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.

Changing Course in Paros

The English woman, who also enjoys crossword puzzles, calls this part of the trip, "The usual mayhem."
The ferry boat docks and the people race off/race on with their bags and children, motorcycles, cars and trucks all using the same entrance to board and deboard the ship.
"It’s a wonder there aren’t more casualties," she giggles up the ramp next to me.
We are entering the giant hole where we all stack our suitcases on a completely insecure stretch of floor. You couldn’t get away with this in America.
"I prefer order," I tell her; I know she will understand, she is English after all.
"Yes, I do too. I suppose you just have to give it all up here," she advices.
She is right, of course.

This ferry is an hour late taking off from Naxos to Syros. I have been waiting again. Waiting in a grander way than for a delayed ferry; I have been waiting for something bigger. This is dangerous. Waiting and Doing do not co-exist peacefully in my world. I must choose one or the other at any time, every time.

There is much waiting when one travels from island to island in Greece. Waiting for ferries (sometimes for days), waiting for busses (sometimes for hours), waiting to eat and waiting for shops to open up again after the afternoon siesta. I am pretty good with waiting. Several years of martial arts training taught me patience and endurance, I learned about discipline in other places; the combination is a winning formula for successful waiting.


Prior to leaving on this journey I had been working on an end to waiting and the trip itself was a breakaway. Now it feels like a bit of a set back to admit to this old stuff creeping in as I wait for Syros and pass the time looking out at the few tiny islands in the seemingly endless sea.

How strange that during a conscious move out of a waiting place I would next find myself in a world where there is so much waiting around.

What is it they say about resistance again?

Ferry travel in Greece varies dramatically from trip to trip. Indoor, outdoor, sleeping sections, some have cabins. Some ferries have lots of seating, others have little as on this one now from Naxos to Syros. I am sitting on the floor on the shaded side of the boat eating apricots and roasted almonds. I am going to Syros on a hunch; the Australians I met on Milos recommended it and I liked them very much.

The ferry from Naxos to Syros makes one stop along the way at Paros. As the boat pulls into the port I don’t know what exactly has gotten into me but I am heading down to the exit. Dragging my bag along the ramp. I am well behind the others, fighting against the traffic of oncoming passengers who have already started boarding.

It could have been the friendly dock and the sailboats playing in the water as we pulled in.
Or maybe I was remembering the way those three handsome English gents told me lovely stories of their stay in Paros. Whatever the reason, in a great leap of faith and departure from my plan I am out in the streets of Paros and I don’t know why.

I think of my darling M reminding me that,
"Why is unimportant."

I am moving away from the port, serpentining through the streets, down the narrow tunneled roads of Parikia.

I have taken to finding my own room at night, no longer relying on the portside hawkers who sleazily attack at first sight.

"Can I help you." He is tall and his eyes are unfriendly. Even though I have said no he calls after me. "But, I want to help you." Drawing out the word, want, so that it seems to linger forever even after I turn the corner and am well beyond his view. I think he is following me but he is not.

Parikia is not overrun with domatia and rooms-to-let like Milos and Naxos. Long winding streets run back into themselves. I know I have seen the tiny square with the fountain at one end before, and I have passed the internet café next to the dress shop at least three times going around and around.

I am following small signs for "Angie’s Studios" because it gives me some direction. It is five in the evening and the streets are empty, like everywhere in Greece at this hour, this town is resting and silent. The rumble of my suitcase along the pavement sounds like thunder.

He hardly speaks any English at all but he has a very kind way about him when he tells me the rooms are all booked. He is thinking of other options for me, he seems to be contemplating a long time and then surprisingly he tells me to come back at seven and he will give me a room. He wants me to leave my bag and go look at the beach.

It’s not that I don’t have choices, I suppose I do, but I am happy with the vibe here and make myself scarce for a couple of hours.

When I return, Soula and her husband are waiting for me. They open the door to the small room on the side of the house and tell me that this is their daughter’s room she is back in Thessoloniki. The room is not usually for rent, Soula tells me, but her husband said I had a nice face and looked very tired so he wanted to help.

Angie’s is an oasis. Blooming bougainvillea trees hang over the walled garden, this is the first real grass I have seen in weeks.

Gianni was right, I am tired and will sleep well tonight in this room which smells of sweet girly perfume surrounded by a curtain of blue and purple charms hanging around the bed.

Gianni has a nice face too.

I was headed to Syros on a hunch and made this stop in Paros on a hunch as well, and I am happy I did.

If it is true, that which you resist persists; what then can be said about letting go?

Surviving Santorini

It might not be so bad to be a stray dog or cat somewhere in Greece. People pretty much tolerate them lounging around. I am sure that some of the restaurant owners in Adamas feed the cats who seem to have the run of the town most of the time; they beg at the feet of diners or chase each other under the tables. The diners never seem to complain and the restaurateurs don’t seem to discipline. Early in the morning I saw the same cats sitting on tabletops in some of the open air tavernas. This became information I tried very hard to forget again at dinnertime.
And the dogs certainly sleep peacefully on the streets, they don’t seem to mind the people at all. In Santorini today I saw a sordid and brief lovemaking session between a small tannish bitch and a somewhat bigger mutt in front of the doors of a bank.

Being a stray cat or dog certainly beats being a donkey hard at work in Fira. Dozens of them are forced to climb up and down the caldera path packing people and baggage from the port at the bottom to the town at the top. From my bedroom window I hear the bells begin early in the morning followed soon after by the sight of eight mules following each other on the long slog down the steep hill and then back up again. One mule master sits atop a swayed back in the middle of the pack with his long switch bidding them on.














On Milos, the calm waters and blond beach of peaceful Paleochori banished all travel stress from my consciousness and I reclined topless with a dozen or so other bathers and dipped myself into the translucent waters that revive and cleanse.
In comparison, the black stone of Kamari Beach on Santorini is cluttered with tourists chattering away. Non-Greeks troll the beaches with their laminated cards advertising Henna tattoos and massages. Is it really possible to squeeze out a living selling massages for 15 Euro on the beaches of Santorini?

The sound of the rough surf charging to the shore sends me dreaming away for a few hours; but, soul searching evades me on Santorini.

Arrival in Santorini was a confusing adventure. For reasons I will never understand, the only ferries from Milos to Santorini arrive at three thirty in the morning. They drop tired and inexperienced travelers at the port way at the bottom of the caldera with few clues on how to get to the town of Fira all the way on the top.
Along with hundreds of other travelers I choke on diesel exhaust fumes in the giant hull waiting for the ship to dock quickly and unload us before it carries on to Crete. Cars, trucks and busses all idle in the cavern with throngs of people waiting for the giant steel door to lower loudly and release us into mysterious territory.

My Australian friends from back on Milos are journeying on to Crete. They bid me farewell at the ferry’s lowest passenger deck and remind me to be careful and watch out for myself. I think I might be able to find my way into Fira and stay awake until reasonable morning when I will go find Maria and her rooms-to-let. In my anxiety about the move from one island to the next I decided to book ahead this time.

The ferry liberates us out into black night and hundreds of people pile out looking like the UFO docking scene in the film, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." Confused, beat and with cars clipping my heels I decide to abandon my plan of finding refuge in an all night café somewhere in the center of who knows where. Better idea to listen for English speaking tourists trying to book late night rooms with local domatia owners and go with them into the uncertain terrain. Find a safe place to rest for the night, if only for a couple of hours.

Seven of us pile into his dilapidated van that chugs its way up the switch back road from the port to the top and Fira. I was crazy to think I could have done this alone in the middle of the night. Hundreds of cars, busses and foot soldiers are all filing up to the same place. Sandwiched between a wide eyed woman and the grimy window, I can still make out the majesty of Santorini through the uncertainty and the dust on the glass. Bright lights sparkle along the top of the caldera and the moon is almost close enough to touch.
We arrive at the domatia with too many people and two few rooms. A phone call and an argument in Greek ensue and now I am going to some other place with a charming backpacking couple who has not slept in two days.

It is four a.m. and all is not well. The room has no windows except for the top of the door which I have locked and locked again and locked a third time. I keep reminding myself about the people next door who would hear me if I needed them but the whole thing seems a little suspicious compounded by the unsettling odor in the bathroom. The funk of the room has won over and I am staying awake until daybreak, hiding out in my sleep sack wearing the same clothes I’ve been in all day.
At first dawn I am set to run away. The domatia owner tells me he will give me a better room if I stay another night. I decline. He offers me a coffee and a ride into Fira. I accept.

I am dragging my bag up a long path of steps. It is eight in the morning in between the Greek Orthodox Cathedral and The Hotel Atlantis and I am quite certain Theodoros is only being polite when he asks me IF I know where I am going, for clearly I do not. But, I do find Maria’s phone number in my book and Theodoros calls her for additional directions. He says Maria is waiting for me further down the road and gives me his card.
"Come later and we will have coffee," he says,
"If it is the afternoon we will have wine."


The Arhontiko Apartments are an oasis tucked into the side of the caldera overlooking the Sea of Crete, Nea Kameni and Palia Kameni Islands. I have scrubbed the ferry ride and distress off of my body and I climb the ladder to the loft bedroom that has the first double bed I have seen since leaving New York.

I will sleep well tonight, I think, after the sunset and a glass of wine. It is eight in the morning. Outside the mules are passing by my window on their first trek of the day up the caldera path.

Looking Up or Change The Scenery

At six a.m in Athens the sky is as black as the middle of night. Omania Square Metro Station is only a few blocks away from the hotel and is the easiest and cheapest way to travel to Pireaus Port for my ferry. The train from Omania Square to Pireaus takes a half an hour and costs .80 cents. The taxi would have been at least 15 Euro. The metro is also a great way to see pre-dawn Athens ;)

In Omania Square before daybreak there are dozens of men smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in large congregations. I can’t tell why they are here and might wish to hang around watching to see what will happen but I do not. I am so obvious with my big rolling suitcase and the look of travel on my face but no one seems to notice or care as I descend into the metro station along with other travelers carrying large packs on their backs and the early morning Athenians headed to work. It is Wednesday.

The sky is still dark when I arrive in Pireaus the seedy port town where no one seems eager to help but the way to the port side ferry terminal is well marked up and down escalators over a busy roadway. I am grateful the concierge told me to head for Ventouris Sea Lines and I keep repeating the name in my head hoping to will the sign to appear like a friendly beacon against the still black sky.
Gate 9 is as far away from Pireaus Metro Station as you can get without being back in Athens, but because I am me, I am so early it doesn’t matter at all as I stroll along the curving path past all the fast ferries that will be heading everywhere from Croatia to Crete, Italy and the Ionian Islands.

The trick with the bag is lugging the thing up the four flights of stairs to the upper deck of the ferry while also carrying a coffee but I do it because though foolish to have bought it in the first place I am also too proud to drop either the bag or the coffee. The polite lady voice over the loudspeakers tells us first in Greek then in English that the ship is ready to leave port. The sun has just risen and now I get it. I am in Greece on the way to Milos, an island my finger picked when my eyes were closed. It is all just like I said I wanted and I feel the resistance taking leave of my body and vanishing along with the Port of Pireaus now slipping into the distance.
My body feels light, free and unrestrained.

Everyone loves to watch a boat push out to sea. Journeyers have lined the back of the boat deck with plastic chairs. They are drinking coffee and taking photos of each other with the mainland backdrop moving farther and farther away. The vibrations of the massive boat course through our bodies and I have a feeling about this and how the sharing of a physical sensation joins people in a unique way and I am into it. The movement is calming and there is a palpable sense of peace on the ship. Or maybe I romanticize too much, that is also probably true.

A pretty blond woman and her boyfriend are taking photos of themselves. They are young and in love. She has wild hair and rubs the back of his neck when she sits on his lap.
Later on she will pass closer to me and I will notice that she is older than I had thought and her features are less perfect though she is more beautiful and good in her body.
Happiness causes beauty.

I am on one of the upper outdoor decks under the plastic roof that shades me from the sun. The farther up you go on the ferry boat the quieter it gets. Most of the people on the upper decks do not seem Greek, they are foreigners, like me. They gather clustered chairs sitting in groups or stretch out on the long white benches. A whining dog with only three legs is tied to a railing in the sun. A woman in a sleeping bag cradles her puppy in her arms and they both sleep. An ultra-cool, Euro guy spends the first hour of the ride unfolding and refolding his clothes and repacking them in his camouflage patterned duffle bag. He has an enormous collection of carefully organized CDs catalogued in two large black binders that must weigh a ton but he doesn’t care because he is very handsome and so very cool.

I am still New York paranoid so I won’t go too far from my suitcase which means that I will starve or dehydrate because the cafés are all on lower decks. Never mind the fact that those people left their back packs on that bench over an hour ago and haven’t returned to check on them once, or not so that I’ve noticed. Never mind that thieves are not trolling around the ferry to Milos just looking to steal the shorts and bathing suits out of unsuspecting tourist bags. I am too careful in this life.

How does one know when they are being open? Do things happen differently actually or is that just a perception? Does it matter? Is there a physical reaction when one is open?

I have sometimes felt what I believe to be my heart opening. It is painful and feels like two hands gripping my ribs and then cracking them apart. It is painful but not unpleasant. It is painful but I like it.
I have been in Greece for one night only and already I worry that I am not open enough. I worry that I am not ready to be out in the world alone. It’s a good story but not very believable so I choose to leave it behind. The sure way to closing off is to worry about being open.

I look over the railing and onto the dock of Kythnos to see how people disembark from ferries. Kisses on both cheeks and motorcycles picking up girlfriends who hold onto too many bags and are quickly whisked away up the windy hill roads.
I’ve been on the same bench for three hours from Pireaus to Kythnos and it is time for a change of scenery. It occurs to me that staying in the same place is incredibly limiting. I have made this bench my home and I am comfortable here which is a sure sign I should move. I do and feel renewed. It is that easy to refresh.

Keep on opening - I tell myself. Open even when you think you cannot open any more. Feel the hands and let them bend your stretchable ribs to expose your heart. Open like you do when you are in love. Open wide, like love is wide. There isn’t anything in there, just space. It’s not filled yet, that’s why it seems so empty and frightening… only because it is unfamiliar, that’s all. Just open and see what shows up.

Step One - Lose The Game Face
Most of the time I don’t even know I am wearing it. It just comes that naturally. It is that don’t-come-near-me-I-know-what-I-am-doing face. Sometimes necessary in New York though it doesn’t serve much purpose in the Cyclades Islands of Greece. Turns out people are much more approachable when they smile.

Here is opening, watching the small islands break up the endless expansive sea and for those moments not thinking about anything but letting dreams take over and thoughts flow easily in and out of my mind. The waves churned up against the dock to push the ferry out of Sifnos and the color of the sea is a blue I have never seen before.

The more you open the easier it gets or the less it matters to be closed. Closed is about protection, fear, unfamiliarity. Opening is about not being unsafe, courageous, experimental. I’m in. I leave my bag on the top deck to wander levels down to the café and restroom and the suitcase was fine. No one is out to get me here, or anywhere.

The vision of Milos as the ferry pulls into the dock is nothing short of miraculous. Because of mineral deposits in the land the soil is red and white, mixes of dark greens and browns. Unusual rock formations dotted along the coast line welcome the ferry into the port.

There is a small area next to the Tourist Information Booth at the end of the quay that is cordoned off by an invisible line behind which a dozen or so men and women yell out “Rooms For Let” in an array of languages. Later I will laugh about it but now it is a little overwhelming to be assaulted by so many voices holding out laminated photographs of the rooms they are ready to take you to see and hopefully to book.

George tells me his room is in Adamas, where I want to stay and it will cost 25 Euro per night for a single with private bath and outdoor area. I just want to know that it’s safe and not far from the town center. George reminds me of Andreas from the flight, who was a man I think is worthy of profound trust, so I agree to get into his van and let him take me away from the competition.

George takes me to the Hotel Corali rooms which are just down a bit on the main road out of the port center. The rooms are clean and neat but the place is low down so there is no view. I have the definite sensation that I don’t know what I want but I remember reading somewhere that I don’t have to settle for the first room someone shows me so I ask to see something upstairs. George tells me to leave my bag (is he crazy?) and follow him as he dashes up the marble steps to the second floor. The rooms are similar but I am not satisfied.
George points out of a window to a hotel up the hill and says he owns that one too and can show me those rooms, so I grab my bag which I had left downstairs and we load back into his van to take the ride up the long winding hill. Inside it is up two long flights of marble stairs to a room which does indeed look out over the port center and all of Adamas but is way too far away for me to feel comfortable and I ask him to take me back to the first hotel where I settle on a charming room on a lower floor with a small private courtyard when an orange cat is asleep in the sun. It is a five minute walk to the center of town and could not be more perfect.

The feeling of not knowing what I want has dissipated and now I have the sense that I am not missing anything at all. I just think sometimes it is hard to choose.

Step two. I think I look down often. Down at the ground, at my feet, avoiding eyes and revealing that I am a stranger. As if looking down and my distinctive New York style doesn’t already give me away. Foolish Beth.

I pick Marianna’s Taverna on the port because it has the most people dining already and there is Greek music playing out of the loud speakers, six men are drinking beer at a round table and the waiter looks like Al Pacino and smiles at me when I look at him. (Yes, I am that easy.)
The restaurant overlooks the port and it is now dusk in Milos.
I have ordered moussaka and a Greek salad and apparently a whole liter of white wine.
This is what looking up looks like tonight.

Milos is breathtaking and dinner takes me two hours. The waiter is friendly and asks me my name and where I am from. In Italy my name was changed to Bettina. In Greece they like to call me Elizabeth which is easier to understand and to say. A sad cat sits by my table and stares at me while I eat. I know that look, I have seen it many times before. When a German couple takes a table nearby the cat loses interest in me to beg at them for awhile. I am practicing not taking it personally.

The wine is making me lightheaded. A a salty old sailor man sits down at the next table smoking a pipe and singing along with the music. He greets people as they stroll along the street. His voice is deep and luxurious and he is wearing a black sailing cap like one my mother used to have when I was a kid. The pipe reminds me of my grandfather and how I love the smell of pipe tobacco. He calls me Hemingway and asks if I am from Spain. I am flattered that he does not think I am American. He tells me his girlfriend is the sea and he will be meeting her to pick up his hooks tomorrow morning at six a.m. and see what she wants to give him. He tells me I can join him if I like.

I am almost finished with my bottle of wine when Al Pacino asks me if I want another.
“Ohi, efkharisto.” I decline.
He brings another full carafe to me anyway and asks that I drink it, “For him.”
I forcefully refuse the wine another dozen or so times along with his invitation to come back at midnight and that kind of ends our friendship.

Jenny was right, Greece is inspiring and full of everything that is delicious and beautiful.
There is nothing to be afraid of here or in life but I convince myself otherwise all the time by strapping my belongings to my body as if they are forever at risk and looking down when I could look up.