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SEPTEMBER 17
Gretchen was up early and eager for the adventure of squeezing Sea Dream through the Corinth Canal, which is 4 miles long and 70 feet wide and connects the Gulf of Corinth with the Sarconic Gulf. The canal was initially proposed in classical times and there was a failed effort to build it in the 1st century AD. It was eventually completed in 1893. A tugboat guided us, the water was powdery blue, trees grew from the steep stone walls of the canal.
SEPTEMBER 17
According to mythology, Zeus released two eagles at opposite ends of the world and they met at Delphi, making it the ‘center of the world.’ Because I already had been to ‘the center of the world,’ I stayed aboard reading When We Were Yours and writing a long letter to Rick. Gretchen, the sponge of travel headed off for Delphi.
Gretchen’s notes: “Beautiful little town. The drive up to Delphi took us through 4.4 million olive trees (Greeks consume about 6 gallons of olive oil per person, per year). We also drove by ancient aqua ducts, used to this day.
Delphi was a huge economic and political center for almost 1,000 years. The major city-states had their “banks’ there. Athletes trained there, and Apollo’s main temple was at Delphi. Delphi was active 9 months of the year and closed down for the 3 winter months. With the coming of Christianity, the “Ancients” were removed.”
Though a great fan of Oedipus Rex, I never quite gleaned who/what the “Oracle At Delphi” was or meant. Here is Google’s take:
Dating back to 1400 BC, the Oracle of Delphi was the most important shrine in all Greece, and in theory all Greeks respected its independence. Built around a sacred spring, Delphi was considered to be the omphalos - the center (literally navel) of the world.
People came from all over Greece and beyond to have their questions about the future answered by the Pythia, the priestess of Apollo. And her answers, usually cryptic, could determine the course of everything from when a farmer planted his seedlings, to when an empire declared war.
No table for two! Command dinner with the ship’s doctor and 2 couples, both connected to medicine. Actually good conversations, we got to hear about some challenging surgeries, and health care in the Philippines. Gretchen, of course, bonded with the couples. We had a surprisingly nice time. Afterwards, Cointreau over chipped ice, and then early to bed again.
SEPTEMBER 18
Homer mentions Zakynthos in both the Iliad and the Odyssey. The island’s nickname (given to it by the conquering Venetians) is “The Flower of the Levant.” It is said that 7,000 species of flowers grow there, but Zakynthos was all about the water for us. The boat that took us around the island and past some of the legendary blues caves, took us, first to search for the Caretta Caretta loggerhead sea turtle. It was past migration time and we found only one. I couldn’t help but think of Lonesome George, abandoned in Galapagos.
Gretchen’s notes: “This was the most beautiful place! We got on a small boat, with a section that had a glass bottom, to search for turtles. There were a number of large tourist boats also searching for turtles. We saw one (1) sea turtle and all the boats circled around the poor fella. After the turtle gawking we went to the caves and swam in a small cove encircled by steep cliffs. AMAZING! After our isolated swim, our boat took us on to a tacky public, overcrowded, beach: many people, many boats, and even floating concession boats. Finally, our little tour boat let us off in the town, which has a section for “young” tourists, with a McDonalds, a Subway and lots of litter. (sad)”
Side note: During the Nazi occupation of Greece, the mayor and bishop refused to turn in a list of the members of the town’s Jewish community. They hid all (or most) of them is isolated rural communities. It is said that all 275 Jews of Zakynthos survived WWII.
Gretchen and I veered from our ‘early to bed,’ to hang at the piano bar for our nightcap. A British woman joined the sing-along and had a magnificent voice. The tipsy chorus yielded the mic to her. Gretchen and I stayed on, enjoying. The next day we would compliment the singer and learn she was classically trained and sings now in some famous choir.
SEPTEMBER 19
When Rick and I took almost this same Sea Dream (“It’s not cruising, it’s yachting”) trip, this day was our favorite. And it was my favorite again. Though Parga is known for its 11th century castle and for spectacular beaches along its Ionian coast, it is the river at its heart that holds mine. The spring fed Archeron River is thought to be the archetype for The River Styx. We saw no three-headed dog, but many small waterfalls lacing the mother-of-pearl canyon sides and gorgeous rocks smoothed by the currents of the clear, clear water. We waded in the icy river and where there were pools, I swam. The water was so very cold that the bottoms of my feet turned purple. Our group sat on flat riverside rocks in the hot sun and waited for river guides to organize a fleet of rafts. The sun never felt so good. Twenty of us, piled five-to-a-raft, each raft with a strapling lad guide. We raced one another over the river rapids that widened out from the canyon into a broad rush of water spilling through flower-filled meadows. Everyone intent, paddling, hard, shouting, trying to take the lead, bonding Sea Dreamers screaming for victory! Amidst all the ruckus was the heart-stopping splendor of the blue green swell of mountains, colored grasses, and glassy rushing water. The guides pulled our rafts ashore (our team came in almost 1st) and we followed a path through the woods to a long table set under the trees beside the river. Sea Dream has a legendary chef and enthralling menus, but this simple repast may have been Gretchen’s favorite meal: Greek (of course) salad, rich with fresh tomatoes and studded with salty olives; warm slabs of country bread, feta pie, and thimbles of wine.
Charming Pargo was Gretchen’s favorite town. We combed the winding cobblestone streets looking for a shirt for Rick that featured the River Acheron (Styx). One shopkeeper said he’d never thought of that and would have shirts made. Alas, not in time to gift Rick. When we took the tender back to Sea Dream, I complained to a beautiful young couple from St. Thomas: “Who would come all the way to northwestern Greece to buy a t-shirt that says, ‘Jim Beam?’” On the last day of the trip (“Not cruising, it’s yachting”) the couple presented me with an amazingly colorful and tasteless t-shirt featuring Popeye having an infusion from a huge bottle of Jim Beam. The best tacky t-shirt I’ve ever seen!
Back on board in time for splendid cocktails, a swim and another superb dinner on the deck. Thanks to Gretchen, we had become so popular that we needed to dodge invitations to join tables for dinner. The next day was to be a ‘day at sea,’ and I began to lay plans for an insurrection. After dinner the open area around the pool featured a splendiferousness array of desserts and a live band. I happily danced with whatever partner I could lure out, and Gretchen chatted away. A late night for the silver duo.
SEPTEMBER 20
I spent much of the day writing to and waiting to hear from Rick. Otherwise, I was making trouble. The groundwork laid for a mutiny: I spoke earlier to ship personnel and lobbied the guests who were at the Captain’s dinner table on Wednesday. ‘Why? Why can’t we stop, mid-sea, and lower the swimming deck?’ The only reason I could see was that ‘it wasn’t done, wasn’t protocol.’ I wandered the ship urging folks to grumble. Midafternoon, on Thursday, Sea Dream paused, dropped anchor, and announced over the loudspeakers that there would be swimming. Scattered pockets of the most devoted swimmers, literally, cheered and flashed Victory signs. Within 10 minutes, passengers were dropping into the amazing Adriatic like the early pattering of summer’s first hailstorm. Soon the ink blue, calm surface of the water was patterned with confetti of multi-colored pool noodles. There were maybe 60 people (more than half the guests) splashing and high-fiving Gretchen and me. Wild rebels at sea!
From above, the almost wave-less Adriatic looked dark blue, but the water, itself, was clearer than air—our swimming bodies seemed suspended in ether. A joyful late afternoon spilled into a celebratory evening.
SEPTEMBER 21
Last day. Last Day. Gretchen—to mix metaphors—spent it as the sponge of tourism squeezing the blood from the turnip of the last full Sea Dream day, trying to pack it all in, see it all and not let last-day-sadness set in. In the early morning the two of us walked through the ancient walled city, which was already beginning to fill with tourists. Then Gretchen left for a full day that included a special tour and history of the walled City. They also went far into the hills, toured an olive press, learned that Montenegro has the oldest (2,400 years) olive tree in the world. Gretchen now knows that olives must be pressed within 24 hours of being picked, in order to have acidity below 0.9 and qualify as “virgin.” The group had a delicious meal at the family compound of an olive farm.
While Gretchen and her gang toured Kotor and the surrounds, I sat in my favorite corner on deck and wrote and read Tayari Jones’ An American Marriage and mostly stared out at the incredibly beautiful bay. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one more lovely. I sighted a beach an easy walk away, but decided I wanted my last swim to be the Thursday Swim of Insurrection in the glassy dark blue sea. My diary says that Gretchen and I had an especially lovely and private last dinner.
SEPTEMBER 22
Easy exit off Sea Dream, where we weren’t cruising, we were…. Gretchen’s new friends pressed their email and Facebook information upon her. Lots of ‘good-byes.’ Our taxi to the airport stopped on a very high cliff and we gazed down at Dubrovnik and the sea. The best way to see that city in these days of mega tourism.
The year Gretchen was 14 she lived in in Italy with her Aunt Gretchen’s family. They vacationed in the former Yugoslavia and wandered the, then, empty streets of Dubrovnik. There was no need for her to ever see it again; Rick and I had a dinner there three years ago. What Gretchen remembers most about her time in Yugoslavia was swimming at a beach that didn’t allow bathing suits. She has been firmly and empathically modest since that day.
Too long in the Dubrovnik airport, but Laina had arranged a lovely drive into Athens in a nice black car with a courteous, non-English speaking, driver. Gretchen and I kept our heads low in the Athens airport, fearing a Scary Steve Sighting. We arrived too late to make it to the truly wonderful Museum of The Acropolis, which was three blocks away. But we LOVED the small hotel where Laina booked us. Two blocks from the ancient Gate of Athens (behind there the crumbling Temple of Dionysius); we were across the street from the entrance to old town where we wandered happily after our magical dinner. Laina had reserved a table on the terrace of our hotel, the table rimmed by flower boxes. We had an uncluttered view overlooking the Acropolis. We watched the sun set there and then the Parthenon, and other hilltop temples, light up. A full moon was rising in the east and the meal was fantastic. O Blessed Last Night in Greece.
Our GEEP (Giles Early Education Project) group is so proud of this program. This launch is the 6th summer where we set up art/activities and books in the cafeteria where free lunch is being served. The only meal of the day for many of these children.
When she heard that the County was initiating a free summer lunch program in a county where almost half of our children receive free lunches during the school year, GEEP‘s Lynn Hill set into action, and the Lunch Bunch was created!
GEEP spent the weekend of June 14th setting up two school cafeterias with every art supply you could imagine, also books, games and reading corners. Friday was my first day working a shift. Watching ‘our kids,’ seeing those hyper little ones with bug-bitten skinny legs, the sniff-sniffing of those pubescents who started out with us as 6 and 7 year olds, the little 6 year old who discovered she could paint (& REALLY could!), the super talkative teen mom with her two kids (& on her way to pick up her 2 step kids), that whole crazy mixed-up crowd we'd never know if it weren't for GEEP and, for our friend Lynn’s magnificent vision....
Watching all that nearly took my breath away.
The monsoon seems in retreat. A stressful week, yet this Friday evening Rick and I sat at the river table sipping a minty cocktail and saw a scarlet tanager flitting by (red more intense, far brighter, than any cardinal) and then a bald eagle swooping over the river. The cedar waxwings were rising in (take-your-turn) cloud waves from our Juneberry trees to sky and back again. Every now and then there was the swoosh of a Baltimore oriole, those sun-breasted birds. The late afternoon lay long tree shadows over the impossibly green new grass.
I remembered this perfect poem to mark the first day of June:
Today
by Billie Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Because life here on the river asks so very much of every day, one of the best things about a vacation—no matter where—is time to read. I read two really good books (and am still working my way through THE POWER and a rare non-fiction, THE DEEPEST WELL) on the planes and train and buses.
My friend Mary recommended Mohsin Hamid’s EXIT WEST and I can’t imagine there’s been a better contemporary novel on the diaspora. The story of a young black robe-clad (pot-smoking, cussing, independent) woman and a vaguely religious man who meet and fall in love in an unnamed MidEastern city. The city could be Damascus, or Bagdad, or…. As the relationship between Nadia and Saeed deepens their city falls into darker chaos. The rebels and the government jockey for dominance, closing down the city’s power and food sources; loved ones are killed, snipers and informers roam the haunted city. At great expense and amidst terrifying dangers, the two lovers leave their city behind, exiting thought a door. That door becomes the first of several more doors throughout the novel’s narrative. In a time where almost everyone is displaced, Nadia and Saeed slip into a fantasy of refugee settlements, one after another: a beach resort where the signs are written in English, Vienna, a palace in London, and Marin California….. Other very brief stories, detailing societal breakdowns, different dangers, loneliness and love are interspersed with Nadia and Saeed’s story in this beautifully written futurist (both metaphoric and realistic) novel. Catastrophe and an unsettling new order are all told in 231 lyrically sparse pages.
Then there was A TALE FOR THE TIME BEING, written by the multi-talented Ruth Ozeki. The novel was a fascinating exploration of “now,” its elusive meaning, the impossibility of being within the present while capturing the present. The story is set in Tokyo and on an island in British Columbia. It is a tale about an unhappy teenager and a middle aged writer and that writer’s possible ability to effect/affect actual events. Nature landscapes and their environmental threats, figure into the narrative, as well as contemporary Japanese culture and the practice of Buddhism. There is teen angst, marital angst and career angst. The Internet figures into the plot, as well as a charismatic 104-year-old Buddhist nun. Japan’s great tsunami looms, though it has already occurred. Which—now that I re-read the above—makes A TALE FOR THE TIME BEING sound like a challenging read. But it isn’t. The reader becomes intimate with the Japanese youth subculture, as well as with the eccentric community of characters on a storm driven island off the coast of Canada. Read it: cheer for the troubled teenager, urge the misplaced New York writer to keep the generator and her marriage running while she solves a mystery washed ashore in a plastic freezer bag.