Reminiscing

Why is it we really get into reminiscing just when we don’t have the mental capacity to do that successfully? I know, I know -- when you’re young, and have wonderful mental acuity, you don’t look backward; there’s too much that lays ahead to ponder what was. And, when you’re young, the next step is always so cool and to be envied that you don’t want to waste a moment on some lame memory that happened when you were, let’s say, a toddler. If you’re 8, you want to be 10. Ahh, double digits! When you’re 10, you crave 13. To be a teenager at last! When you’re 14, you can’t sit still until you’re 16 so you can drive. Freedom! And, when you’re 19, you ache for 21 so the whole deal can be legal and you can be treated as a full-scale, honest-to-God adult, just like your parents and teachers. Everything is forward looking.

But, when you get into your 50s or 60s, I guess your head is so crammed with memories, you just have to have an outlet for them before our heads explode from over-capacity. And so we reminisce. Or, at least we attempt to. This past weekend, our good friends Randy and Cathy came for a visit. Our relationship goes back decades, and for Lily, back to college days. We were married within a year of each other, shared summer beach houses for years, raised each other’s kids, skied together, traveled together, partied together. You get the picture: we share a lot of history.

So, there we were, sitting around the dinner table the other night calling up days of yore, drinking way too much wine. We were trying to recall a charades game we all enjoyed, played some time in the last millennium. Ancient history to all but those steeped in Greek history. It was a contest between the girls and the guys, or, as we entitled them, the Powder Puffs and the Bulls. No stereotyping back in those days, oh no. What we couldn’t get straight -- in 2010 -- was exactly who was there. Was Syl there? Randy thought so. Was Maggie there? She had to be, right (even if her name back then was Marge)? Did the Powder Puffs prevail? None of these matters could be resolved. In a desperate effort at resolving the vagaries of history, Lily reached through the cobwebs of her distant past and went to what had to be an unassailable source: some old poetry she had written commemorating the famed pantomime event. I mean, what better documentation of history than old poetry. So what if it wasn’t Homer, Sappho, or Aeschylus. Sadly, all we got from that effort was that there was apparently some guy named Allen at that charades event, and none of us could even remotely think who that might be. I called Maggie, one of the most intelligent people we know on planet earth, and all she had to say was “what charades party?“ Not helpful, but why should she be any different? We thought she was a participant that long ago night, but our memories are -- how you say -- not to be trusted.

And, so the evening wore on. We tried to reconstruct which beach houses we rented in chronological order. Consensus was as ascertainable as an elusive ghost on some far away mountain. Our minds were mush, and while some of that could no doubt be attributed to the wine, equal parts of the blame rested with our over-used and way too cluttered heads. I guess this is why history is written and why extemporaneous accounts are so valued. As the event, whatever it is, vanishes in the rear view mirror, so does our ability to re-create what happened. Is it fun to try to reconstruct personal history? Absolutely. Is it productive? Not a chance in hell.

And, why should we expect it to be any other way? We can’t remember what we had for lunch just yesterday. Nor can we recall who that actor was in that movie (whose title is also a bit too elusive at this particular moment). You know the one. It's on the tip of my tongue! It took place in Vienna. Or was it Rome? And, the star went on to play a major role in that spy movie. You know, the really popular one that led to a TV series that starred the guy who used to be bit player in that old James Garner flick. And, on and on it goes.

It’s all there. In our minds. Somewhere. Probably not far from where we left the car keys or glasses, wherever that might be.

Close Quarters

(September 23-26) An interesting study in human relations, this gullet excursion. The challenge: close, sometimes very close, physical proximity for 4 days to 11 other travelers none of whom you have ever laid eyes on before. As in any forced encounter, some interactions fare better than others, but you know deep down you’d like all of them to work as well as possible since you’re virtually nose to nose with these folks for more than just afternoon tea. What this means, among other things, is putting up with Umete’s snoring a couple of feet away on the deck’s night time sleeping area, or Herb and Judy’s effortless (and, sadly, continuous) attempts at dominating breakfast, lunch and dinner conversations.

For us, the experience worked well, first and foremost, because -- with the exception of Umete -- all of us spoke English. Immeasurable barriers were overcome as a result of this good fortune. I mean, it’s not like we needed to immerse ourselves in Swedish or German to get by. Rather, bonded by everyone’s love for travel stories, an avalanche of information and opinions were the order of the day. Want to know what the life of a journalist is like? Done. Want to know the nuances of beekeeping? Done. Or, maybe you just want to know what it’s like to pedal your way through eastern Europe. Done. Even Herb and Judy’s voracious appetite for the spotlight could not disrupt this totally pleasurable atmosphere.

This may be a bit of an exaggeration, but we ate every nine minutes -- or, so it seemed. A wild pastiche of tomatoes, potatoes, nutella, bread, cheeses, pink deli meats, grilled chicken or beef, pasta, and the ubiquitous olives. Not gourmet, for sure. But, plentiful, tasty, and satisfying. The scenery is spectacular: mountains falling into the deep blue Mediterranean, a smattering of ruins, ancient castles lording over the sea from protected heights, and gorgeous sailing vessels dotting the waters. Swimming off our boat revealed to us not only how warm the water was, but how incredibly salty it was as well. We had floats and noodles to bask on, but, seriously, it would take more than a little effort to sink.

One last note: sleeping on deck was awesome. Lulled to sleep by a gentle rolling of the boat, you could try to keep your eyes open just long enough to take in the full moon and its beams traversing the sea like a yellow carpet leading directly to your eyes.

Not a bad way to end the day.

You Can't Get There From Here. Really.

(October 7) Ok. It’s been just about a perfect trip, right? Lots of sun, gorgeous settings, great food and wine, and great company. We are smiling, relaxed, and nostalgic about leaving.

Leaving? Who said anything about leaving? At midnight on the eve of our departure from Paros, we hear a knock on our door. My thinking is this is never a good sign, and this time is no exception. It is our local travel agent who comes to tell us that the air traffic controllers of Greece have gone on strike, and our flight to Athens (and then home) has been cancelled. We will now need to take a ferry to Athens, and wave bye-bye to our flight out of Athens should it actually leave. Which it did. Without us.

What now? Plan B. Get to Athens, get a hotel near the airport and then start the always endless slog of dealing with the airlines to rebook our departure. One of the dark, little secrets of the airlines is that when you miss a flight and you’re using more than one air carrier, they always point the finger at the other guy. Your problem is never their problem. And, so it was with us. Lufthansa told us we would have to deal with United, and United told us we were out of luck. They could maybe get us out five days later and we would have to buy new tickets at a cost of about $5,000 per couple. That’s right. $5,000. This is not a typo. Sensing this was not an option, we toyed with the idea of staying in Athens, see the sights. Or, maybe go back to one of the islands and wait it out until United deigned to give us mileage tickets at a fairly nominal cost. In the meantime: souvlaki, ouzo, repeat.

What happened instead was we tried another United phone number and were met with a far more compassionate lady who tried her level best to re-acquaint us with the U.S. of A. without draining our bank accounts. She tried to get us on any flight back to the U.S. This meant possible trips to New York, Charlotte, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, Houston, Detroit, and even Canada. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. (Vegas. She should have tried Vegas. Anything is possible there.) We were stranded. I had visions about now having enough time to learn Greek, or, at a minimum, increase my tolerance to ouzo. I wondered: would Mojo remember us? In fact, would he be cared for since our house sitter had other obligations going into the weekend? Huge stress on this one. (Through a series of emails and texts we were able to get word to our neighbors to take the little guy in. Problem solved.) After rolling up $300 in telephone charges, Compassionate Lady at United forged ahead to find us some minimally sensible solutions, and, amazingly, she found one. We could leave the next day, but would have to stay in London for a couple of days.

Fish and chips anyone?

The Gateway to Heaven?

(October 3) Ask yourself to name the three most beautiful places you’ve seen on the planet, and ask yourself why you made these choices. Was it a beautiful beach, a majestic mountain range, the most charming of cobble stoned villages, or, maybe, a lush tropical paradise? Then, narrow your choices down to one. How can there be just one best, one most beautiful place?

I thought that myself until we came to Santorini. The pictures I had seen over the years seemed stunning, but I also knew this place to be a popular tourist mecca -- something that tends to erode great beauty very quickly. Does Santorini have tourists? You bet. Does it have a thousand jewelry, t-shirt, and souvenir shops? Of course. But, all of them combined cannot begin to put a dent in the overwhelming grandeur and sheer mind-bending, breathtaking beauty of this place. Most of the island is a huge rock, but at its western façade, it serves as a fitting foundation for the small, white-washed towns that hug the cliffs along a fantastically sparkling Aegean Sea with views to the horizon so vast and so sweeping you swear you can see the curvature of the earth. The Caldera, as they call it, or the volcanic remains of what was once part of this island, jut out of the sea just enough to give a proper sense of size and distance to this matchless vista and give context to sunsets that are so breathtaking they can make you cry.

The towns of the west coast are a vertical jumble of white-washed buildings and blue-domed churches. They seemingly overlap one another so that from a distance they appear to be one rolling structure. Trying to identify a particular hotel or restaurant from a distance, as you move higher or lower along the aerie-like paths that hug the cliffs, is a game in itself, not entirely unlike “Where’s Waldo.” From the water, the towns and cliffs give all the appearance of snow-capped mountains, the cliffs a deep reddish brown capped by the sea of white buildings on top.

Somewhat like the Amalfi coast in Italy, Santorini’s famed western slope towns are not for the poorly conditioned. Everything is either straight up or straight down. Even getting from our hotel bedroom to our bathroom involved a hike of several steps up and then a steep staircase down. (In the middle of the night, this is not a task taken lightly.) What this presents is an endless opportunity to see everything from different angles -- from above and below -- as you navigate vertically. In one moment you are looking up at a church dome; in the next, you’re taking a picture of the same dome from above.

The alleyways of these towns, notably Fira, and the crown jewel, the achingly beautiful Oia (pronounced Eeya), are almost narrow enough to span with your arms. There are no cars here; there is simply no room. Automobile traffic is relegated to streets inland and to the flatter parts of the island. But, the manner that these alleyways connect, sideways and vertically, give you the feel sometimes that you’ve landed in a life-sized M.C. Escher drawing where all paths seem circular and without resolution.

As in Rhodes, there seem to be cafes and restaurants every nine feet. I have no idea how all of them survive, but I’m told they do. You pay for the view, of course, but mostly that is a price we’re willing to pay. Order your “tomato balls” -- deep-fried tomatoes in a chewy crust -- or deep-fried stuffed olives, or cheese plates, or, for heartier fare all of the beef, lamb, octopus and calamari dishes you can imagine. Ply yourself with local Greek wine, put your feet up on the railings, and breathe deeply.

As they say, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. For me, the eye-popping effect of these starkly white-washed cliff hugging towns against the matchless backdrop of the Caldera and the Aegean, all from a height that seems miles high, is as good as it gets. Is it perfect? No. Is it close? Oh yes. At this moment, I am sitting on a chaise by our pool staring out at a scaldingly sun-washed sea that, as I say, seems to be miles below. There’s a cool breeze blowing, and even the monstrous cruise ships that lurk in the harbor seem no bigger than toys. They are no threat to us right now. We will enjoy cocktails later as we watch the world-famous sunsets here where the sea takes on hues of pinks and reds and the white facades of these towns turn peach in color. Dinner lies beyond. Somewhere.

Rhodes

(September 27-30) We are staying in a hotel whose building dates back 800 years. It begins to tell you the story of this epically historic site which has seen the likes of the Lycians, Romans, Ottoman Turks, English crusaders, and, in more recent times, the Germans, Italians, and Greeks. It lies at the metaphysical and literal crossroads of history and geography as, over the centuries, marauding powers, traders, and crusaders criss-crossed the eastern Mediterranean in pursuit of religious purity, riches, power, or some other greater glory.

One can begin to envision what all this might have looked like way back when, but for the impossibly numerous shops carved into these ancient buildings: jewelry, fine clothing, artwork, leather goods, souvenir emporiums, and t-shirt shops. And, this is to say nothing of the seemingly endless array of rooftop and sidewalk cafes that vie for the tourist dollar at every opportunity. You’ve got your souvlaki, grilled octopus, yogurt, stuffed grape leaves, prawns, all with tomatoes, onion, and parsley and the ever-present and tasty olive. Factor in the waves of folks arriving by cruise ships which dock from time to time, and you have all the ingredients for a shopping and eating frenzy that may have no peers. At some level, this commercial onslaught is insulting given the very serious history of this place. At a lighter level, however, the sensory overload presented by these shops and eateries seems engaging, entertaining, and even comical if you’re in a more relaxed and whimsical mood. Which we were.

We have a safe haven from all this at our hotel, the Sotiris Nikolas, nestled near the western walls of the Old City beyond the rabble. We reach it by a narrow alley whose cobblestones, like those everywhere here, are still impossibly rounded despite centuries of traffic. The Nikolas exudes charm no less than Cary Grant once did with rooms having arched doorways that lead to a protected wooden patio overlooking a rear garden that has enough green to balance out the stone walls that rise above it. The proprietor, Marianne, is of Danish descent, and she is exactly what you want in a hotelier: charming, helpful, funny, obliging at every turn. Breakfasts are up on the roof, and there amid the bountiful offerings of eggs, fruit, pastries, bread, coffee, cheeses (and, yes, olives) lies the city and harbor beyond.

Perfect.

Aboard the Alaturka

(September 23-26) The Mediterranean is pretty spectacular wherever you find yourself on it, and the southern coastline of Turkey is no exception. The water has none of the turquoise you associate with the tropics, but it does sport an eye-popping sapphire, almost electric, blue. We are aboard the Alaturka, a Turkish “gullet” perhaps better described as a wooden sailing vessel. We are among eleven other passengers: five Aussies (including a couple of newlyweds), two Lithuanians into homeopathic medicine and beekeeping, a female Canadian journalist working for Reuters, three other Americans, one of whom is literally pedaling himself through eastern Europe and Turkey on his trusty but well worn bike, and one non-English speaking Turkish dude, Umete. Except for Umete, we are all united by a common language, a love for travel, and a fondness for storytelling.

What is not to like about this? Nothing, I tell you. We all have “staterooms” below, but they are small enough to test even Clark Kent’s legendary skills at costume changes in small places. And, the bathrooms each of us gets are so microscopically tiny they should issue elbow pads as standard equipment. As a result, all of the action is on deck, including sleeping. I mean, why sleep in a claustrophobe’s hell when you can bed down on commodious pads with your blanket and pillow and fall asleep under the stars? As for day-time activity, I know this sounds stressful, but we eat, drink, swim, nap, read, mingle, and repeat. This cruise is not for the antsy.

I thought the sunset last night was as good as it gets, but I was wrong. This morning’s sunrise was a psychedelic pastiche of neon pinks and blues against a foreground of the steep Turkish hills that slide into the sea, each a different hue of black.

Spectacular.

Go and Then Stop. Repeat, and Repeat, and Repeat...

(September 22) Let me make a friendly suggestion. When next you contemplate a dashing, daring adventure far from home, give a thought or two to how logistically crazy it will be to get there. I say this as we board our fourth flight of the day. Count ‘em: one, two, three, four. Don’t ask me what day it is or what time zone we’re in. I haven’t a clue. I do know we’re in Turkey. At this moment, we are awaiting the departure of Flight 2560 on Turkish Airlines from Istanbul to Dalaman, on the country’s southern coast. Charleston feels very far away.

This was a trip planned long ago when we knew we’d barely close out Jesse and Laura’s wedding before having to execute a hairpin turn within 36 hours to ready ourselves for this wonderful adventure to Turkey and Greece. We knew it would be a long journey, but knowing and doing are two different things. Why is that?

Up at 7 to see Alex off for his return to San Diego, we later make it ourselves to the Charleston airport. One hour wait here. One flight of one and a half hours. Arrive in Philadelphia. A three hour wait here. One eight hour flight to Frankfort, Germany. In Frankfort for four hours. One three hour flight to Istanbul. Wait in Istanbul for two hours. Finally, a two and a half hour flight to Dalaman. Let’s run the numbers, shall we? Ten hours waiting in airports, fourteen hours in the air. That’s a day, right?

Somewhere before Frankfort, I lost my train of thought. I think somewhere between Frankfort and Istanbul I lost my ability to reason. In Istanbul, I lost the ability to speak coherently. Will I remember my name when we land in Dalaman? I am clutching our two passports with whitened knuckles lest I leave them in some godforsaken restroom.

I’m not complaining, mind you. I can’t wait to reach our destination and get the trip rolling. I’ll rally, whatever my name is.

But, right now, fatigue rules.