A Woman’s Journey in Greece

{published in The Women’s Voice, June 1998}

“Other countries may offer you discoveries in manners or lore or landscape; Greece offers you something harder – the discovery of yourself.” – Lawrence Durrell, Prospero’s Cell

With two sisters in residence on the sunny Ionian isle of Corfu, it was inevitable that I would eventually set foot on the fabled shores of Greece. Though I thought myself a seasoned traveler, I soon found myself thrown into a world where I constantly felt off-balance. My sisters led me through the journey, past culture shock and fear, to an understanding: an awareness of what it means to live as a Greek. Beneath the tourist façade, where organized groups seeking ancient splendor wrap themselves in a movable cocoon of safety, lies the real Greece, a resilient land where daily life has changed little over the centuries.

ACCEPTING ATHENS
Armed with knowledge gleaned from conversations and books, I struggled with the tiredness of a sleepless all-night flight as the plane touched down on the tarmac at the airport. My sister Sue looked out the window with a yearning for her adopted home. Images flashed by: restless dogs, palm trees, rusted hulks of long-dead planes, and … a tiny tank. The tank rumbled into life as the plane came to a stop, escorting us to a spot near the terminal. Rollaway stairs met the plane at two doors, and we disembarked under the watchful glare of the tank commander, moving onto rapidly-filling buses. The bus carried us a scant quarter mile to the sole terminal entrance, where a solider in khakis paced from door to door. Passport control and customs ushered us through. A stop at the woman’s restroom reminded us that the sewer pipes in Greece aren’t big enough to handle toilet paper. A sign on the wall indicated to throw the used paper into a bin next to the toilet. I shuddered at the lack of liner in the bin, pitying the person who had to empty it. This would be a scene repeated in every restaurant, private home, and hotel, no matter how posh.

Taxis in Greece are a necessary evil, extraordinarily cheap by our standards, less than a dollar a mile. That is, if you don’t get ripped off. We later learned that the frightening drive our first cabbie took us on – careening through red lights, passing in a single lane, cutting off whole lines of cars – was overly long and twice as expensive as it should have been. “Welcome to Greece,” my sister said, wryly. From the back seat of the speeding vehicle, I tried to make sense of the scenery. Acres of dull white apartment buildings, reminding me of Miami Beach. Incomprehensible signs: I had forgotten the Greeks had a different alphabet than ours. Wash hung from every balcony. Forests sprouted from rooftops. Familiar sights – a BP station, a Ford dealership, a McDonalds – took on an alien glow.

Our hotel room was small and narrow. The claustrophobic elevator gave me a jolt. No door. The doors were mounted on the floors themselves. Our room key served as an interlock for electricity to feed into the room, and signs warned us to be sparing with water. The small bathroom introduced me to another fixture in Greece: the Danish half-bath. Shower heads aren’t mounted. I awkwardly held the sprayer in one hand as I attempted to wash up.

Adrenaline threw us into the streets: “to the Acropolis!” People pushed each other in rude dances, reminding me of New York City. Men leered. Drivers ran up on curbs, ignored pedestrian signals, and threw trash on the street. We cast about, looking for signs to verify my sister’s memory of directions. Fortunately, the Acropolis stands high above the city, once you catch a clear view of it. “We shouldn’t be on this street,” Sue said. “Let’s head up that way.” Map in hand, we skirted the northern extreme of the National Gardens, an island of greenery attracting feral cats, homeless men, and gypsies. Our guidebook said the Acropolis stayed open until 4, so we stopped to contemplate the Temple of Olympian Zeus. In the shadow of these enormous columns, I finally grasped the sense of ancient. I love Boston, Annapolis, and St. Augustine for their age and charm, but Athens was a whole new ball game: not centuries, but millenia. Layers upon layers of history.

We dawdled through the Plaka, the old heart of Athens, where the homes had true character and archeological digs broke out in plazas. We wandered by the theaters of Bacchus and Herodous Atticus in our quest for the entrance to the Acropolis. The gates were locked at 2:30. “Siesta,” Sue said. “They won’t reopen today.” Another alien concept. We found a taverna and contemplated the approaching rain; I learned about unisex bathrooms.

Rain drove the ever-present smog from the skies overnight, giving us a chance to glimpse Athens in all its glory. After more struggles with taxis, we dropped our luggage at the airport and return to ascend the Acropolis. Its marble slopes are slippery, polished by millions of pilgrims’ feet. From the top, the city spread out like whitecaps, washing up the far slopes of mighty, snow-capped mountains. While obscured by scaffolds, the remains of the Parthenon and the Porch of the Maidens inspired awe. Rock, of ages long past, carrying messages to the future. Our spirits sated, we returned to the Airport and continued our journey.

EMBRACING IOANNIANA
Behind the shuttered walls of a 12th century monastery, a stern-faced woman, clad in black, solemnly opened the massive oak door. Without a word, she ushered us inside, and regarded us darkly as we marveled at walls and ceilings covered in Byzantine frescoes, pure expressions of religion. We lit candles, made a donation, and emerged back into the light.

Ioannina (pronounced Ya-na-nah) is a city of hidden treasures, itself tucked deep in the northern mountains of the mainland. Sister Sal insisted a trip, on ferry and bus, would be an excellent immersion into the mainland culture. Indeed. I felt immersed at the bus station, as I squatted to use a Turkish toilet for the first time, a mere ceramic-lined hole in the floor. Filled with joyful music, the bus jolted along a road that looked like a rope thrown against the mountainside. Two hours later, we disembarked in Greece’s third largest city.

Ioannina has plenty to explore. Metalsmiths line the streets with their shops; upscale coffeehouses and bookshops compete with classic “pot shop” restaurants, lakeside tavernas selling fresh eel and trout, and the ubiquitous Kafeneio (village gathering place). We clambered through the catacombs of Ali Pasha’s fortress, finding an Escheresque staircase in the darkness. We explored the treasures of Nisi, an island housing many monasteries filled with frescoes and icons dating back to the rule of the Emperor Justinian. We saw Turkish mosques and tombs, and peered into caves. Indeed, Greece’s largest cavern, Perama, is within sight of the city. A rugged tourist tour left us awed by the massive chambers filled with totem poles, splendid pedaments coated in cave coral, and a delicate pool containing cave pearls.

I continued to work against the language barrier, learning enough to order food and find the bathroom. I reverted to high school German at times, since English was rarely known in this mountainous city. And as we departed, I brushed against the cultural barrier again: an old woman chased me out of the bathroom, yelling incomprehensible words. I shrugged, and she finally said “money, money!” Aha! A tip! Even though I’d used my own toilet paper, I handed her a coin as I headed up the stairs.

CONTEMPLATION IN CORFU
Although barely ten miles lie between their homes, my sisters live in worlds that rarely intersect. One resides in the thick of a large four hundred year old village, clinging to the slopes of Mt. Pantokrator: a young and prosperous village by Greek standards. The other enjoys a tiny pink house surrounded by citrus and olive trees, a kilometer outside her tiny village. As I spent time at each venue, a dawning awareness grew: no matter their background, the Greeks lived heartily in the present.

Corfu is closer in its heart to Venice than Greece. Corfu Town, the only city, is a delightful jumble of architectural styles reflecting the many waves of invaders over the centuries: Roman, Norman, Venetian, French, German, and British. Nestled between two massive Venetian fortresses, the city invites you to lose yourself in a maze of streets where the upper stories of buildings nearly touch.

As I worked past my fears of this land, a calmness emerged. I walked in thought along the choppy waters of Garitsa Bay, and enjoyed the hospitality of a woman single-handedly attempting to save the endangered wild horses of Skiros, on her beautiful estate. I reveled in the new-found experience of spicy Indian food, British-style. I studied the geology of Corfu’s beaches, varying from agate-strewn shores to sculpted clay and tapioca-like sand. I spent time watching ants carry off a flower.

Even in the city, there was no hustle and bustle to confront. At its worst, I contended with clouds of students descending on the streets in a celebration of Spring Break, breaking into spontaneous dances outside their buses. The clog of extra bodies, arriving for a Corfiot Easter, did not detract from the modest pace of life. I settled into Greek time, measured in afternoons and evenings. I savored dinner as a social event, stretching from 9 until midnight over many carafes of village wine. The woman’s role intrigued me, for I always saw them hard at work: gathering horta in the fields, leading donkeys laden with firewood, hawking olives and linens at a market stall. The Kafeneions (the traditional village gathering spot) in my sisters’ villages seemed to be run by women. One moment, a man would order a woman to get him a drink. The next, he’d buy her one. I struggled with the puzzle.

Living in the moment is a cornerstone of Corfiot life, and perhaps of Greece itself. Each person I met seemed vibrantly alive, focusing on now, larger than life. Deep joys and tragic sorrows ran close to the surface – my sisters’ friends, now my own, made no pretense of hiding emotions. Island life is insular: we met the same people time and again, by accident and design, sharing a drink and a story. I found myself blending into the culture, and my muse returned. Writing became fluid, ideas reality. I drew inspiration from the intensity of the experience. And then, sadly, it was time to leave.

“I warn you of what the novelist Vassilikos says about Greece – that it is the place where when you are here you long to leave, and the minute you leave, you yearn uncontrollably to come back.” — Patricia Storace, Dinner With Persephone

My sisters and I are now closer than ever. Finally, I understand their world, their little slice of paradise, and how their initial travel experiences led to a change of lifestyle. Such an experience, emerging from the interplay of fear and confusion against the wondrous backdrop of Greece, shines a light on the true nature of one’s soul.