Saturday, September 6, 2008

Athens vs. Rome

So, September 1st rolls around, and here we are, back at the Athens International Airport. Emily and I coincidentally head out on the same flight to Rome, and to commemorate such a wonderful trip, we wanted to go out with a bang. With the flight at 6am, booking a room and waking up at 2 or 3 hardly seemed worth it. How sneaky we could be, we so cleverly devised, if we instead came to the airport at night before they close, and spent the night over a bottle of wine, reminiscing over our fabulous times in Greece!

But how early in the evening would we have to come? Where could we stow ourselves for the nights without looking too suspish? How to even go about obtaining the answers to these questions? Somehow calling to inquire about "When does the last flight of the evening leave" or "How late will you let me walk into the airport" feels inherently suspicious, while the truth ("Oh, we just want to booze it up and sleep on the marble floor") smacks of an alcoholic hobo, which I equally wanted to avoid. Being a foreign guest, it feels somewhat un-kosher to lie unconscious all night (while undoubtedly charging your ipod in a random outlet) in the entryway to a major international airport.

As it turns out, the Athens airport never closes and not only is refugee behavior kosher, it's practically welcomed. Even around 1 am, I can honestly describe the airport as "hoppin' " with travelers drinking their "frappés" (a foamy ice coffee that has apparently become the lifeblood of Greeks) and socializing in airport cafés. By the gates, young and old persons like have awkwardly draped their bodies across those airport chairs, serenely catching some shut-eye before their pre-dawn flights.

Frankly, we should have known. All throughout Greece, Emily and I have noted this "make yourself at home" sort of behavior. On each ferry we took, you'd find people sleeping on towels in corners (and, really, main hallways); in every restaurant, you're expected to waltz in and choose your table (never waiting to be seated); and not once did we ever see a "no smoking" sign obeyed. (Emily sincerely devoted hours to estimating Europe's rate of cancer.)

So as we wheel our cart with all our Earthly belongings through the airport, we were instead in the position of not being able to find a single corner to call our own. Fortunately we found a sketchy hallway of some closed ticket office and dutifully set up camp. Perhaps even a little too much when people would curiously duck their heads in to see where our music was coming from... Our secret bungalow wasn't particularly well-suited for sleeping, however, with books for pillows and marble for mattresses, but we'll say that was part of its charm.

Groggy-eyed, we deemed it morning around 4am, check our bags and headed off to Rome. You know, all in a day's work.

We arrived in Rome, famished and ready to again nap and charge our electronics. However... I'm going to use a bad analogy here. Remember that movie Dirty Dancing where the rich socialite girl ("Baby." Yeah, THAT was a good call) is at her family's trendy, prim country club but then hangs out with Patrick Swayze's poorer, knows-how-to-have-a-good-time staff friends? Yeah. If Athens was where you dance and booze the night away, Rome was where you fold your napkin properly across your trousers.

My God, I was embarrassed just to be seen at that airport! We're walking past designer store after designer store, trying not to run into some crisply suited color-coordinated man as we distractedly gaze at another. We quickly wrote off napping in public, jacking their outlets, and even (for a while) buying food when the one kiosk was a flurry of important-looking Europeans with chiseled faces and sarcastically small espresso coffee cups and saucers. Would you have wanted to step into that? Not unless you like getting fed to the lions, you wouldn't.

Anyway, Italians are intimidating and Parisians will apparently resent my very existence, both huge departures from the hospitality and jovial good times we found in Greece. All the claims about hospitality and being relaxed seem to be true.

Greece ruled.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Up Next: Athens vs. Rome

Milia: Cretan Mountain Settlement

Oh man, do forgive my total lack of recent posts. When it comes to "new projects"--like this blog--I'm as bad as a 6-year-old on Christmas Day: ecstatic over the shiny train set at first, but distracted by a frisbee or something 10 minutes after its assembled. Take the scarcity of posts as proof that Greece has been fantastic, and retroactive posts are coming in due time.

So after Hania, we rounded out our time in Crete with 2 days at the Milia Mountain Settlement and 1 day of epic beach experiences (sunburn, nudity, crystal-clear Mediterranean sea, all present in FULL force) at Crete's prettiest beach, Elafonissi.

Milia was likely the highlight of the whole trip. After getting several Greek bus station attendants to argue over how we should get there, we were dropped off (and I say this legitimately) in the middle of nowhere, off the side of the road in mountainous western Crete. We were actually giggling with sincere appreciation for how ridiculous this scenario was. With a tattered road to the right and a shrub or two to the left, the driver had pulled the giant charter bus to an abrupt stop, assured us (as best one can in Greek to two clueless Americans) that this was where we wanted and pulled away, leaving a cloud of dust in our faces.

We looked at each other (sweaty, backpacked), looked at the crumbling road and the one physical feature in sight (a small chicken farm), and honestly dissolved into hysterics. While this had been the plan (Don't Worry Mom, a car was coming to meet us), we didn't anticipate--we couldn't have--it being this ridiculous.

So we began to trudge up (of course, up) this road, when a beat-up black pick-up driven by an old Greek hippie pulls up. With no words in common, we cornfirm each other's identity through some sort of proto-conversation that went something like

Greek Hippie (inquisitive): "Milia?"
Us (bounding with glee): "Milia!!"
At which point we promptly hopped in the car.

The next 10 minutes consisted of hairpin turns on the steepest, craggiest, most guard-rail-less mountain road I've ever seen; me fumbling through my Greek phrase book ("Is it much farther?" Answer: "Ha! ha! ha!"); and Emily and I in silent contented bliss for having gotten ourselves into such a (ridiculously) awesome authentic experience.

So Milia was originally settled about 500 years ago (!!!) with about ten freaking adorable stone cabins carved into the mountain's natural stone. It was abandoned maybe a century later when when every single resident died from cholera (!!!), and was re-habited briefly by hiding civilians during WWII and was quickly re-abandoned in 1945. (Note: please see Emily's blog for a legitimately factual retelling of Milia's history, as opposed to Jessie's Selectively-Remembered Fun Facts.)


Milia's current rebuilt status is only about 20 years old--its a primary function running a tavern serving only their own and local villagers' products. Now I know every traveler gets all enlightened in his journeys and likes to spew advice and superlatives, but I feel I can sincerely say that there is no such thing as food fresher than what they serve. Seasonal vegetables, fresh Greek yogurt (I discovered that my 20 years of life thus far without it have actually been hollow and meaningless), the most flavorful rusk (crispy baked bread), and melt-off-the-bone lamb, pork and chicken.

They use very little electricity (after the sun sets, dinner and reading is strictly over candlelight and the hot water comes from a central wood-burning oven) and the energy they do use is powered by their solar panels and wind turbines. This place freaking ruled. All of this further encouraged Emily's future dream of living on a self-sustaining commune and running an organic locally-supplied restaurant. (Oops, I hope you'd already told your parents that, Em...)

There were mountain trails to explore, countless goats to be encountered (no, really), and some of the most enjoyable company we had our whole trip. Our favorite was the manager-head waiter fellow. In typical Emily-Jessie fashion, we went a couple days having wonderful discussions with him, without actually knowing his name. So, we dubbed him "Zorba", in honor of Zorba the Greek, though to be fair, we actually have no idea who Zorba the Greek is. Though "Zorba" ended up not actually being Greek (we are not yet savvy enough to pick out immigrant Serbians from native Greeks, apparently), his name did end up being Zoran, so well-played enough, I say.

Zoran clued us in to the inner workings of Milia as well as Greek culture. Update: It turns out the post-meal "vodka" is called raki, and is actually made from the leftover grapes after they've made wine. Served after every meal to everyone, it's the hallmark of Greek culinary hospitality. Apparently, as we also learned, Slovakians have a type of alcohol they distill from animal feces. Fun AND informative! It gets no better.

Though we were sad to leave Milia, we left only a couple bus rudes and a ferry ride away from our most highly anticipated destination--Santorini, which I sincerely intend to chronicle soon.

To break chronology (I did warn you), I write this as our plan begins our decent into Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris, having sent Emily on her dear way to Valencia. The adventure continues... and though I am quite excited (because I totally am), I do have to put in a plug for how much I miss home, everywhere and anywhere that is. I've always felt my life is shaped and commemorated by the people in it, as much as (if not much more than) the experiences encountered.

So, for real, stay in touch, kay?

K.

Hearts,
Jessie