will understand the Greek announcements so that I get off on the correct island. I am ready for relaxation, a few good walks, and the sun soaking into my body again.

We make a short stop in Poros on the way to Spetses. I am not trusting my instincts this time when a quiet little voice in my head whispers, “Perhaps you should leave the boat now?”

Instead, I ignore the mumbling in my mind. Maybe it is the name of the island reminding me of my Paros paradise. I am fooling myself and return to reading my book, and I choose not to watch as we pull out of the harbor and onward to Spetses.
This will turn out to be a mistake.
In Hydra harbor it is impossible not to gaze out of the scratched plexiglass window. In the appealing little village people laugh and sip coffee at cafés so close to the water’s edge they might fall in, or at least get splashed by forceful waves reaching over the cement wall. The town rises high over the low port and up into the hills.
Yet again, I am ignoring my sense of this town and the warm feeling I have just looking out of the window. I am determined for Spetses.

There are hardly any other tourists on this ferry now. Just myself and the blond woman in a seat up front who keeps staring back at me, why? And there are a dozen or so locals returning home again. And the surly boat staff who tossed my bag around like it was a sack of potatoes when I got on back in Athens. I am suspicious of the vibe here and try to temper my irrational judgment.
Create your reality, I tell myself. Expect good things. Here too you can learn something.

I am disregarding all signs, humming and sticking my fingers in my ears to make it harder to pay attention. I should have gotten off the boat an island or two ago. I am going against my instincts, looking down, closed heart…. all of it. Not kicking and screaming, rather it is with resigned acceptance that I will soon relinquish my power and give it over to the man who decides for me when he takes the handle of my suitcase and tells me to come see his hotel.

I am disregarding the dark energy that wrapped around me the moment I lugged my bag off the boat without any assistance at all from the three strapping ferrymen smoking their cigarettes in the exit.

Or, perhaps I am making it all up, you create your reality, remember. Maybe I am bringing the darkness with me.

Never mind being ignored by the strong seamen who will not help any of us heft our luggage off of the boat. Not everyone needs to be cooperative. I am not taking it personally; nor do they lend a hand the elderly woman with bungee-corded boxes attached to her overfilled rolling suitcase which is splitting at the seams. See, I we are all invisible here on Spetses.

I lift the bottom of her awkward contraption over the lip of the ferry exit door and she accepts the assistance as if it were her birthright. I can hear the two people behind me sucking their teeth and feel them pushing ever so gently on the back of my thighs with their suitcases to move me along faster. The older woman slaps my hand away when we clear out onto the flat cement port and rolls her heavy suitcase over my feet as she waddles away.

I do not like it here.

There are no cars on Spetses, only thousands of motorbikes and some horse drawn carriages. Now a professional, I set out on foot away from the port determined to find a nice room with a balcony and a place to write and read in the mornings. I am sensing go left, it will be only another mistake in a day filled with them. It is early afternoon.
After a few minutes it occurs to me that I am, once again, headed in the wrong direction so I turn around and there is Pavlos, the aggressive hotel owner who had been following me, and now insisting I go to his small hotel up the hill from the ferry dock.

Pavlos is oozing counterfeit charm all over me. He asks where I am from and continues to pressure me to tell him how long I will be staying on Spetses even though I repeat four times that I do not know.
“I have not decided,” I tell him, “It depends if I like it here.”

Later he will accuse me of misleading him when I leave his hotel and the island abruptly. He will change the rate of the room from what we agreed in the beginning. And Spetses will turn out to be an unfortunate stopover on an insignificant little island.

Why choose now to depart from what I have learned is always the better plan, Beth? Why now become frightened and close down? This is exactly the time to trust myself and I am failing completely. I should have gotten off the boat back in Poros.

Consider whispers in the future, Koritsaki.

It can get better, I think, and I remind myself to open my heart, even in this place. Dodging motorbikes trudging up the hill to the hotel Pavlos tells me about the weather and the several beaches on the island. He suggests I rent a bicycle to tour around but he cannot give me the name of a good restaurant.

“And how long will you stay on Spetses, two days or three?” He asks for a fifth time.

There are wonderful lime trees growing out of the ground in the enclosed courtyard which could turn out to be a decent exchange instead of a balcony I had hoped for. Pavlos makes me a cup of coffee and unfolds a tiny map to tell me about the roads and beaches. Things are changing. The rooms are clean, if also boring and I will stay here for the night, and see about tomorrow. I am hungry and sunset is coming fast and soon.

I drop my bags and take off to explore a little of the area and find out a few things. Evading motor bikes on this car-free island is the main form of exercise and it could be effective, but I seem to be the only one who is getting in the way. The drivers are swearing at me in Greek even though I inch along carefully plastered up against the sides of the dull buildings. I am looking for something interesting, something inspiring, and something to eat.

This is the worst meal I have ever had and I cannot finish the tiny fried red-bull fish and cold beet greens, I do the best I can and wash it down with the swill he called red wine. The first bad meal I have had in Greece. I can no longer fight it, I felt safer and happier in overcrowded Athens and Thessaloniki. At eight o’clock I am taking my life in my hands attempting to get back to my room put on a face mask, give myself a pedicure and eat a dinner of chocolate covered biscuits I hid in my suitcase for just this kind of an emergency.

The Best Remedy For Fear Is Faith

Tomas and I are driving to South Pelion through the mountains and then down to the shore through towns where insistent waves crash over the short stone wall that separates the sea from the road. Water splashes the windshield when we drive through the large puddles that cover the pavement. Tomas laughs as often as possible.
We cruise around turns, around hills and mountains. There are no straight-aways here in The Pelion.
There are not straight-aways.
There are sometimes sheep.

I tell Tomas I am impressed with these well-paved, pothole-less, smooth Greek roads. He laughs at me; it is not the first time he has laughed at me and it will not be the last.

Tomas dives Greek fast, explaining that it is not really so fast. Only thirty kilometers around turns. I don’t mind the speed. I am reclining in the passenger seat enjoying the sea view to my right, mountains to my left. Shoes off; it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a car.

I ain’t scared a’nothin’!

Clicking photographs like a typical tourist.
“El la, come on! Stop with the camera!” Tomas tells me. It sounds like yelling but it is just talking loudly.
The scenery changes so much every several feet… meters… I am going metric.

Every time I quiet my mind and open my heart something unusual and unmistakable happens. I tell myself to remember this, do not forget what happens when you have faith. Having faith that you are exactly where you ought to be always. Persist with faith when you are in trouble, confused, scared, and in your own way. Persist and see what happens next.
Remember this, Beth.

We are headed down to Palio Trikeri, a tiny island on the southern tip of Pelion Peninsula. My journey continues to get even more remote.
I am very happy to have met Tomas. We laugh throughout the day, he is very smart and charming. I would not have gotten all the way down here without his generosity and readiness to adventure.

Tomas stops a car with two men headed north. They give instructions for travel down to the little port at the very end of the peninsula. They give a phone number to call when we arrive at the port to arrange for a small boat to pick us up and take us to Palio Trikeri. That is how it works, you call when you arrive on tip of the mainland and someone comes to bring you across.

This is not the first time I am impressed by the carefully detailed instructions given by people in the know to people who are in the want-to-know. There is much willingness to take the time sharing information here in Greece. People offer seemingly small particulars that make the journey a little more comfortable, a little more exciting, often more special. You learn a lot when you let people in on your plan.

This conversation between Tomas and the men is all in Greek in the middle of the road, car window to car window. There is no need to pull over out here, no one is passing, no one else is here. I am pleased that I understand some of the conversation. I miss much of the vocabulary but the openness is unmistakable.
Down at the port, the boat arrives soon after we call. My bag is again ridiculously large for such a small island. It is funny now, and not such a hardship, I drag this baggage around without much fuss these days. I have unloaded a few unnecessary items making the weight lighter and bought a jacket and pair of boats to handle the rain and chill in the north. Still, I feel fairly compact and I like it. Maybe now I am finally turning into a minimalist.
It is a five minute boat ride from the mainland to Palio Trikeri. We recline on the top of the boat against the glass windshield in the late afternoon sun. I am so very happy to be here, I try to tell Tomas but cannot explain how big a deal every moment is for me. How the simple things like a little boat ride to a remote island sets me into a state of gracious joy that is so big it hurts in my heart from the stretching.
One day Tomas will read my blog and understand.
The port at Palio Trikeri is a tiny mecca of a few tavernas, rooms-to-let, and a mini-market. No cars here, only footpaths. We head along the only road leading up a hill and away from the port and run into two women resting on a bench along the hill. Lovely, warm visitors ask us if we are headed to the monastery where there are rooms to sleep overnight.
Sleeping in a monastery, this is unexpected.

The accommodations are modest, clean and comfortable. The community bathroom and cold-water-only showers are easy discomforts to overlook. Behind the walled fortress a large enclosed garden surrounds the magnificent church. In the mid-1940’s this monastery was used as a prison holding communist Greek women. We are told the surviving prisoners reunion here yearly.

There is a grand energy in this place, nothing like anything I have felt before. Tremendous peaceful solitude and a knowing calm. It is so lovely to share time here. I feel as if there is nothing between me and the universe. This is far way from chaos of Volos and the trepidation of arriving in Pelion as it was closing down for the season. I have a memory the warm concierge in Volos begging me not to go to Pelion and now it all makes sense. Faith again.

A monastery.

I tell Tomas I am going to cry. He tells me there is no reason for that. I tell him this is what I asked for, this is what I wanted exactly. I am too moved for dry eyes.
A caretaker lives on the island, another person maintains the well attended grounds. A priest wanders from time to time; we do not see him often.
Fifty or so cats have the run of the place, they are sweet enough but will not allow you to come near them. Fig trees, giant evergreens, plants of all sorts make it a botanical spiritual refuge.
A supreme feeling of serenity breathes within the enclosed walls of this monastery.

We are hungry now so we stroll back down to the taverna at the port where the owners greet us as friends and we dine like royalty on fried zucchini cakes, delicious cabbage salad with carrots and onions in olive oil, beets, bread and fried cheese. Octopus in red sauce; beaten forty times on a rock when it was caught to soften the meat.
We devour whole boiled shrimp that we rip apart with our hands. It takes me awhile to get into pulling the head off the body to lick the juice out of the skull but I do it eventually. And then I tear off the legs to suck the meat out of the claws. I am different now.
“Can I eat this red piece?” I ask pulling a strange dark pink shape out of the body of my shrimp.
“If it is soft, eat it.” Tomas instructs.
I will remember this advice in the future.
We drink Tzipouri – my favorite! Made from grapes with anise added sometimes, poured in a shot glass it looks like water, add an ice cube and the drink turns into a milky white mist.

We wander back to the monastery sated and sleepy.

A true sanctuary in a cloud of unbelievable tranquility and I am all presence listening to the wind whipping through the trees. Watching the night sky, constellations and the stars thatare so close to me here I think I can reach out and touch them. Too many shooting stars to keep count, I have had to stop trying to keep track, and who needs to keep score anyway.
In my mind is this wonderful truth, the remedy for fear is certainly faith.