Ancient Karthea

Kea is home to Karthea, a city that was first settled in the 9^th century b.c. All you must do to find it is drive an hour up a mountain and hike an hour down into a lush valley.

So we rented a scooter and embarked on an adventure through time. Up the mountain we drove, past tiny white-washed churches and up above the capital city and its prehistoric carved lion. Wind battered us and threatened to knock us from the plateau. Sand blew in our eyes to hide the way but we would not be deterred. We drove past stubborn mules and fought herds of cows for space on the road.  Finally we found an old half-dirt road that led to the trailhead.

We walked by stone walls built three thousand years ago to separate the tame from the wild. We walked under trees heavy with figs, pomegranates and lemons. We walked past skittish horses and their homes made of stacked stones. We walked past thirsty bees and scrubby bushes flush with pink flowers. We walked past secret caves and sacred springs. On and on we walked. The wild and the time didn’t seem so different after three thousand years.

An hour later we emerged on a beach. Three men labored to repair an ancient theater and a long-dry water cistern despite the sun and the wind. To our left we saw two temples on a thrust of land that stuck out into the sea like a stone battleship. We climbed the twisting marble steps to the temples at the top, as men and women did 2,500 years ago to worship their gods. 

We reached the temple at the top of the hill and entered the Propylon. The archeologists have replaced only a few marble slabs so it has its original shape: a box of fluted pillars, made to cage only wind and shade. We approached the temple of Athena and its wall of pillars that have crumbled to waist height. The archeologists rebuilt a few of them to help less imaginative minds marvel at what 2,500 hundred years of rain and wind can do to stone.

From there we could see the Aegean foaming with waves interrupted by distant islands. They say tragedy was invented in Greece. And with islands on the horizon, I felt compelled to swim out into the sea and explore but to do so would be to lose myself to the sea, and add another page to Poseidon’s book of tragedy.

We descended from Athena’s domain to worship at Apollo’s temple. They say it was the most important place in Karthea. It was set on a point of the landmass that felt like it was stretching out over the ocean, the prow of the ship. The temple collapsed long ago, and Christians, surely overwhelmed with the power of the place buried their dead with the marble bricks that once housed Apollo.

Further we descended until we reached the beach, desolate save for us and the seagulls hiding from the wind. There was no one around save my beautiful wife and Apollo and Athena, watching us from their ancient temples built upon this thrust of rock that separated the twin beaches, so I threw my clothes to the beach and walked into the Aegean to feel the ocean upon my naked flesh.

It was cold. Powerful. Marvelous. A sea nymph in the body of a fish beckoned me to join her with a tailfin waving lazily above the ocean waves, so in I dove. As I surfaced from the cold sea my lungs burned and I reveled in just being alive. Perhaps I would have followed that fish into the sea and joined the watery domain of the Poseidon’s sirens, but a beautiful goddess beckoned me back to land with a towel and a sandwich. She convinced me to put my clothes back on and return to civilization with her. She’s with me now, sitting across the table, and has cast a powerful spell on me. I love this woman, who makes me food and keeps me warm, and will continue to so long as my lungs draw air. Such is the power of the spell she has cast upon my heart, a spell strong enough to pull me halfway ‘round the world and out of the ocean.

I still surrender to her magic every time I look upon her.

If you liked this post check out more in Greece, or come to Rome or Vienna with us!

Scooter on Syros

 

 

The Babe on the beach.

In a day on Syros you can see lost mountains, explore ancient villages, lounge in a funky beach town, and sip pineapple juice as you watch the sunset. And all you need is 15 Euros for a scooter, and a phone to call George. That was who I was currently talking to.

“I pick you and we drive to get scooter. Your hotel?” George said. I trusted this proposition because he’d paid for a signboard in town. I assume human traffickers don’t advertise.



The Beard on his beast, Flytrap

Er… we’re staying at someone’s house, not a hotel.

“I don’t understand. Your hotel name?”

Can you just meet us at the Express Mart in Finikas?

“I don’t understand. Your hotel?”

Express Mart! Finikas.

“I don’t understand. Express Mart? Finikas? Thirty minutes?”

Yes! Express Mart! Finikas! Thirty minutes is great!

“I drive red car.”

**click**

Thirty minutes later and I’m pacing back and forth in front of the Express Mart. Is that his car? What about that one? Do you think that’s him?

“That car’s blue. That’s a bus. That’s a cat.” Raquel is nothing if not patient.

Finally George pulled up in—as promised—a red car. We piled in and drove off to rent a scooter. Raquel chose a blue one, and named it Fly-trap after what it would turn our mouths into, and we were off, albeit briefly. It seems 15 euros doesn’t exactly cover gasoline. But there’s not much better in life than a full tank of gas and nothing to but explore, so we paid the seven euroes it cost to fill Flytrap’s tank and vowed to discover every nook of the island.



Aloe in Anos Syros

The island of Syros is beautiful in May. Daisies and lavender bushes fight for the attention of honeybees. Goats and sheep lost in a maze of meter-tall rock walls munch on lush grass already starting to turn yellow. Blocky houses with funky arches and courtyards shaded by grape vines crowd together in the valleys and a whitewashed church trimmed in blue sits on top of almost every hill. It’s breathtaking and wonderful and feels very much alive.   

Our first stop was Anos Syros, a town atop a hill built in the 13^th century by the Phoenicians. It overlooks the city of Hermopolis, and doted on by the locals. They all insisted that to not go and wander the streets was to not experience Syros.

So we parked Fly-trap near a marble staircase and looked towards the top of the town. A sandy colored church poked out of a mess of houses, laundry lines and gardens. With no clear way to the top, we meandered in. Up and up we climbed, through a labyrinth of courtyards, potted flowers and hidden tavernas. We smelled women cooking, heard children practicing the violin, and saw men painting and repairing mortar, readying the town for summer. We climbed past them all, under tiny arches, up crooked staircases, and over sleeping cats until we arrived at the church at the top of the hill.

The Babe got us lost

We caught our breath, let our grins tire themselves out and started our descent back down.

Wait, did we go this way, or that way?

“Ooh look a kitty!”

Wow that’s a beautiful view!

“Look another cat!”

We emerged from Anos Syros completely disoriented and a good hundred vertical meters below where we had left Flytrap. To take the obvious path would be easily a kilometer of snaking, highly trafficked road, so we braved the labrynth again to try to find our way out. After a painfully long climb up a staircase that meandered through wildflowers and brick ruins, we were back in the medieval hilltop town. Like  and the minotaur, I kept my hand on the right wall, and we found our way out.

Feeling foolishly accomplished, there was nothing left to do but explore the rest of the island.

So on we drove, around blind turns and cliff-hugging bumpy roads until we reached the church of St. Michalis on the far end of the island. There was nothing but a big black rock, fields of flowers and a farm with perhaps two dozen beehives. Our curiosity quenched we headed south to the town of Kini, where we did nothing but swim, nap on the beach, and eat fresh anchovies from the Aegean Sea. We watched the silhouette of a lone fisherman cast his line against the sun set of a perfect day.

 
In you enjoyed this post, there's more! Click for the people of Greece or here for the cats of Syros!

Greek Restaraunts and Waiters

 

Greek food is amazing. Everyone knows feta and olives but there’s much more to the cuisine. We’ve had roasted anchovies, crispy croquettes, lemony fish soup, and cucumber salads. Dining in Greece is also great because of the waiters. Everywhere we’ve been, except for one amazing bakery run by a grumpy baker, we’ve been treated as honored guests to be fattened and entertained.  

Crispy croquettes

It’s good to travel with Raquel because she eats half of my plate while I eat hers. The best meal we’ve had thus far was veal slow cooked with fresh green beans in tomato sauce and a massive hunk of mousaka. Raquel said the veal was so tender it fell apart when you looked at it, the green beans popped when sprinkled with feta, but we agreed the best was the mousaka. Potatoes and eggplant were roast to perfection then layered with spicy minced meat, house made tomato sauce, and topped with a layer of creamy béchamel sauce and (surprise) a sprinkling of feta. It was then put in the oven just until the top turned all brown and crispy. I know the ingredients and how it was prepared because when our waiter saw that we’d licked our plates clean he thanked us profusely, and when I told him it was even better than my dad’s mousaka, he proceeded to tell us, in perhaps too much detail, all of his secrets for the next fifteen minutes.

Fried fresh anchovies (better than the sardines)

There must be a fraternity the waiters join, and if you speak Greek to them they’re forced to lavish you in kindness. At a seafood restaurant on the island of Kea a waiter saw us looking at the menu and practically dragged us to the back of the place to look at the fresh fish.

Looks delicious! But we just ate.

He didn’t care. He knew we’d be back, we’d seen the fish after all.

We returned the same night and were greeted by the same man. He helped us pick out a scorpion fish (I like to eat strange things, and scorpion fish look strange) and two delicious red fish whose name I have forgotten. The scorpion fish has a texture something like crab and a rich almost meaty taste. Raquel could not stop eating its cheeks. The other fish was light, flaky and crispy with salt and I cannot remember because I thanked one of the waiters in Greek, and he practically fell over in delight. Soon as we finished our fish we were presented Mastiha. I tried to ask the waiter exactly what it was to which he simply asked, “You know Mastih? It is made of Mastih!” It is so delicious that Raquel actually drinks it, perhaps too quickly for when the waiter saw our empty glasses he snapped his fingers and they were refilled. Raquel slid her second shot of this wonderful drink to me (she’s still a lightweight, no matter how good the booze) and I proceeded to become pleasantly inebriated. On our way out we thanked our hosts, efharisto, to which they added, efharisto poly, or thank you very much. A meal and a language lesson. Marvelous.

Amazing rabbit and onions. Notice the
falling-off-the-bone quality

But our best host was a man in Hermopolis. He was thin and goateed and did everything with a flourish, whether it was pouring wine or clearing plates. He recommended the rabbit, and we thankfully listened to his suggestion. It came with caramelized pearl onions and pile of fried potatoes. We rounded out the meal with a bowl of fat fresh beans topped in feta and white wine. The rabbit was savory and decadent and was accented by the sweetness from the caramelized onions which popped in your mouth, braising the rabbit in their juices with each bite. Between morsels of rabbit we scooped up the beans and feta with our fried potatoes and watched our waiter. The only time he wasn’t singing was when he was acting like a monster to make little children laugh, doing pratfalls when he banged his head against the signboard, or clearing a table, an activity he liked to do without a tray, much to the chagrin of the other waitress, who would follow him to be sure he didn’t drop anything. He repaid her assistance by placing a potted plant on her tray anytime she got too close. Maybe it was just the wine, but we found it all hilarious.

And what’s better than a fine meal served with a personal touch? A week of them.

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Click for a quick Greek lesson to earn free snacks  or for food in Austria!

 

Speak Greek

 

The Bear

“It’s all Greek to me,” I joked, looking at the funny letters that look like ours but don’t sound like them. We were in japan a year, and any attempts to learn the language were met with giggles and embarrassment, so why bother in Greece? It’s not like I’ll be able to get any sort of handle on the language in two weeks, and what will learning a few phrases really do?

Turns out that a few words in Greek have earned Raquel and I all sorts of goodies.

First, a disclaimer. I can’t read Greek, neither can you probably, so my translations are all just the sounds of Spanish. So think adios amigos not goodbye my friends.

We were given our first lesson in Greek from the first restaurant we went to. I asked the waiter how to say thank you, and he told us, efharisto, then spent the rest of the evening teaching us greek spelling on our table cloth. He was great. He’d write down a phrase, then vanish and let us absorb it, then as soon as we’d glance his way he’d be back at the table, checking our pronunciation. After the meal and the lesson I told him efharisto for everything. So impressed he was he brought us mastiha a sweet herb flavored digestif. It was perfect after a meal of spiced meatballs and mousaka. Raquel spent her entire time on the subway telling me how good it made her tummy feel.

The next phrase we learned was yasas, which means cheers and is good for hello or goodbye. We tried out this handy phrase in a little bakery. It earned us free sesame seed crusted pretzels and a big smile from the shopkeeper.

Of course, when learning all of this greek, you may get in over your head. This happened to us in the town of Finikas, when at a Taverna (spelled Tabepna in Greek). We ordered in greek, feta parakolo, or feta please, and the waiter proceeded to interrogate us in his mother tongue. I understood not a word, but the waiter figured this out soon enough and switched to English. Half a bottle of wine later and I was drinking tsipouro with the Frenchmen at the table next to us. Siporo is distilled white wine and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would take something as good as greek white wine and turn it into something as repulsive as tsipouro. Fortunately the waiter noticed my distressed and brought Raquel and I rakomelo, which is the same vile liquor that’s been boiled with cinnamon and honey, and is marvelous.

After that drunken debacle I learned the next phrase. Milate Anglica? Or, you-speaka-da-english? This one earned us chocolate at a coffee shop one day and cheaper cups of coffee the next. Seriously I think they just like spoiling young Americans.

But perhaps the most powerful phrase in my limited vocabulary is roharismo parakalo. Which means simply, “check please.” If you learn anything besides yasas, I’d focus on this one. I always say it at the end of the meal and the waiters seem unable to help but bring us desert. I’ve earned us yogurt with figs and honey this way, a coconut custard that was quite tasty and two pieces of something like flan, one of which was coated in lavender syrup and the other in a pomegranate reduction. Ambrosia, and all thanks to asking for the check in Greek. I think the waiters appreciate an attempt at the language, and can’t help but feed us a little bit more.

The Babe and the Beard

But then again, I could be full of crap. The locals have told us they haven’t seen Americans here in years, and everyone might be being nice just so we’ll spread the good word. Either that or they’re trying to get at my wife. Aw well, at least they know enough to try to get me drunk while they’re doing it.

 

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Use that Greek at a great restaurant or perhaps while you explore the island of Syros!

Cafes, Pastries and Melange in Austria

 

“In Austria, it’s all about the whipped cream,” my aunt Sharon says as she sips her mélange.

 Mélange, in all its creamy glory 

They serve it with everything in Austria, sacher torte, strudel, coffee, everything. Viennese waiters with too much pride will ask if you want whipped cream with a raise of an eyebrow, a waggle of their mustache, daring you to decline. Say no to the forthcoming mountain of whipped cream, and risk offending them and their centuries old culture, but then again, do as you wish, because your very existence has already pissed them off.

Apple strudel, coffee and cream

The Viennese cafes in particular are equipped with an arrogance so refined its almost breathtaking. One waitress dropped the money we gave her, scoffed at us, and tapped her foot impatiently while my aunt scrambled to pick up the loose bills. Another waiter, when confronted with two loud-mouthed Americans and their traitorous Viennese relative, demanded how long we’d need the table before letting us sit down. Thirty minutes we told him, and he held us to the number, for when twenty minutes had passed and we asked for the check, he waived us away, convinced that we were still enjoying the ambiance and his ice-cold presence.

 

In Graz the arrogance is more under control. My aunt took Raquel and me to a tiny café, and when Raquel asked (GASP!) what one of the pastries was the waitress smiled and indulgently told us the name and ingredients of every fantastic confection behind the glass. And when Raquel decided on the very first one the woman had named, she served us with a smile and a raised eyebrow, daring me to put whipped cream in my coffee.

The coffee in Austria is as delicious as the confections. In Vienna, be sure you order the mélange. It’s no different from a cappuccino, but to order such a refined drink in vulgar Italian risks being ostracized. In Graz ordering a cappuccino doesn’t invoke the same visceral reaction, but to order a mélange tells the server you’ve been to the capital city, something Austrians respect, even if only because they know you’ve strolled through Schonbrunn and dealt with a café far snobbery than theirs.  

Esterhozy, mélange, and poppyseed cake

But worry not intrepid traveler! All said snobbery is worth the confectionary perfection. For to be in Austria and not taste sacher torte or apfel strudel is a sin of carelessness most egregious. To not venture out and sample esterhozy--a slice of almond and cognac invented by angels in Hungary--or the dense mashed poppy seed cake my cousin can’t stop eating is a lapse of judgment as foolish as admiring the grand canyon with one’s eyes closed.

So dine on! Walk into a café, peruse the delights behind the glass, and trust they taste as good as they look. Remember that to fear being snubbed is folly. Those sneers and scoffs of the Viennese are much deserved. Your waiter is old enough to have served Kaisers and Kings. You’re but a tourist taking up space at a table once reserved for royalty.

Want more Austrian adventures? Click for meat, taboos, or here for food from my year in Japan.

The Beard, The Babe, and The Bear

From where I sit above Vienna I can see old bearded Austrians hobble past young Muslims lost in conversation amongst red-brick buildings. To think that 24 hours ago I was eating a box of bento—rice, fried fish paste and steamed vegetables—on the floor of a train station in Tokyo boggles my mind. My wife Raquel and I finished a year spent teaching in Takayama Japan and decided to strap our stuffed bear Kumamon to one of our backpacks, and spend two months in Europe. 

Eating on the floor in Japan is certainly more agreeable with the locals than walking while you eat, but typically frowned upon when done in a train station. Yet we were given no hassle, for Kumamon was with us. Locals tried to frown when they saw two westerners shoveling their faces between trains, but inevitably failed when they saw his fat black belly and rosy red cheeks. Frowns faded as the passersby mumbled “Kumamon,” from goofy smiles. It seemed that deciding to take a stuffed animal as our only carry-on item besides a backpack each was a great idea.

But that all changed.

The three of us landed in the Dubai airport after a tiring yet sleepless 12 flight from Tokyo. After a year living amongst a sea of Japanese salary men, the diversity of the airport boggled my mind. I saw men in turbans and women in scarves, gnarled beards, styled mustached, business suits, bindies and baseball caps on hair of every style growing from skin of every color. The only thing all these people had in common was their distrust of the two Americans sauntering through the airport with a stuffed bear. 

People woke from their naps just to roll over and turn their backs on us. Mothers warned their children to keep their distance and husbands told their wives wait to take a picture until the cheerless ambiance of the enormous international airport could return.

After an hour of listless wandering, it was time to fly to Vienna. We queued up, inched forward, presented our boarding pass and were promptly told to get out of line. A hundred people walked past us, their tickets brokering them no troubles. We kept smiles on our faces and Kumamon bounced happily in Raquel’s arms but the passing crowd was not amused. As people filed onto the plane, stares grew from distrust to suspicion to downright horror. I know they were all thinking the same thing. “There’s a bomb in that bear.”

“Your seats changed, I didn’t have a printer,” the flight attendant said with a grin, not even apologizing for how sweaty the delay had made us. We piled onto the plane, plopped down with Kumamon, and prepared for the praise to come for our travelling companion.

Instead we were greeted with a cold smile from a European flight attendant, and told to stuff our teddy bear in the overhead so we could take off.

Teddy bear? We looked at eachother. TEDDY BEAR? We would never travel with a teddy bear! But then our eyes alit on sweet sweet Kumamon and we realized that she was indeed talking to us.

So I’ll miss Japan, with its bowing businessman and silly characters, but we’re ready for a new adventure, this one with a cast of three lead characters and countless bit parts that will come and go. So stay tuned to see who we meet, and what they have to say about my beard, my beautiful wife, and lil’ Kumamon.  

If you liked this post, follow our adventures in Europe or find out about my year in Japan.