Tuesday, March 13, 2007

The Bitterness of Mistaken Memories

Since enjoying myself among the cliffs of Meteora, I have ventured out to Crete and have crashed back to Athens, trying hard to find the Greece of two years ago, the Greece which I loved. From Meteora I caught a train to Athens, and not wanting to waste time in Athens I headed directly to Piraeus, Athen's main port, to see what ferry I could catch, and to where. I had the option of heading out to the Cyclades that afternoon, a beautiful island chain smack dab in the middle of the Aegean, or an overnight ferry to Crete, the large island of Greece, and basically the last island you would reach until coming upon the sands of Egypt or Libya. Since I'd never been to Crete, but had been to the Cyclades, I opted for Crete. The ferry ride, all nine hours of it, was surprisingly easy as I was able to secure a corner of a couch for myself to sleep on, and did so for the majority of the trip, and when I awoke we were at the gates of the Port of Souda. Souda, and it's larger neighbor, Hania, which is where I was heading to, have seen plenty of wartime violence over the last hundred years, beginning with the Cretan revolution against the occupying Turks. This successful revolution ended with the four Great Powers: England, France, Italy, and Russia, who had anchored in the port of Souda, granting Crete their liberty from their former Ottoman rulers, and established the island as an extension of Greece. And during WWII Crete was used as a strategic air base for the Nazis, and subsequently cities like Hania, Crete's former capital, saw large amounts of shelling, some of which is still visible today. The history of the area, and the sharp, jagged rocks which pointed from the sea like teeth, gave me an initial excitement about Crete. And this excitement was not subdued when I first saw the Old Venetian port of Hania, a beautiful, peaceful harbour surrounded by ancient coral walls and inhabited by winding, brightly painted alleys.

I had arrived in the early hours of the day, 6 am to be exact, so naturally it was to be expected for the town to be somewhat dead. But this trend continued throughout the day, except for the frequent groups of construction workers redeveloping the touristy interior. And everywhere I walked I saw and heard nothing but English. Where had all the Greeks gone? The Cretans? Where was the Cretan soul I had read so much about in Kazantzakis' novels? None of it remained, and in its place stood the bright tavernas and their hawkers out front, catcalling at those who walked by ("Hello, my friend! Fresh fish!", "Hello, my friend! Sexy donuts!").

Discouraged by Hania's lack of character I took a bus the next day to Rethymno, hoping to find Hania the exception, not the norm. I checked into the hostel and walked around the town, initially encouraged by the heavy traffic and occasional Greek that I heard. But quickly I realized that Rethymno was even worse than Hania. At least Hania had a few bars I could attempt to drown my boredom in, but Rethymno had none, only a gelato stand ("Hello my friend!) surrounded by a ghost town. Already frustrated I returned to the hostel, not knowing how I could survive on Crete for a week, which had been my initial plan. Furthermore I grew increasingly more angry when I noticed that the strap on my backpack had a serious fray, and was threatening to snap in the next few days. So doing what any angry traveller would have done, I turned my back on Crete and grabbed my bag, left the hostel, took the next bus back to Hania, and the next boat (another overnight ferry) back to Athens.

I knew that two overnight ferries in three nights would only increase my misery, but I had no idea what I was in store for. As soon as we had left Souda, screaming winds and high, choppy seas, made our cruise liner boat feel like a dinghy, and not two hours into the boat ride did I notice that all of the women and children, and many of the men as well, had fled to the toilets, emptying their tumultuous stomachs all over the toilets, the seats, and even the counter tops. I can't explain how disgusted I was with this bizarre spectacle, and it only increased my frustrations, and left my bladder moaning in pain because of my reluctance to enter the soiled restrooms. And so it went all night, the boat rocking back and forth, slamming against the huge seas, and the sound of belching and the sour stench of vomit emanating from the nearby toilets.

I have never been so relieved to have placed my two feet upon dry land, and the littered streets and dilapidated buildings of Piraeus seemed like a paradise! From the port I caught the metro back to Athens and easily found a hostel who recommended a shoe-repair shop for my failing backpack, and after I was able to shower off the memories of last night's trip, my spirits were as high as could be, seeing as I hadn't slept in two days. Having the afternoon to kill, I discovered that the Acropolis was free on Sundays, and so I battled the crowds of Italian and American tourists ("We're on Spring Break! He He!") to catch a glimpse of my favorite sight of Athens. Surprisingly, my favorite sight is not the Acropolis as many would assume, how could it be? When I first visited it just after the Olympics it was covered in scaffolding, and that same scaffolding remains today. No, my favorite sight is Lykavittos Hill, and the Acropolis offers fantastic views of this conical mound of dirt, looking like a crooked cap placed snugly on the crown of Athens.

But no sooner had I leaned against the walls of the Acropolis, gazing out at my hill, did the winds pick up and send the caps of tourists and hair of the young females ("OmiGod! You cannot take a picture of me now! What will they think on facebook?!!") flying through the air. Apparently the stiff winds of the Aegean had followed me here to the Parthenon, and I descended the hill to escape their strength and the ancient dust they threw into eyes and ears. Because of the winds I had not spent much time upon the Acropolis, and found myself strolling along the pedestrian quarters between Monastiraki and Syntagma districts, when a small, bald-headed Greek man stopped me, pointing to his wrist, presumably asking for the time. I obligingly showed him my watch and began to move on when he suddenly shot, in English "So where you from?" After telling him he continued, "Ah, I have uncle in Seattle! Live thirty-five years in Seattle! Very beautiful! My name is Nikolas. Come! Come! I must show you picture he send me!" And he grabbed my arm and led me towards a square filled with small cafes and restaurants. To those back home, this would already send a shock of fear into you, but in the Balkans, especially in Yugoslavia, this kind of hospitality is most certainly genuine, and their close nature does not make it taboo for a man to lead another man by the arm. In fact this was quite normal, and so I had gotten used to it. But this was not Yugoslavia I had to remind myself, this was Greece, ...and most importantly... this was Athens. Leading me into a bar tucked away in the shade of a courtyard, he said "This is my cafe/bar. Come! Have a seat! You want drink! Bartender one beer!" "No no!" I protested, becoming increasingly apprehensive, and so I lied. "I don't drink alcohol." But without hesitating the bartender poured me a glass of Fanta, and started a conversation with me. Soon I had noticed that the man had disappeared, and in his place came a girl who took a seat next to me, also seemingly very eager to slip into the conversation. With my guard still up, but with no reason to leave, we chatted about hometowns and travels, when the girl next to me suddenly changed the topic. "So, how bout drink? For us? Just one little drink?" This was what I had been afraid of, and red lights and sirens started erupting in my head like a circus. "A drink? For you? Why would I do that?" Checking out of the corner of my eye I saw two guys who had taken a subtle interest in where this was going, and immediately I was sure that I was about to get stuck deep in a scam. I had heard about these scams from other travellers, but they had all involved other cities like Bratislava or Budapest; I hadn't heard much about Athens. But how this scam was supposed to unfold was when I'd finished having a good time with these friendly girls I'd ask for my bill in a drunken haze, only to find out that a 30 or 40 euro bill has been ballooned to a 400 or 500 euro bill! But the bill doesn't come alone, but is couriered by two or three intimidating guys who are willing to push the limits to collect. So...back to where I was, I asked her "A drink? For you two? Why?" and was plotting my escape at the moment as well. But without letting her answer I said with a smile to ease the rising tensions, "Oh what the hell! Why not? Two shots!" The two girls were all smiles, and as the one behind the bar bent down to grab the bottle of liquor, and the two guys had resumed sipping their drinks, I stood up and bolted out the door! Looking behind me I saw that the two guys were making an attempt to follow me, but when I had reached the square, which was filled with enough people, I told them I would call the police, and pointed to a nearby pay phone to prove my point. Getting my point, they turned around and went back to their bar, leaving me both filled with adrenaline but also fuming at the same time. Who says that Western Europe is safer than the Eastern European blocks?

Besides that experience, I've found Athens to be increasingly depressing and frustrating, and filled with ten-folds more tourists than the last time I had come. I hate it, I despise it, because with their fat wallets and fanny packs they bring thieves like the ones I had met, pickpockets and scammers of all kinds, and drive local prices through the roof, leaving a traveller like me chewing his lip in a look of bitter frustration. And what's more frustrating is how long I will be stuck here in Athens. To continue my journey through Turkey and into Syria I had to obtain a Syrian visa, and the only way to do that was to mail my passport back to the United States, and I don't know when it will return, if ever. Could be a week, two weeks, three, or even four. And for that whole time I shall have to bear witness to the painful transformations which have taken Greece by storm, leaving me with my fading memories of a Greece gone dry.

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