Athens, Day 4 -- Ceremonies and Visits

 Sept 26

 

We woke to a light rain, but by the time we set out on our day’s adventure, it had let up. Think cloudy summer day — that was today in Athens. Quite pleasant.

The main mission today was to meet up with an old friend of Carol who lives part time in Athens. The route to his place happened to be close to the Parliament Buildings, where the changing of the guards occurs every hour. The most elaborate of these ceremonial changes happens at 11 am, and we were there, along with several hundred other tourists. We waited in the almost-rain, until at last, at 11:15, an army-style truck rolled out and backed up to the stairs where two guards were waiting, doing their guard thing of pretending to be statues. A camo-dressed soldier hopped out, opened up the back, and helped a costumed guard down. Said guard did a high stepping march to replace one of the statues, who high-stepped to the truck and climbed in. Then the second new guard came out to replace the second statue. The truck then drove away. That was it. Faces in the crowd looked rather bewildered, and everyone meandered off. 

Guards waiting for the non-event

Carol and I then strolled in the National Garden, adjacent to the Parliament Buildings, a forested chunk of relief in the busy city. 

 

National Garden

At one border of the Garden is the 60,000 seat Panathenaic Stadium, built as — a stadium! — back in 330 BCE, after which it went the way of many a ruin, disappearing under soil and foliage until it was excavated in the mid 19th Century.  It was then refurbished for the first of the modern Olympics in 1896, then used again for the 2004 Olympics. We paid the €6 (seniors’ rate) for the privilege of walking on the blue track. Some people were doing mock runs, of course. It was tempting to do that, a little bit. Maybe.

Should we run? Heck no, we might hurt ourselves!

Leaving the Stadium, walking along a leafy boulevard, we happened upon a changing of the guards that’s not advertised but much more elaborate than the advertised one. I recorded a bit of it. 

It was then time to head to meet Carol’s friend, Rodger, Schmidt. First, some info about Carol. She was a high-level competitive curler in the mid-70s to mid-80s, Early on her team won Junior Canadians. She started skipping (leading the team) in the early 80s. Around that time, she invited a young player named Sandra Schmerler to join the team. As we know, Sandra became something of a Canadian hero, leading the Canadian team to win Olympic Gold in Nagano in 1998.

Carol met Rodger at the University of Saskatchewan, where he was also a curler. He eventually moved to Germany and Switzerland, opening a curling academy, where he trained curling coaches, and coached numerous champion European teams over the years. He has now retired from that, spending his time, along with his wife, in Athens and Lucerne, Switzerland. He’s one of those Energizer Bunny types, now spending his time writing novels, poetry, and songs. He performs solo at a local Taverna, and also plays with a jazz trio that includes a piano player who was once Frank Sinatra’s piano man. 

I walk among giants!

My highly-accomplished best friends!

Rodger took us on a “short loop” walk (if this was short, I’m rather glad we didn’t do a long one!) in his neighbourhood, which straddles the line between an upscale shopping district and the university district where students and anarchists roam the streets and stage the occasional demonstration. Police move in with tear gas, that kind of thing. Today was peaceful, as Rodger gave us a bit of history of Athens and the elaborate buildings of the Academy of Athens.

The Academy of Athens, with Athena on her very high pedestal, and Lycabettus Hill in the background

After parting ways with Rodger (so that he could work on his second novel, sheesh), we were meant to climb Lycabettus Hill, the highest point in Athens, affording great views down onto the Acropolis. After climbing up the streets below the hill, the rocky face looked like too much for us, so we chickened out. We made our way home through districts with nary a tourist in sight.

After a rather long nap break, we went for a late dinner at a lively Taverna around the corner from our place. Live music, clapping patrons, the occasional dancing drunk. A fine last evening in Athens!

p.s. In case anyone think us lazy for not climbing mountains or running Olympic tracks, you should realize we are putting in an average of 18,000 steps a day. Not slouches!

 

 

 

Athens, Day 3: Gritty Neighbourhoods and Hilltop Temples

 Sept 25

Today it was Carol’s turn to sleep in. Our circadian rhythms have not fully re-set yet. We feel okay, however. Sort of.

We took a late morning walk through a neighbourhood called Psirri, adjacent to the Plaka, where tourism hasn’t (yet) hit. It was a graffiti-covered, gritty, work-a-day commercial area, a complete contrast with the sparkly thotchke streets just blocks south. It reminded me of India, a little, or Morocco. It was a reminder that this definitely is not Northern Europe.

Monastiraki Square, the start of our Psirri walk

We passed through spice row and into the public market. I don’t know how it happened, but what ought to have been a produce market turned out to be a meat market, bigger than I’ve ever seen, alley after alley of hanging carcasses. We did not love it, and I did not take photos. The fish market, as usual, made me wonder how on earth there are any fish left in the sea. 

Spices

Sausage

Olives

The vendors who display these fish are artists

For lunch we stopped in “Souvlaki Row,” adjacent to Monastiraki Square, for an obigatory (and cheap) Gyro. It was awful. 

After a rest, it was time for our visit to the Acropolis Museum. This is a gorgeous, modern building with lots of space, in case the British Museum decides to return the so-called “Elgin Marbles” to their place of origin. The excuse in the past has been that Athens had no place to house the reliefs safely. The Acropolis museum has an astounding number of remarkable artifacts, including the original Caryatids from the Erechtheion, a temple on the Acropolis. It also has an astounding number of guards stopping people from photographing or touching the artifacts. I’m not sure what the rationale is for not taking photos of these marble statues, but I hope people understand that everything will be put behind glass if they can’t keep their hands off them. As it is, for now, it’s wonderful to be able to get within centimetres of these ancient sculptures, to almost feel the hand of the sculptor.

 

Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt and protector of young women. No one would dare accost a young woman with this one looking on!

The Caryatids of Erechtheion. These ones are the originals, while copies are in place on the Acropolis. These acted as pillars. Note the folds of their gowns representing the fluted surface of traditional pillars, and the thick braids buttressing necks that would be too fine for supporting the weight of a portico.

After the museum, we crossed the road to climb the Acropolis itself. While I expected something strenuous, it was really somewhat less than climbing George Hill on Pender Island, and with much greater reward. 

On the way up the hill: Odeon of Herodes Atticus. They put plays on here in the summer, but we've missed them by a couple of weeks.

After passing through the impressive entranceway, the Parthenon took my breath away. It is huge! Much bigger than I remember — or maybe it’s that I was less easily impressed at 19 years old, I don’t know. But this temple inspires awe by it’s size, to say nothing of it’s classic proportions, the definition of beauty, really. 

If you're lucky, you can sneak a moment where it looks like you're alone in the ruins

This suffering horse is probably a copy of the original horse that is suffering in the British Museum

I was mostly right about not being able to get a shot without people in it nowadays, but near the end of our visit, I was able to get up close and catch a shot. The multitudes are on this hill these days. We arrived around 4:30, and the crowd kept growing as the day cooled and the sun moved towards the horizon. By the time we left, there was hardly room to move. 

Close enough to eliminate people, but the wide angle lens distorts the proportions, which is what the Parthenon is all about, in my opinion

Views from the Acropolis 

We've heard there was an explosion in our neighbourhood this morning. It happened in the short street leading up to Hadrian's Arch. It's in the lower left of this photo, a street in shadows. If you zoom in, you can see the rubble and some machinery. I didn't know about the explosion when I took this photo, and I didn't notice what was going on in the street. This was a terrible tragedy for some tourists just like us.

 The Ancient Agora

 

Our accommodations, A Painter's House in Plaka. I zoomed in to get this shot. Our place is in the right-hand wing of the yellow building, which faces away from this view. The huge trees are in our courtyard. 

 

Carol had made us reservations at a restaurant called Anefani, a couple of blocks from our apartment. We climbed up and up and up to a busy rooftop, and had cocktails and dinner under the full moon, in the light of the Acropolis. Another perfect evening.  

 

 

 

 

Athens, First Two Days

 
Thursday, September 23


I won’t describe the journey. We left Pender Monday on the 3:30ish through-fare, spent the night  in a hotel near YVR, then flew via Toronto to Athens. We arrived in Athens Wednesday just after 11 am local time. I think that’s around 35 hours in total, but I’m not sure. Do I have to subtract the YVR hotel night in which I barely slept? Doesn’t matter, the trip was long, mostly miserable, and once again I wondered if I actually enjoyed travel. But then we arrived.

We picked up a sim card for Carol, whose luddite of a phone doesn’t do e-sim, then walked a narrow, heavily-trafficked street 10 minutes to our accommodations. I’d found this, called “A Painter’s House in Plaka,” right in the centre of action in the most picturesque (and also most tourist-heavy) neighbourhood of the city, steps from the Acropolis. We were able to let ourselves in to a spacious, somewhat funky 2-bedroom apartment in a courtyard of apartments. It’s perfect.

Simple, clean, functional, and two minutes from everything you want to be close to.

Well, there was a visitor upon our arrival, wee slug on the ceiling (how??) but we took him out to the garden right away.

Having eaten nothing but the minuscule “meals” served on Air Canada, we went for a Greek Salad lunch before a quick nap that would carry us through to the end of the day. We then forced ourselves out and about, because that’s the only way to adjust to the time change. We circled the base of the Acropolis, pinching ourselves. It’s real!. We arrived at Areopagus Hill, adjacent to the Acropolis, in time for the lowering sun to shine golden on the Parthenon. Sunset watching is a thing for tourists in Athens. We were there with the throngs, but one can’t get too disturbed about these things. It was good. We walked back towards home along a boulevard where as soon as the sound of one busker faded, the sound of another took its place. Busker after busker. One of them was actually good, you know, in tune. Oh, and the puppet lady, she was clever.

He's really into it, but he needs practice, actually.

This wee puppet had all kinds of cheeky moves. 

Having planned Athens largely by Google Maps, I didn’t really have a sense of distance here. This is a tiny area, packed with important sites. Nearly all of the most interesting sites are within 10 minutes of our accommodations. On our way home from our walk, we happened upon To Kafeneio, a restaurant that was high on my list, and got a table right away on their little side street. It turned out to be less than two minutes from our place. We went home around 10 pm and, well, passed out.

Streetside small bites

Friday the 24th

I knew last night that our 10 am booked time slot for the Archeological Museum was probably too early. And sure enough, I slept in until 9 am. Luckily, the timed tickets allow a one-hour window, so we didn’t actually have to be there, a 30-minute walk away, until 11. 

The museum was incredible. We used a Rick Steves Audio Guide, and that made all the difference. For anyone planning to travel, download the app “Rick Steves Audio Europe” and navigate to the city or site you plan to visit. Download his audio tours before you leave home. Everything is free. There are also interviews and radio shows in there, if you want more. His audio tours are word-for-word what appear in his guidebooks. So informative, and so engaging!

Kouros from the Archaic period, some 2500 years old

 

The main big deal for me was to see the mask of Agamemnon, a photo of which adorned the cover of the old Grade 7 Textbook, which was hanging around the school I taught in for years. This is a gold funerary mask from the 16th Century BCE, older than I can really imagine. Who it really was (or whether Agamemnon actually existed) is a matter of debate. I thought I would weep at the sight, but I didn’t. He was smaller than I expected, and in a display case with other masks. In my mind, he should be in a room of his own, like the Mona Lisa. Oh well.

Agamemnon, not unlike Mona Lisa, more crowds than Agamemnon

If you wait long enough, you can get him alone

We spent time and a bit of money in the gift shop, you know, book marks and a fridge magnet, the necessary souvenirs.

After the museum, we wandered back down to the Plaka via long pedestrian, touristic streets, through Monaseraki square. I bought a couple of cotton/linen dresses for €10 and €12, and Carol bought some €10 cotton pants. How could we resist?

After a lunch of leftovers and a good rest, we visited the Ancient Agora. This is a few minutes from our place, but the location of the entrance was not obvious — no signs and not on the map. We circumnavigated the site, backtracking several times, before we finally found it. Good thing the timed entry allows an hour’s leeway. 

Anyhow, again we used Rick Steves to guide us through the site. It’s largely rubble, like many ancient sites, but with Rick’s help and a lot of imagination, it was an amazing experience to be in the very place where the ancient philosophers walked, the birthplace of western democracy. There is a reconstruction of a Stoa (a pillared market place,) a small museum, and the Temple of Hephaestus, the best-preserved ancient temple in Greece, constructed in the 5th century BCE. Much of the bigger and more famous Parthenon is a reconstruction, and that this one is intact is remarkable, after 2500 years. 

The Stoa, a marketplace

Agora with Acropolis above

The Temple of Hephaestus

Three warriors. Hadrian stands above us

One unexpected sight at the Agora was an encounter with three turtles. Two were beating up on the third, smaller one, attacking it’s shell. We soon realized it was some kind of mating ritual. Enough said.

Fucking Turtles!

I haven’t mentioned cats yet. One of my granddaughters wants to visit Greece because she’s heard there are lots of cats here. She wouldn’t be disappointed. These are healthy, friendly cats, unlike many in other countries, and they are abundant. 

We closed the Agora down at 7 pm, and wandered around the side of the Acropolis to another sidewalk restaurant I’d been hoping to eat at. We lingered over a Greek-style spritzer, had the fish of the day, and made our way home at around 10, grabbing the mandatory gelato on the way. 

 

The definition of heaven, our dinner spot

Looking out over the city from our perch at dinner, I said to Carol, "I'm in heaven." She said, "Me too."

 

 

 

 

 

Thinking Back and Looking Forward to Greece

Carol and I are heading to Greece on September 22. We'll be renting a car and driving around the Peloponnese for a couple of weeks, then joining up with a Boat-and-Bike tour out of Corfu.

The last time I was in Greece was in 1971/72, mostly hitchhiking my way with my friend-who-remains-a-friend, Anne, and sometimes hooking up with other “hippie” travellers who swarmed the youth hostels of Europe at the time. The memories seem fresh, but I know they’re not. I always say you can’t go back. But I’m going back. 

Things will have changed. We were in Greece during Papadopolous’ junta, Yugoslavia under Tito, Spain during the the Franco regime. We didn’t think much about that at the time, being 19 and naive, though I remember Yugoslavia having a distinctly Soviet flavour. 

With a travel buddy, Harold, on Crete, 1972. I've changed almost as much as the map of Europe.

First stop will be Athens, and I remember Elias’s place, the Pension Diana, where we stayed (and met Cathy), and the Poste Restante. I remember a little street with stairs where I bought my cheap imitation goatherd bag, or whatever that was, made of red wool. I remember sitting on the Acropolis waiting for a shot of the Parthenon with no people in it — and I got one, which I’m pretty sure can’t be done anymore. That’s about all I remember. In my mind, Poste Restante was on Syntagma Square, but it actually wasn’t, it was near Omonia Square, which I don’t recognize at all when I look at it on Google street view. (This is how deep I look when I’m “researching.”) I remember it being right on the square, that we could look across the square to see it. But that’s not possible, because it was on a side street, according to the records. Memory is a trickster.

Elias and Cathy at the Pension Diana, Athens, January 1972. Cathy was an "older woman" at 22 (or 24?), who rode that bike to Athens from Amsterdam, by herself. Here she's about to ride back.

So, considering it’s been 54 years (jeez), I don’t think I’ll recognize much of anything in Athens. The other places we’ll be that Anne and I visited are Delphi and Corfu. What I remember about Delphi is hitchhiking with Cathy and being picked up by a trucker who then picked up his friend and then stopped in the middle of nowhere so his friend could proclaim his love for each of us in turn. Cathy warded him off with an umbrella. I remember huddling around a little potbelly stove in a kind of general store in Delphi, trying to get warm. I remember looking down a hillside onto the ruins. But I don’t remember a town at all, and it most certainly was there when we were.

All I remember about Corfu is renting scooters and me blasting out “Born to Be Wild” at the top of my lungs as the wind whipped my hair around. Because helmets weren’t invented yet, or something. I don’t remember the town, but I remember breaking down, because scooters always did, and I think someone stopped to help us. I don't have any photos from Corfu, but I have another one from Crete:

Exploring Crete via Volkswagen van, January 1972. Left to right: Unknown, Paul, Harold, Fred, Cathy, Anne, Unknown, and myself. I think maybe we met the unknown people in Heraklion and decided to travel in tandem for a bit. 

Returning to Greece now, it will be as if I was never there. Oh, except that I still remember “efharisto" and “parakalo", thank you and you’re welcome. I remember bougatsa, and the little pots of yogurt with the skin on the top, and pastitsio. Papadopolous cookies? Two drachma souvlaki? I’d get mine for one drachma because I didn’t want the meat. Oh…I remember selling blood there. Sheesh. 

Visiting Marrakech recently, the big square is still much the same as it was in 1972, though there are a few dozen semi-permanent juice trucks parked in one corner now. But I went looking for a particular gate we’d use back then, inside which there was a “street” covered in lath that made striped shadows on everything below. No lath now — of course, it would have rotted away in 54 years. The covering now is fancy grillwork. Not the same. And Fez was nothing like I remembered. The shops that used to be cool now sell fridge magnets.

I looked up Elias’s and there’s no record of it. AI guesses at it, saying there were lots of unofficial pensions at the time (during the Junta!), especially in the university district, which seems about right from what I remember. I remember walking to it one day and seeing a man in a doorway jerking off. The important stuff, right? I tried to look up the bag I bought, but “traditional” bags don’t look anything like it. Ticky-tacky now is not what ticky-tacky was back then. The jerk-off has got to be long dead.

 

 

A note about the photos: I had a little camera with me and had a budget of one photo per day, because film and developing was expensive. I ended up with ten boxes of slides which I stored with my Mom until she threw them away, bless her heart. Fortunately, Anne had made prints of some of the highlights. These are obviously deteriorating, but Dave (her husband) has kindly scanned them. 

 

 

Wrapping Up Morocco

 Sunday March 22

Who We are

Mariam has been our leader, our mother, our sometimes-admonisher, and our guiding light. Born Indigenous (Amazigh) in Imlil in the Atlas Mountains, she had an in that few guides would have,  and could relate to the people that seem to make up most of the population outside the urban areas, and they could relate to her. Being a guide is a 24/7 job. Even on the long drives, she would be on the phone most of the time, making arrangements, ensuring our bookings were good, ordering our meals to be ready as we arrived, sorting out our rooms, and just generally making sure we had as smooth and as enriching a trip as could be had. 

Amal has been our amazing driver. She can manipulate that big vehicle in lanes I wouldn’t take a mini into. And no wonder — she used to be a long-distance truck driver, the only woman truck driver in Morocco, we’re told. And now she’s one of very few woman drivers in the Moroccan tourism industry. She doesn’t speak English, but she’s our friend. More than that, she’s our hero.

The maximum number of guests on Wild Women Expeditions is twelve. When we saw that the tour was full, we thought that meant there would be twelve of us. Why were we only five? We’re guessing that it’s because they have to book accommodations months in advance, so there’s a cutoff date, which they don’t seem to advertise. This may not be true of all of their tours, because I’ve seen “space available” just before a tour is set to embark. 

To travel with only five (mostly) strangers might not be a good thing in all cases. If there’s a grump in the group, you can’t really get away. In our case, we bonded like sisters. While we were five very different personalities, I think the overriding characteristic of all of us was a positive, adventurous attitude. Oh, we were not without complaints — that would have been annoying — but even in our complaints we stood together, a group support. 

I will miss my new sisters. We agreed that if we were to find a good adventure to share, we’d try to sign up together. 


Sue

Sue is the lone American in our group, but she does not fit the stereotype we Canadians tend to attribute to Americans. She’s quiet but strong, and she will assert herself when she needs to. (Response to a squatter: “That’s not going to happen!”)  I often catch her with a little smile on her face, which could be contemplative, or wise, or maybe she’s just smirking at our antics, I don’t know. She has eyes like Joni Mitchell’s, and sometimes I catch a glance that just slays me. She is a goddess.

Sue was a key participant in a community project that wrapped the Art Center in Sioux City, Iowa, in quilted fabric. Find Sue here.


Vicki

Vicki’s a straight shooter. I mean, if she needs something, she lets it be known in no uncertain terms. She drinks coffee like no one I’ve ever met (and I thought John was the consummate coffee drinker!) She could write her own blog just about all the coffee she had on this trip, and I’ll never forget her exclamations: “DeLICIous!”  Vicki has a way of making you feel good about yourself, by paying attention, by caring for you, and by laughing her big belly laugh at all your jokes, the good ones and the bad.

Milica

Milica is our spark plug. Vibrant, curious, open. My first encounter with her was when Bettyanne and I were having a salad in the hotel in Casablanca. Not knowing who we were, she exclaimed, “Look at you two, having your salad!” and I thought she must be a rich, famous person by her demeanor. Her voice — that voice! — is so expressive and so exuberant, everyone we met was drawn to her; she was the one the nomads took to; she was the one the hotel people would light up for. All of Morocco fell in love with her. 

Bettyanne

Well. Bettyanne is one of the most patient, kind, and giving people I’ve ever met. She has energy and enthusiasm for everything that comes her way. Being with someone all day, every day for three weeks in a foreign and challenging environment is a true test of friendship, and we aced it. I could not ask for a better travel partner, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to say goodbye to her.

Travel Day

This morning, after our last high-carb Moroccan breakfast, we began the outward journey. We all had different departure times, of course. Vicki had booked an extra day, and was now questioning that decision, not willing to venture into the medina on her own (and who can blame her?) But Vicki, with time to kill, was there to see us off, to make sure we all got the right pre-arranged car (after some confusion). 

Breakfast. Since there's no longer pressure to get going, a couple of us didn't show up

Near the airport: dismal trees and barriers. A standing joke: several times during the trip, we'd drive by high walls topped by barbed wire. Marian would ask if we knew what that was, and we'd guess it was a prison. No, it was always an airport.

Marrakech airport was easy. The flight to Paris was easy. Arriving at Charles de Gaul Airport, not so easy. It should have been: catch the RER from the lower level of CDG and ride directly to a stop a ten-minute walk from our apartment in the Marais. 

But the RER airport line was not running. It took a while to figure out that there would be buses to take us into Paris. Asking directions to the bus, we were given a variety of indecipherable answers, most of them something about Gate 4, which to us meant a departure gate, and that made no sense. Turn left, then straight, then down, then left, then…. Even Ms Google, bless her, must have been trained by CDG staff to give confusing directions. “Take the escalator down,” she’d say, with no escalator in sight. By now it was getting dark. And I was quietly losing my cool. I almost never lose my cool! Anyhow, we finally realized that “Gate 4” meant “Door 4” of a particular terminal, and we found the bus, bought Navigo passes (the new way of getting around public transit in Paris), boarded with a hoard of other inconvenienced travellers, and rode to Saint Denis, where we followed the crowd down dark streets, hoping they knew what they were doing, to a Metro station. Having navigated the Metro before, I found us the right train, and we got off at Les Halles. In that shopping mall, we added another few thousand steps to our daily count before we found the exit, then made our way to our 6th floor apartment, where our patient host met us, thanks to communicating with him through WhatsApp. It had taken us three hours to get from the plane to our abode. 

We went for dinner in a dead-quiet nearby restaurant I’d found online, then walked down to Isle de la Cité, where I was excited to see Bettyanne’s reaction to Notre Dame, lit up at night. Turned out I was too excited, and mislabelled a smaller church, and she got highly excited — until I realized we hadn’t crossed the water, and this wasn’t Notre Dame. Damn! 

We're in Paris!!

Oh wow! Oh wow! But it's not Notre Dame

This! is Notre Dame

Anyhow, we were in Paris, and being in Paris is being in Paris! Paris!! Notre Dame square was all but deserted, about the only time we’d see it that way. We took the obligatory selfies and walked the ten minutes home to bed.