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!

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!

The People of Greece

Thus far, my favorite thing in Greece, besides the food of course, is the people. Everyone here is boisterous, loud, and almost honest to a fault. Most people are very friendly, but some, well, it’s not that they’re mean, it’s just that they don’t sugarcoat anything for foolish Americans.

Right now we’re staying in the town of Finikas on the island of Syros. There is a bakery in town that is amazing. We’ve gone every day thus far, yet we’re still regarded with suspicion. The first day I sauntered in and yelled a loud, “howdy!” much to Raquel’s dismay. A plump older woman came out and I proceeded to interrogate her about her savory pies.

What’s that?

“Cheese feta.”

Uh-huh. And what’s that?

“Spinach-feta”

Interesting. But what’s that?”

“Zucchini-cheese,” she said as she gritted her teeth.

Raquel interjected before the woman baked me into a pie. “We’ll take a feta and a spinach, thanks!” Outside she told me “You can’t do that!”

How am I supposed to know which one I want?

“Just… don’t ask about more than three, OK?”

I follow Raquel’s rule, but neither the proprietress nor I am happy about it. Too many questions for her and not enough for me. Yet, despite my questions, on the third day Raquel actually got her to smile. She squeaked or chirped when the lady handed us our pastries the woman melted her like a piece of feta in one of her delicious pies. But the next day her scowl was back and fiercer than ever. 

I’m not convinced it’s my questioning though. For she’s not the only person on this island that regards us with suspicion. My mantra when travelling is always, “do I look like a tourist? Do I look like a tourist?” to which, on Syros at least, Raquel responds, “yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, stop asking.” One evening, when sharing drinks with a Frenchmen named Fred at a Taverna, the white wine made Raquel brave enough to ask about our predicament. Fred and his Greek companion were happy to explain.

“No one wears hats here,” the Greek said from beneath the brim of his canvas fisherman’s hat.

“Oui, you look like a cowboy,” said Fred who sported a bright red and blue hat of his own.

Ok, so perhaps a straw hat and a denim long sleeved shirt with suede shoulders isn’t the best choice. But what’s a man to do? I gotta protect my skin and that was the only shirt on the island Raquel liked!

“But why do they stare at me?” Raquel asked, “Is it because I have a tattoo?” That hipster wife of mine. Even in Greece, she can’t help but flash her ink.

The Greek regarded her coolly, “everyone here has tattoos. It’s your skirt.”

All eyes went to my wife’s legs.

“People don’t dress in long skirts anymore. You look like something from history.”

“And that color!” said Fred, “you look like an Indian.”

“Yeah! A cowboy and an Indian!” The Greek said and the pair of them died laughing, not the least bit concerned they had offended us.

And I like that. So come to Greece, relax, and don’t worry. If you do something stupid, the locals won’t hesitate to let you know.

If you like this post there's more! Visit Austrian cafés or a Japanese bar!  

Meat in Austria

The sound of crisp, freshly fallen bacon under foot. The playful shadows of the bratwurst branches. The glisten of a thin ham leaf, daring you to climb the breaded Weiner schnitzel tree trunk ever higher. The ham forest is the dream of Austria, to visit here and not embrace it, will leave you hungry.

Leave your vegetarianism at the border. It’s true you could survive off of coffee and sweets, but to deny yourself meat while in Austria makes about as much sense as not visiting the cathedrals. Both are magnificent, ubiquitous, culturally significant, and more fun than preachy vegetarians or atheists.   

Noble ham, why do the poets do not praise thee?
Is it because when they eat their mind gets lazy?

My first taste of meat in Austria came from simple ham. My cousin insisted we get it for breakfast. After a year in japan, I thought that ham for breakfast sounded absurd and gluttonous, but my taste buds disagreed. The first bite of salty, cured perfection brought tears to my eyes. I ate and wept and generally prayed to the Pig Gods for making their flesh so delicious.

And that was just the start of my meat-venture.

Late last Friday night, the rave taking place in a courtyard between two art museums was just winding down. Through twisty streets and hidden staircases we stumbled until we arrived at a dance club inside the emperor’s former stable that served sausages in its hallowed halls.

I sauntered up to the counter ordered a käsekrainer and waited for the guy behind the counter to serve me between his fierce dance moves. Käsekrainer is a sausage stuffed with cheese, and is even better than it sounds. I smeared the juicy meat in mustard, put it on a thick slice of rye bread, and piled fresh horseradish on top.

Perfection, or so I thought until the next day.

 leberkäse, pulled pork, and beer

For that was when I ate leberkäse which translates to liver cheese, though is neither. It is bits of leftover pork and beef mixed together and baked until it has a crunchy crust. I had it cut into a thick slab and served on rye bread with mustard. My cousin insists it’s a man’s food. If this is indeed the case then I am as manly as they come, for that first bite of leberkäse completed me. Its texture is similar to bologna, but with a crunchy crust. The piece I had was studded with pumpkin seeds, and the nutty bite punctuated the smoky richness of the meat wonderfully. Surely there could be no better!

Yet again, I was mistaken.

A buschenschank is where every meat-venture through Austria must end. It’s a small farm or vineyard that only serves house-made food and booze. This means that your bretteljause—a cutting board overflowing with cured meats, fresh cheeses, and hard sausage—is always cold, and can only be consumed with house made wine and schnapps.

I insist you consume the wine and schnapps, for I did not, and I suffered mightily because of the bratelfett. Bratelfett is a mound of rendered fat that is best eaten on bread with a slice of ham and a pile of fresh horse radish. It is rich. It is wonderful. It’s like eating butter made of bacon. I loved it. And hence, I should have drunk the schnapps. For I had only wine, so I awoke the next morning clutching my chest at the pork fat that had congealed inside of my arteries.

There is a treatement: gurktaler apfenkrauter, an herbed liquor that tastes like dandelion whiskey, which, while not necessarily a bad thing, is not the most pleasant way to start a morning. I survived, but many beers were needed to sustain the digestion.

So, come to Austria, explore the ham forest, but be sure to keep a flask of schnapps handy, in case you climb to the most succulent branches of Austrian cuisine.


The dreaded yet delicious bratelfett

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Check out coffee culture or taboos in Austria. Or keep eating farther east with food from Japan.