Sunsets and Bookshops

Gardner Gould – (written about 7/22/8 ) Oia, Santorini

After leaving Matt on our retro tour boat, I mount another few hundred stairs. These stairs switchback up the cliff face of Oia. Here’s a map so you can see where it is (think north). Also, look south for Perissa; it’s where our hostel is.

Santorini is most famous for two things: blowing up (included in this point is the dramatic geography that resulted), and having beautiful sunsets. The best place to watch the sunset is supposed to be Oia. The plan for my evening is to witness one of these stunning transitions.

I crest the caldera around 5 or 5:30. I slug down my last warm inch of “reclaimed” water (sea water that has had most of the salt removed; some of the islands do a better job than others… Santorini could do better), and I search out the cheapest market for juice. I settle on an orange, blood orange, grapefruit blend– very refreshing– and I cast about in hopes of entertainment. Oia turns out to be pretty ritzy so there are a few mildly interesting art shops, but for the most part it’s shelves of Santorini kitsch.

I wind through the thin streets noticing an old footlocker of €2 books. I finished Lolita a day ago– providence. A good portion are in English, but there is nothing readable. I look up at the shingle over the door, The Atlantis Bookshop. The shop is half a story underground. A spiral staircase leads down, past the bargain books, into a quirky domed room. I hover at the threshold because bookshops intimidate me a little bit. Considering I’m the son of an English teacher/writer maybe I could be better read and all that. The moment of self doubt passes, when I hear a Polyphonic Spree record cue up inside. I am traveling without an iPod so a beloved song can coax me into doing just about anything. Plus, I love Atlantian myth.

Inside the central room has three smaller semi domes bubbling out from it. The books wrap floor to dome curving around every wall. It has a magic that I would associate with a medieval stronghold of knowledge, but laid back. It’s something like a cross between Bell’s library in Beauty and the Beast and a hobbit hole. I sift through books without a plan beyond pulling authors I’ve been told to read.

I realize the two young proprietors are Americans/Canadians. We have a short exchange about Polyphonic Spree. “See everybody likes the American music,” one says to the other. I admit that the music was pivotal in getting me through the door.

I turn back to the books. A minute or two later, Brian, the more gregarious of the two comes over. “Do you need a hand with anything?” He’s a shorter man in cords, thin glasses, and a worn t-shirt. His defined yet boyish face could be anywhere from early twenties to 32. Youthful confidence can be so hard to peg sometimes.

“I’m just looking. It’s part of the fun right?” I ask myself as much as him.

“Well, I am a professional,” he smiles encouragingly. “So if you want any help…”

I glance back to the sea of books. “I just finished my book, and I need a new one.”

“What’s your genre?”

I shrug, “I’m really just trying to fill in my holes. Maybe something fast?”

He nods in approval, and he’s off. “What’s your price range?”

“Less than 10 would be great.” I soon have an armload of books. I sit down to work through my stack. Brian, a self admitted “philosophy nut” puts in a serious bid for Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard. It’s as if he tries to hold back his opinion, and then, due to some internal argument, he redoubles over his own reservations about telling the customer what to buy.

I spend a good 10 minutes with each book, and I copy down a number of titles and authors for future investigation. I revel in my productive distraction; the sunset will be here in no time.

I decide to go with the Kierkegaard, most of all, because I’ve always thought of myself as a none philosophy type. Strange, I know, but If there’s a situation, other than school, that will empower me to muscle my way through a dense non-narrative text it’s traveling. Brian is so excited about “my” choice that he gives me a discount.

I leave with a definite fondness for the Atlantis Bookshop. I wonder what it would be like to live on Santorini for a summer? Unlike the Pink Palace or Ios, I could see myself staying happily for an extended time. I’d become friends with the bookshop boys, party occasionally, work vaguely, watch sunsets, and swim a lot.

Not my picture, but it was my vantage point.

I take my new book to the ruined fort on the edge of Oia. I throw myself into the brain busting, and I look up every page or so to take in the sunset. It doesn’t disappoint. I suppose it might be nice to have fewer tourists. Still, all the people give the moment a little extra energy, and they turn it into an event.

After the sunset every applauds. It’s a little cheesy, but it’s a little fun too. There will be time for quite contemplative sunsets later.

I head to the bus, and I eat my delicious leftovers from lunch. Another good day.

If You’re Going……to San…tor…ini….

ML – Internet Cafe #102

We woke up early (too early for me) for our ferry from Ios to Santorini. I spent the journey in a daze. Burnt out from multiple nights of Ios partying, I took refuge in my ipod, which purely by luck presented me with a number of wonderful comfort songs in a row. I closed my eyes, drifted away with the music, and before I knew it, my headache was gone and people were disembarking.

Santorini is a more grown up island than Ios. There are lots of beautiful beaches, peaceful hills, sleepy towns, and tasty restaurants. There are also a gaggle of beach bars that extort large sums of money to use their lounge chairs, but provide you with colorful cocktails stuffed with spirits.

Our Hostel was located in Perissa Beach, also known as the Black Beach. The sand looked like over-sized poppy seeds. The water was saltier than salt, and topless bathers were abound. We decided to take it easy in Santorini, since we’d partied so hard in Ios, but that didn’t stop us from rocking out with our new friends. You see, that’s the thing about our hostel, there’s this great chill-out area where everyone can sit and meet and drink, and then around 12 go out and party like it’s 1999.

Our first day, we found out that there were three beaches on Santorini — A Black Beach, a Red Beach, and a White Beach. We were determined to collect sand from all three to send home to our mothers, so after scooping some up on the black beach, we headed out to Red.

In order to save money on a second bus (the first bus driver’s “language barrier” ripped us off) we chose to walk the 2.5 kilometers to the red beach. But somewhere along the way, I think we made a wrong turn. We ended up walking through this dusty quarry with huge powdery walls (20-40 feet high) that felt so fragile that one swift kick would send the whole thing crashing onto us. Fortunately, they held, and after over an hour trucking along through dusty paths and grape patches, we emerged onto…

…Another black beach. Crap. We got more bad directions from someone sitting on the porch of their bungalow and ended up walking farther away from Red Beach.

And then something kind of weird happened. All of a sudden, as we’re walking along, everyone was naked. Like dudes standing around with their shlongs hanging out. And I’m like, “Huh…that’s funny…I don’t remember there being a sign for a nude beach. After a half mile headed this way

——>

We come to a sign, and the sign says

NUDES ONLY
THIS WAY
<——

Thanks for the heads up, chief.

The next morning we were headed for the VOLCANO!

When we woke up (after a night of torture from Mr. Snoresville in the bunk next to us) and hopped a bus to the ferry, and then the ferry (which was pretending to be a sailing ship even though it had a motor) took us out to the volcano. Our igneous adventure was not life-changing. I think the problem is that the story of what happened is a whole lot cooler than the physical evidence of what happened. So basically, a long time ago, Santorini blew up. The whole island exploded. The indigenous people on the island were killed and the resulting tidal wave wiped out the Minoan civilization on Crete. Pretty severe. The explosion cause most of the island to collapse, and then water from the ocean flooded the bay. The result was this tiny crescent island with a little dot in the center of what would be a circle, and that dot is the peak of the volcano. The only evidence of this, however, is that dot island, a black ball of ash that smells like rotten eggs and is hard as hell to climb in flip flops. Still, I’m glad we did it.

Next they took us to a hot springs. I wasn’t feeling up to it, but Gardy sure got wet. See if you can spot the mud on his face from where he took the mud bath. HA!

Our third port was a small island down. Lots of touristy stuff — some Greek people. It was quaint. There were also a lot of stairs and I almost died. I couldn’t do much more after that, so as Gardy stepped off the boat in Oia for five hours of milling around and then a killer sunset, I took the boat back to Perissa.

We had a few more days of R&R. Gardy will tell you about our other adventures. I personally was a fan of our 4-wheeling adventure to Kamari — super seafood dinner, baklava and BATMAN. REPRESENT!

London…out!

The Long-Intended Ios

ML – Internet Cafe # 96

About a year ago, I was visiting a friend. This is another one of those friends who make forty-five hour  conversations a regular activity. One day we were wandering his town and talking about a trip he’d taken to the Greek Isles with his friend. They went to Ios in December, and his epic tale of random strangers, natural beauty, and adventure first turned me on Ios, Greece, and traveling the world. So in a way, I’m here because of him.

My friend’s story painted Ios as a small serene island in the Cyclades, with little old widows running boarding houses and spending whole days at deserted virgin beaches without seeing a single soul.

The Ios we found was like walking back into Narina after 1200 years. The entire main city of Hora is dedicated to getting Australian Uni students drunk. I am not even slightly exaggerating. The entire economy of this island revolves around tourism. It’s desolate. Anything that once may have been farmland is rusted brown. There are like, two goats. But there are nine creperies, twelve souvlaki places, six internet cafes, four hostels, and nine hundred and twenty-seven different bars. There are literally thousands of young people, mostly Australian Uni students, partying from noon to 7am. One night I was stumbling home around 7:30, and it was pretty desolate, but so interesting to see the grumbly old locals sweeping shattered beer bottles, hosing vomit, and setting up their shops for the day’s impulse buys. This leads me to

Misconception that Americans Suck #1:

I hear people all the time talk about how the 21-year-old drinking age in the United States is ridiculous, but then talk about how American kids are always wasted, drunk idiots who can’t control their liquor. They get drunk, pick fights, puke, and pass out. But here’s the thing, ALL kids are that stupid. I mean, to the max. Everyone’s getting wasted, falling asleep, spilling stuff everywhere. It’s like a joke. Everyone’s up in arms about the school shootings in the US, but I met this girl from England who was talking about this string of murders in London where teenagers 15-18 were knifing each other to death in bars. “Maybe London should outlaw knives,” the girl said. “Maybe sixteen year olds shouldn’t be drinking in bars,” I said.

We went out a few times in Ios. Our first night barhopping, we found ourselves in this less-crowded place. Two young women (neither Greek or Australian) were hanging out by themselves and approached us in a friendly way, started chatting. They must have been new to their jobs, because they made it pretty clear to us what their jobs were. The proprietors of the bar hired them to flirt with customers and entice them to purchase drinks — pretty sketchy if you ask me. Apparently, every bar in town employs such workers. It’s not prostitution…just prostiflirting. It made us feel a liiiiittle creepy, so even though the girls were sweet, we split quickly.

The next day, we beached it. The beach was across the island, but still a short walk. Ios is TINY and you walk everywhere. The cool friend we made at the hostel suggested we check out the cliff diving west of the beach. He instructed us to swim out, wrapping around the island a short distance (maybe a third of a mile) until we found these cool rockfaces overhanging deep water. The instructions were good, and after a hardy swim, we found the area our friend had described. It was pretty spectacular. We all jumped off, solo and together, and then chilled for a while on the rocks, until a big group of rowdy Australians came up and started doing double backflips off the cliff. Hmph. Gardy and I started climbing along the rocks, maybe five or six feet above the water, wrapping around the cove. We got a good long distance. I was really excited with the progress I made. In my experience, rockclimbing comes down to three distinct skills: physical endurance, puzzle-solving (what body part to put in what hole), and the ability to jam your fingers and toes in microscopic nooks. Fortunately, this climb was mostly about the first one, and I’m “a bit” better at that than the other skills. Gardner and I did great until we had to do an inverted climb (lots of upper body = harder) through this cave FILLED with bird … guano? Can I say guano, or is that just bats? Anyway, we fell in the same place. Yuck. Then some suntanning Greek girls showed up in a yellow inflatable rowboat and made fun of us.

It was one hell of a good day. Liz got a little sunburnt, we all got a little thai food. It was nice. This was Liz’s last night. After a freakishly serendipitous incident (Liz will tell you about it in HER blog post) we bid farewell to our fine friend.

So long, ‘Lizbeth, we hardly knew ye.

The rest of Ios was more of the same silliness. Soon we hopped on a ferry for our next destination: Santorini.

“It’s a Greek Thing”

ML – Internet Cafe #91

Athens is the most international city we have visited on our tour. Lots of “Subway” restaurants. There’s a Starbucks. Big billboards that say “Have It Your Way — McDonald’s” but all the writing’s in Greek. Maybe international isn’t the right word. New York is international. Over 170 languages spoken at the 2008 Olympics — all of them spoken in New York City.

There’s also not a lot to do in Athens. It’s hot, and beyond the Acropolis and a museum, there’s not much there. Leading up to this trip, a lot of my friends cautioned me that Athens could kind of be the pits, and that you really only need a day or two.

So we did the Acropolis. It’s pretty amazing, and under reconstruction, so it feels very much like it’s being BUILT, which is wild, because I think it’s the oldest building I’ve ever seen (soon to be usurped by the PYRAMIDS!!!!!) All the reconstruction/refurbishments meant the museum was closed, but we got to wander around, snap our pictures, etc. The temple is way high up on this mesa above the city, so there were incredible views, and the wind off-set some of the heat. There was also this hilarious booby-trapped water fountain. Liz ended up soaking like three people. Poor poor Australians.

That’s really all there is to do in Athens. I’m not downplaying our adventures there. The only other two highlights were Liz and me going to get the ferry tickets. Yes. A half-hour subway ride and the purchasing of ferry tickets was a highlight. (I rest my case on the “not a lot to do” thing.)

We also went to go see a movie. We went to, oh, ninety-five different movie theaters. Turns out, the only film playing in Athens is Mama Mia. Why? I have no idea. Maybe because it takes place on a Greek Island. So we finally give in and go see the movie even though it’s not ANY of our first choices. (No Batman? No Wall-E? No NOTHING?!?!?!) And the movie’s as terrible as we thought. You know, days later Gardy and I were talking about the horribleness that was Mama Mia. Terrible acting, barely a plot, paper-thin characters, bad payoffs, jokes that aren’t funny. When I go to a movie, I always try to find the good in it. The good in this was hard to find. Finally I settled on Meryl Streep’s performance. Girl’s always on. The bad was rampant, but it wasn’t teaching-tool bad [great examples of teaching tool bad movies are "Hollywood Homocide" (Make sure you know whether your movie is a comedy or a drama. It can never be both. See Gigli.) and "Stay" (Style does not a movie make. Also, Jacob's Ladder had the same twist 14 years earlier. Nice going, guys.)]. Mama Mia was just awful, so I tried to get it out of my head as quickly as possible.

And we’re on another overnight ferry, this time to Ios, our first stop in the Cyclades. Very very excited. I’ve wanted to see Ios a long time.

More to come…

Meteora is Heaven

ML – The Bus Gardner and I have a penchant for the theatrical. We’re film guys. We like zany characters, shocking twists, and plots so tight you can see panty-lines. It’s in our nature. It’s also in our blog. But more on that in a minute. One of the on-going debates of this trip has been “Vacation versus Adventure.” Are we on a two-month break focused on chilling on beaches, drinking fruit salads with booze in them, eating rich expensive food, and indulging in the occasional museum? Or are we on a daredevil quest to climb every mountain, leap off every speeding train, sleep on every park bench, and have wild death-defying stories to relate when we come home? It remains to be seen, but the last few days in Meteora have been a perfect blend of both. There was no high drama, but a nice dose of adventure, and lot of relaxation, and good friends were abound. A sleepy ferry and a terrifying bus ride took us into the heart of Meteora. The bus felt like an airplane. We’d look out the window and see nothing but sky. We traveled along these narrow switchbacks in high mountain passes. Imagine an orca walking a tight rope, using its flippers for balance. Our bus was kind of like that orca, except the bus didn’t have any flippers. We arrived in the sleepy town of Kalambaka. Directions to our hotel were shaky, but after a few “200 meters…that way” directions, we found our sweet little hotel. We snuck Liz in through the window to save money and settled in for a relaxing night. We drank my 600th anniversary bottle of Vignamaggio wine (vintage 2001) and channel-surfed until we found a rousing film: “No Way Out” (1987) starring Kevin Costner, Gene Hackman, and a batshitcrazy Sean Young. The Greek subtitles were an entertaining addition, as was the gratuitous nudity and profanity on network television. The next two days were simple and perfect. Meteora is a range of sandstone pillars that jut thousands of feet into the sky. Atop these peaks are little monasteries — still in operation — with monks and nuns running around.

Monk

It was quite a workout getting from place to place. We must have walked several miles and climbed many, many feet. At times we were on dirt trails, others on winding roads. We took time to climb sheer rock walls and our camelbaks ran dry more than twice.

Liz flashes the thumbs up on her victory climb

VICTORY PHOTO!

Gardy's high point. Look how far he's climbed!

...But he's got a looooong way to go.

This was the adventurous part of our time in Meteora (that and pulling Liz through the hotel window). Inside the small buildings, they are dusty and filled with gory renaissance art. Women are not allowed to wear short skirts, short sleeves, shorts, or long pants. Women are not allowed to wear PANTS. Liz looked like a pilgrim in her woolly dress (in 100 degree heat). The pictures are worth a thousand words.

At one point, the second day, we were pretty exhausted from all the walking. Big tour buses were zooming past us on windy mountain roads, our camelbaks were spent, and we’d already climbed a couple rock cliffs. It was HOT, too. So we started thumbing for rides. It wasn’t long before a charming German couple picked us up. Laughing and calling us crazy for walking, they drove us all the way up to our monastery destination. Super sweet. On the way back down the mountain, we got ANOTHER ride, from another attractive couple. They only took us part way (they were stopping to look at a monastery) but going down hill as the sun set was much easier than climbing up in the midday heat. We indulged our happy craving for souvlaki pita more than once. The 2 euro gyro! I spent a lot of time on the free internet: a comfort for a webphile. The second day, when we got back from our long, tiring journey, Gardy and Liz slipped into our room for some good conversation while I facebooked up a storm. Two hours later!!!!! It was 6pm. Gardy and I switched spots. Liz and I started a convo and Gardy got online. It might not seem like a highly climactic event, talking to Liz, but it was a highlight of the trip for me. It was one of those long, endlessly rolling conversations where you talk about shared history and dreams and the quarter-life condition. We bounced through tangent after tangent and story after story. All good stuff. There was no clock in our room, and after a while, we started feeling hungry; we wanted to check if Gardy was ready for grub. “What time do you think it is?” Liz asked. “Probably close to Ten,” I shrugged. So I headed out to the lobby where Gardner’s blogging away. Turns out it was a little after midnight. W T F Midnight? We talked for SIX HOURS and didn’t even realize it? That’s a friend. It’s also a great couple of days. Nothing heavy. Nothing huge. Just fun vacation and fun adventure. Next? On to Athens.

Here’s some other Meteora Memories…

Un burro

Fooled you! Meteora is actually very tiny.

The Squishy Pink Underbelly

Gardner Gould – (written about 7/11/8 )

Sitting down to our second complimentary dinner we’ve learned not to expect too much. A disinterested former guest guides you to your table, and another will eventually bring over a wet, wilted salad, a watery bouillon soup, and a mediocre meat and potatoes type dish.

The longer we spend, the clearer it is how the Palace stays out of the red. Everyone from our blond welcoming committee to our laize-fair wait staff are former guests. They all seem to be fraternity/sorority types drawn in by the Pink Place lifestyle. They return for discounted accommodations and shit pay, which is all funneled directly back to the Palace via partying and booze. They move slowly about the hostel with a lotus eater’s malaise sweeping paths and dodging responsibility. Each night they come alive to spend their pay, rub up against each other, and black out.

I imagine that the season ends with a massive party to lessen the blow of a lost summer. A summer spend penned up at the in-house discotheque wading through the droves of Italian high schoolers searching for that nights distraction. They move mechanically through the scene collecting nothing more than statistics; checking off nationalities and body-types.

The Palace seems to hold all the empty appeal of the Hotel California. You don’t know why you stay other than that you can’t really think to leave. Also, who wouldn’t want to take advantage of the discounted extended stay rates? This post is getting a bit meta. Let’s break it down with an anecdote from our last morning courtesy of our true friend Austin.

I stand outside the room while Matt and Liz sweep the place for forgotten socks and such. Austin emerges from his room across the hall. He is sporting slumped shoulders, an unsteady gate, and yesterday’s clothes. His bleary eyes and unchecked stubble hint at great pain. I peer past him, and his mattress has been pulled off his bed, into the middle of the room.

“What happened to you last night?” I ask through a only semi-suppressed laugh.

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” he asks. “There’s pee all over my bathroom.”

“What?!” My grin is now irrepressible. “I mean, of course.”

“Thanks,” he pauses toothbrush in hand. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“Great, I’ll be here.” Liz and Matt come to the door after overhearing, “pee all over my bathroom.”

“Are you okay?” Liz asks.

“Yeah, well, Joe came home late last night. He brought a friend.” Joe is Austin’s kind-hearted, Canadian, ox of a roommate (they aren’t traveling together).

We can’t resist probing Austin for more information. His oral hygiene will just have to wait. He tacitly agrees to postpone the bathroom, and he launches into the saga of his night.

Austin goes to bed around 1 or so after subjecting himself to all the discothequing he could endure. He lays in his bottom bunk unable to sleep.

An hour later Joe and his new friend tumble into the room. They are already in the throes of passion.

–In another conversation, Austin had described the fearful degree to which Joe, alone, bows the mattress. In my head I picture Austin laying stoically beneath him like the famed Damocles.–

None of us question Austin for rolling out of bed the second they vault in. Joe and his naked blond companion halt when Austin moves for the door. “No man, you don’t need to go.”

“Yeah,” the girl adds, “we’re not that kind of people. We’re not that kind of people.”

“No really it’s fine,” Austin counters. “Joe, can you get me at reception after.”

Austin bolts without waiting for a response, and through the door he hears, “of course, man,” and a muffled, “we’re not that kind of people.”

An hour and a half later Joe drags himself into the 24 hour reception bar. His eyes are glassy red orbs, far beyond bloodshot. He walks over to Austin, claps him on the back, and holds tightly for a moment to steady his incongruous body.

“If you need to use the room,” he gestures absurdly to the two girls Austin is killing time with, “it’s all yours, man.”

Austin shakes his head with a tortured smile, “see you guys later.”

In the room the blond is passed out, still nude, in Joe’s bed. Joe struggles back into the top bunk. The bed creaks in a strenuous objection. Austin pulls his matress onto the floor. Exhaustion over takes his frustration. Everyone sleeps.

“WHUMMPH!” A naked body plummets down on top of Austin.

“UUGGHHH!”

“What the–”

“Get me to the bathroom!” the meteor demands. “I’m gonna pee!”

Austin springs into action. He shoves and drags the girl’s naked useless body into the bathroom. After falling off the toilet she declares, “no, NO! I’m just gonna pee here.”

“The toilet is right there,” Austin pleads.

“It’s no good, I–” and she’s going. Everywhere. Austin steps out closing the door behind him.

Austin sits at the communal table outside our rooms trying to shake off the experience. As he contemplates what time it ia, and if he can go back to sleep, Two of Joe’s mesomorphic friends start pounding on the door.

“Joe, wake the fuck up! We’ve got a flight”

“Seriously Joe! We need to–”

The blond bursts out of the room dressed only in one of Joe’s t-shirts. Joe stumbles out after her, “No, wait!. Give me my shirt. Here’s your stuff.” Joe holds out a mess of clothes.

The girl pauses for a second, and she regards the bundle. “No, I’m late.” She books it.

“Wait!” Joe yells as his friends break down laughing. He vaguely trips after her, but he gives up almost immediately. She’s gone.

Austin let’s the story drift off quietly. He looks miles away. None of us know what to say. We all smirk ruefully, and the emotion builds into an almost sorrowful laughter.

The kicker has to be our paramour’s fateful identity. She is none other than our blond party girl welcoming committee.

Oh, Pink Palace may I never be so lost as to call you home! Still, you’ve got character, and I don’t for a second regret the two nights we spent with you. “YAMAS!”

Climbing Around Corfu

Gardner Gould – (written about 7/10-11/8 )

The beach in Corfu possesses many treasures. Some people may be drawn by the clear blue water that is salty enough to turn me into a buoyant cork bobbing on the gentle swell. Others might not be able to resist the composite sandstone boulders that litter the south end of the beach. The sandstone wears away quickly leaving the harder rocks within suspended in the surface. Finding fun routes and problems is no trouble with the thousands of varied holds. If you move farther south you hit a cliff of similar composition. A short swim lands you at it’s base. I’m not great at estimating heights over 20ft, but if I ventured a guess I’d say 60ft-ish– I swear more pictures are coming. The water provides about 12 feet of aquatic safety net. What more could you ask for? As for those few tough customers who still aren’t sold on Corfu, how about a little topless time with fellow vacationers and Greeks alike. I knew I’d convince you.

I wade into the Adriatic right outside the Beach Cafe. I haven’t been in the open water since Lido, and it feels free. A nap could never match the cool exhilaration of paddling out so many miles from Rome. I barely remember the morning’s grogginess. Or what came before.

I casually drift back into shore. I collect my effects, and I strike out down the beach to scope out the bouldering. The sandstone formations look promising, and I find some good traverses for Matt, Liz and I to try.

I left my rock shoes in the room, so I dive in and glide over to the aforementioned cliff. The waves crash against it, but once I work out the timing the first ten feet are like climbing a ladder (with a slight negative grade). Once I’m out of the splash zone I top out on a large ledge. I move up diagonally finding small shelves every one to two body lengths. I start to climb a little too quick. A rock pops loose in my hand. I spread my body pushing into the cliff, and I claw my toes into the sandy sloping ledge a couple feet below. I recover. The ball of my right foot has a fresh scrape, but more importantly I have the tingle of survival swirling through my chest and arms. There’s mostly water below me, but nobody likes to fall/fail.

No longer trusting the higher, looser rock, I select a broad sturdy crack to work. The route leads up and over towards where the cliff edge overlooks the open sea. The crack is dirty, easy and fun. I reach an overgrown area where I can stand. After fighting back the stunted vegetation a full panorama of the Adriatic sprawls before me (it looks a lot smaller on the Diplomacy board). Our beach is down to my right, and the coiled hillside towns are level with me to the farther right. What a time to be without a camera.

The rest of the way up is a long loose sandy slope covered in prickly vegetation. Uninviting. I head down by way of surfing on the loose sandy shelves making semi-controlled transitions between them. It’s safer then it sounds, but it is undoubtedly less graceful then you’re imagining. Lot’s of fun though.

At the lowest ledge I jump for it. The water greets my grit covered boy with a cleansing sploosh. I bob back to the beach mentally marking the climb a success.

Walking back along the beach I run into Matt and Liz fresh off their napping and pool lounging. Together, we head up to the pool to sleep, swim and sunbathe until dinner.

———————————————————-

(7/11/8 )
We wake up late due to a miss-set alarm clock. No eggs this morning. Tear.

We head for the rocks via the town market to grab snacks– waffles and nutella=mmm, mmm, good. At the rocks we try two traverses and a short ascent. Everybody is able to find a reasonable level of challenge. We all improve over the course of the morning. Liz figures out how to greatly increase her reach with some dynamic climbing. Matt earns the final victory on the session with a clean 15-20 ft ascent.

Our group sheds its clothes, and we make for the waves. We swim out near the cliff to a small reef/underwater rock formation. The Greeks call it a reef, but I have my doubts. Either way, part of it pokes up enough to sit on so we hang out looking at ity-bity neon fish and sea urchins. There is also a really neat tunnel under one section. I half expect to find buried treasure every time I swim through it. Alas, every shiny object I recover turns out to be another beer can.

After discovering the not-so hidden secrets of the reef we paddle over to the cliff. Matt and Liz chill out on a mossy shelf in the break. I head for an outcropping maybe 1/3 of the way up. I must admit that when it comes to cliff jumping I can be a chicken-shit. I try not to be. I love it, but if I stand too long surveying the scene I balk. I balk once after trying to psych myself up. Talk about backfires. I step back from the edge. A moment passes. I clear my head. I take three fast steps, and my momentum convinces my body to jump. “Oh shhiiii–” SPLOOSH! The water hits hard. I forgot to clench my butt muscles. I float for a bit in recovery. The immediate pain passes; the giddy smile remains. We all swim for the shore making a brief stop at the “reef.”

Everybody is hungry when we reach the beach, but free dinner isn’t for a couple hours. We walk up to the town’s main drag searching for gyros. No one’s had a Grecian gyro yet, but it’s on everyone’s to-do list. All the prices are about the same so we walk into the restaurant across from where I bought my new swimsuit—

————
NOTE: I’m now the PROUD owner of a blue, booty-short style speedo. It features a dapper seahorse on the left leg. I think it’s quite fetching. Liz is a huge fan… Matt is unsure. Stay tuned for pictures, and YES, I will be wearing it State-side. Get excited.
————

—The round graying restaurant proprietor shuffles out with a big grin. He ushers us to a table, and then he looks at Matt. His smile falls quizzically.

“Do you like ketchup?” he asks.

“Well, I mean, on somethings,” Matt responds warily.

The man points at Matt’s shirt, which is perpetually stained (the joy of traveling). Matt glances down with an “oh god, what now?” expression. Sure enough, the crafty restaurateur slides his finger up into Matt’s face with a triumphant, “ZOOP!”

We all burst out laughing.

He makes the pitas fresh, and the gyros are phenomenal. Our cherries go pop! Undoubtedly this was the perfect place. Our slow snack winds down and ends. We head back to shower up for another Pink Palace dinner.

Another successful day.

Nestling Into the Pink Palace

Gardner Gould – (written about 7/10/08 )

Matt and I sit happily in the Pink Palace reception area. We’re sailing on a upbeat “morning-after” buzz. Liz barely survived the tremulous bus ride from the port with a focused stare and white knuckled grip on the seat handle in front of her. She’s boofing tin the bathroom.

“Delayed sea sickness,” is her diagnosis.

Pink is just as prevalent throughout the “palace” as you might imagine. We learn that the bold coloration was chosen to honor the owner’s father–his favorite color (it struck me as weird then again my dad’s favorite Power Ranger was always Kimberly). However, the painters seem to have felt no obligation to stay within a single color palette. Tints of pepto-bismol adorn every building. Interiors can be anywhere from a light pink wash to a violent fuschia. I’m sure her father would be tickled quite… pink. HA!

Reception is no exception trimmed with a pleasant wood and pepto theme. The breezy room is filled with circular tables that are filled with a charter bus load or red-eyed ferry passengers. Austin, a dark haired, deep voiced guy from Los Angeles, and an amiable Bulgarian join our table. No one has switched on all their conversation motors. We all slowly manage to tell where we’ve been and where we’re going.

Our blond party girl welcoming party goes through a long spunky schpeel revolving around free breakfast and dinner, cheap beers, uninhibited booze cruises, and debaucherous toga parties. Matt and I smirk throughout her speech breaking into chortles at €1 beers and free shots for nude cliff jumping. The oration climaxes with pink ouzo shots all round. “YAMAS!” Liz refrains.

After filling out pink length of stay cards we are sent down to the Beach Cafe for our first complimentary breakfast. Eggs!! We lay into the spread of bread, nutella, jam, honey, cheese, sandwich meat, and eggs with great zeal. Liz even perks up for nutella and eggs.

We sit with Austin again at breakfast. He has a sharp and laconic sense of humor. We don’t talk about politics, but we do discuss talking politics with foreigners. Everybody we meet abroad seems to love Obama. They also seem very surprised when we say he’s got a good chance of winning. One Aussie outright laughed at us. Austin mentions that when he feels the anti-American sentiments brewing he responds with a quick, “Obama, Obama.” He accompanies the line with an Obi-Wan like hand gesture.

The eggs and friendly conversation hit the spot. We go to reception and get our key. The room has 3 beds, desk/chair/dresser, AC, bright white walls, and deep blue molding (no pink thank god). Best of all the room features a beach view that could be straight out of your guide book. It’s pretty perfect. Matt and Liz hit the sacks for some power napping, and I head for the beach. It’s not even noon and I’m already getting excited for my 3 course dinner.

The Pink Palace is looking a-okay.

10 Things I Hate About Rome

By Matt…

10. Regardless of distance, all things at any point are said to be 200 meters away.

9. When asking for directions, people will lie to you just to get rid of you.

8. You have to be a lottery winner to eat at a decent restaurant.

7. The Vatican museum closes at 1pm. WTF?

6. Nearly getting capped by a pimp walking home.

5. Castelfusano isn’t in the Old Forum. Where have you gone, Flavio? Where is Catalina? I want to see the boofalo.

4. A kiwi-vanilla frappe sounds good in theory, but in practice, it’s like mixing milk and orange juice together.

3. Two-hour van rides. Air conditioning? Ho-ho. I don’t think so!

2. There is a transit strike. There isn’t a transit strike. There is. There isn’t. There sort of is, but from Five to Eight PM there — I FUCKING HATE ROME!!!

1. We couldn’t stay longer.

Epic Fail

Gardner Gould – (written 7/23/8, about 7/7-9/8 )

Rome was a challenge.
Rome could have gone better.

These two reasons are why this post will be less thought out and florid than you may be used to. Also the tense is totally fucked throughout…sorry Dad. Also this post has not been proofed for typos. I just needed to get it out. Many painful memories.

The Plan

Monday (7th):
–wake up early (6:00)
–shuttle to subway (6:45-7)
–train to Vatican Museum (7-8:15)
–Vatican Museum, Sistine Chapel, etc. (8:15-1 or 2)
–lunch
–Pantheon
–Trevi Fountain
–the big cluster of stuff (the arches, Forum, Palatine Hill, Colosseum, etc.)
–Trestevere for dinner
–back to hostel

Tuesday (8th):
–wake early
–into Rome
–train from Rome to Pompeii
–explore Pompeii
–train to Rome
–Rome to hostel

Wednesday (9th):
–wake
–into Rome
–train from Rome to Ancona
–overnight ferry Ancona to Igoumenitsa (8:00 pm)

A very full, but not unreasonable, three days (the Pompeii day may be a stretch even in a perfect world).

Monday we wake to find out there is a transit strike. Not only no trains or buses, but also horrendous traffic because of it. We decide to charter a van into Rome ($$). We’d start the schedule as if we just got out of the Vatican, and we’d push the Vatican to Tuesday. We’d still do Pompeii but a shorter version, and we’d do an overnight train from Pompeii to Ancona.

This plan also failed.

We got into the city around 12:30, and we did a great job on our sights except for missing the last entry for the Forum. In hindsight it wasn’t that bad because we got a lot of views from outside and above. Oh, and one of my goals was too see as many fountains as I could in one day; a bunch were sighted. We walked around Trestevere, drank some wine, and had a tasty dinner.

Tragedy strikes! We walk to Termini, the main train station. Though the transit strike ended as planned no one mentioned to us that due to construction of a new subway line all lines would close at 9pm. Bullshit. Also you should note that Trestevere to Termini is a very long walk.

More bad news. At Termini we research tickets for Pompeii. They’re mad expensive and unfeasible schedule-wise. We’re told buses run the subway route. We ask a bus operator which bus to take (and show him the map of where we’re going). “Take 722.” Wrong bus.

We get dropped/kicked off 30-40km away from our hostel. There is a park to our right as we start walking towards the hostel and civilization (hoping for a taxi stand etc.). In the park men drive in circles– one man per car– and a fair number of hookers walk laps (more whores than I’ve ever seen in one place actually–not that I’ve seen a lot or anything). Nice place, though; cool fountain.

After a lot of walking, and unhelpful directions, we find a nice pair of hotel employees who agree to call us a cab (more $$). We make it back–OH and we had to move out of our bungalow into a tent. All our bags are locked in left luggage (there was no time to move them to the tent in the AM), we can’t find our tent, and we’re covered in all manner of filth (physical, emotional, psychosocial, you name it). We find our Greek friend from the Flavio parties (I don’t know if Matt told you about him, but he’s a nice guy). He drives us to our tent. I roll down the window in an effort to not stink up his car… I’m serious it was a bad scene.

The tent has a fridge. It is also putrid, insect ridden, mildew-covered– a fucking shithole, but it has a fridge. No one sleeps well. Everyone is unhappy. Morale is low.

Next morning (Tuesday the 8th). We go to book ferry tickets online. The 8 pm ferry is only on non-Wednesdays. Wednesday is the last day of shoulder season=€20 less for each ticket. So we need to make the 1 o’clock ferry. This discovery creates more bad news. The only Rome to Ancona train that gets in by 1 on Wednesday is this afternoon. Disco.

We book it, trying to make the Vatican in time to do a sprint through. More failure. The shuttle is late. The trains are running but messed up. We don’t get to the Vatican until 1:30ish. We do St. Peter’s and the Basilica because the museum queue supposedly can take anywhere from 1-2 hours. We need to be walking to the subway by 3 to make the train.

The church is fine. We pick up bread and cheese for lunch. We make the train. Fun note: there is no electricity in our car so it’s hot. We thought it wasn’t that bad but then we got dehydrated and ran out of water. The other aspect is no lights in the car. There were long tunnel sections (crossing the Apennines after all), but luckily I had my head lamp. We felt like old school miners. I also saw an old aqueduct segment– overall a pretty engaging train ride, and it was away from Rome.

In Ancona we arrive at 8:30-9ish and go straight to an internet cafe. We find a hostel nearby, and we switch our Corfu booking to something actually in Corfu (my bad–this process actually relied heavily on the kindness of our hostel operator because he let me finish dealing with the booking debacle on his private computer after the internet cafe closed).

Wednesday the 9th. The ferry ride was brilliant. We picked up a bottle of chianti and a giant jug of red something (which equated to just under six bottles). We found very comfy seats. The whole ferry was very swank– pool, discotech, etc.. In our posh seating we had a lovely early dinner. We laid into Matt’s screenplay and the wine. Halfway through the we were interrupted by a pair of French boys, and perhaps a bit too drunk to continue with the movie. As evidence of our BAC I will post a video of Liz punching Matt in the face at the next possible opportunity. Get psyched. The ferry was a grand time though.

We got in at 5 something having not slept as much as we should’ve. From Igoumenitsa we took a short ferry where we were met by a bus going to the Pink Palace– our new hostel. Stay tuned for that blog post. It’ll be a good’un.

OH ps in one day I saw 14 fountains in Rome not counting the numerous drinking fountains.