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Dear Friends and Family, The sun is shining, and I definitely feel like Im supposed to be here. "Here" is Thessaloniki, all the way across Greece adjacent to Turkey and beneath Bulgaria. I have been warned about going into Albania very strongly, and dont plan to go there at all, however, if I can get a direct bus through Bulgaria to Belgrade, I plan to head that way next... at the moment. I slipped out of the elevator at the US consulate here about 5 minutes too late, and they are only open three days a week, so I will be returning sometime. "Sometime" because I plan to go to Mount Athos next. I can tell I need to go back and begin at the place I left off last... The boat from Tunisia to Tripani, Sicily was huge; a cargo ship the size of a tanker with passenger berths in the huge tower below the bridge. Although one would expect a smooth trip on such a boat, it was rougher than many of my sailing trips! To begin with the pilot had a very tough time getting the boat away from the concrete quay. The wind was very strong, and pushed us twice, with painful crunching sounds, into it before a tug could arrive to help us out. As we exited the narrow harbor mouth a smaller ship was obvious in our path, but not until we were within a few short boat-lengths did the screws shudder into reverse. The other ship veered across our bow and out of the channel amid the frenzied yelling of the crew. We made it the rest of the way with no major incidents, although I went outside at about 2 am to see why my berth was swaying so much. The waves were quite large, and the wind was howling ferociously. When we finally reached Trapani, a tug eased us into the dock. After an all-day train ride with my fifty-eight year old South African travelling companion (whom I had met on the boat) I arrived once again on that restful beach beneath the electricity tower near Messina. We rested well there, and in the morning I awoke to find two children slowly edging toward me to find out what I was... when they saw me peering out they dashed back up the beach! Later, their father passed, eyeing me as he went, but when he returned he brought me a pastry, and so I suppose everything was ok. After a short ferry-ride on a turbine-powered ferry we ended up on the mainland again. My friend from South Africa had been there before, and confidently led me to a dead end where he remembered the train station to be. He immediately asked directions, which would be the best course of action if he spoke any Italian! As it was, I just stood back and grinned. We made his train by about 10 minutes... he was headed for Naples, and quite sure of the idea that he would camp in a farmer's orchard... I wish him the best of luck! I'm looking forward to hearing if he ever actually does gets to sleep in a farmer's orchard. As for me, I was soon on the express train across the coast of Calabria for Brindisi. I was glad to have a car all to myself, and spread out and slept while drying my clothes and sleeping bag on the six-hour trip. The express ended at Taranto, still an hour from Brindisi. As I waited for the small connecting train to leave, I watched the Italians. The country there is beautiful, and the people are even more so. I hope to someday love like an Italian. They are so passionate, even train stations become the set for romantic theater. As I watched I noticed a huge and very out of place man with blue eyes, dreadlocks, and clothes very unlike the forced Italian style coming my direction. He picked me out also, and hailed me in english. He was, in fact, a Brit, although he has lived in Italy 3 years. His one-eyed dog trailed us into the cafe, where he bought me one of the tiny Italian coffees. He was going the same direction as I, and immediately invited me to use his house. As we talked, I could tell he was quite intelligent, but I think a few too many drugs had left his mind with a few crossed wires and once in a while his speech patterns were a bit odd. He was a writer, he told me. "Easy to do, easy to do, easy to do..." he repeated. He had a Macedonian friend who lived at his house sometimes, and had burned his umbrella. "Psychological problems, psychological problems..." he told me. When the train stopped at a small graffitied stop only halfway to Brindisi, I declined his invitation, and watched him walk off into the dark, a grocery bag and his one-eyed dog trailing behind his dilapidated backpack. I checked his discarded tickets... this was certainly his stop. I think he was probably quite harmless, and definitely interesting, and Im always going to wonder what adventures we may have had if I had joined him, but I am still glad I did not. I arrived in Brindisi about 11 pm still not having any idea of a place to sleep (the main reason my friends offer had been interesting). As I exited the station I was suprised but relieved to find signs directing me to a youth hostel. At this time of year, many campgrounds and hostels are closed, and I pondered this as I walked the 4 Km along dark streets. I was overjoyed to find a brightly-lit, clean, and (most importantly) still open hostel with plenty of beds and an English-speaking barman. I spent the next day doing laundry, buying my tickets, and checking e-mail. I also purchased a book... and (it must have been subconscious, because it wasn't conscious!) I bought Homer's Oddessey! I left early the next morning. I had hoped to pay using my card, but no staff were visible, and the card machine was rumored to be broken anyway, so I left the last of my Italian Lira, a few Swiss Francs, and my e-mail address, and climbed the 9-foot fence, pack and all, to get to the port on time. The all-day ride was quiet. I needed the time to sleep and let my body fight off a bit of illness that had been threatening ever since Tunisia. It is still hanging around, but I think I have it beat. I read Homer and slept. There was a large group on my boat, and I took them to be Greek Orthodox returning home from something when they sang strange songs together facing east and recited an unfamiliar liturgy. I asked when they were finished, and found that they were not Greek, but Russian Orthodox, coming from Russia as well as Russians living throughout Europe. The ancient priest with them gave me a blessing as they got off the boat at Korfu, where the relics of St. Nicolas rest. Their admonition to go to Mount Athos "someday if you return" can now be seen as an omen... It was dark when I arrived, the only backpacker of 3 who hadn't got off to go to Corfu's famous Pink Palace. As the truck drivers staarted their engines, I wandered off into the balmy Greek night. We had landed at Igonumentsa, far in north of Greece, quite close to Albania. I am glad that a few Greeks speak a little english, for I soon found a hotel where I spent the night unsuccessfully hiding from mosquitoes. I wandered through the town that evening and the following morning, and felt more comfortable than I have in a long time. The attitude, the landscape, and the feeling of Greece reminds me overwhelmingly of Oregon. I hitchhiked for the first time in a while the next morning, getting a ride quickly in a small pickup with a shell. Nearly the first thing the driver, Mikey, said, was "Im driving fast, so hold on!" He was telling the truth!! If I hadn't been initiated by Italians, I think I would have jumped out! As it was, we made good time. I soon learned that Mikey has been living in Germany, and dropped everything to return to Greece when his younger brother, only my age of 22, unexpectedly died of heart failure. My companion hadn't eaten or slept since leaving Cologne, almost 1000 miles away. As we talked, he began to calm, and by the time I got out at Meteora, we had stopped to buy food, and were eating almost cheerfully. "It was so good to talk to you," he repeated a number of times. He gave me his phone number in Thessaloniki, making me promise to call when I arrived, and left me with a hug and a small gift of food. Meteora is amazing. Huge rock pinnacles stretch hundreds of feet vertically toward the heavens. On the tops of many of these pinnacles monasteries and nunneries perch precariously. As I hiked toward them and the sun set I knew I had never seen anything like this before. By the time I reached the first monastery my legs were aching and the air was chill. It was named for a female saint, and I was not extremely suprised when the nuns turned me away from the door without a word. I knew it was past visiting time, but I had questions for the monks, and was hoping they might give me shelter for the night, as they do in all the tales I have read. Looking forward to someplace out of the rising wind to sleep, I pressed on the the next monastery. It was almost dark, and my legs protested as I climbed the winding steps to the gate. I rang the bell. I knocked. I waited. I knocked again. I waited. I gave a mighty heave on the bell chain again (and if I didnt damage it a bit it is well made!) I waited. Finally I heard footsteps shuffling to the door, and a single foreign word grunted through the door. "Do you speak English?" I pleaded. The footsteps shuffled away. A few minutes later one of the monks looked down at me from the tower over the stairs. "Hello," I greeted him... the head retreated, never to reappear. I sat disconsolately, not only because of my rather chilly and very stuck situation, but more because I had received such a welcome from men known for their religious ways. After a bit I roused myself, and walked down the stairway a bit to a nicely sheltered crevasse on the stairway with a nice stone bench inside. Halfway through my preparations for sleep a man came down the stairs, watching warily as he passed. When he returned, an hour later, he asked if I were sleeping there and told me it would be cold. "Do you live here, and is there any place inside," I asked. "Only monks..." was his muttered reply as he retreated hastily up the steps. Sunday dawned misty. Soon a large number of people had passed my sleeping place, heading up the the monastery. I packed, and followed the last of them in, thinking that perhaps I could at least warm up during mass. I was nearly to the entrance of the small chapel when a man (a monk or not, I do not know) stepped out and spoke roughly to me in Greek. He gestured and eyed me nastily as he tied a rope across the entrance. "Ok, Ill wait until after mass," I though. I sat down away from the door. Another man came out and headed in my direction. "You must speak english," I said. "Is there a mass?" "It's impossible for you to attend," he told me straightly. "Any way to ask any of the monks some theological questions I have?" I asked. "None of them speak English." I was sad. As I forced my aching legs slowly back down the steps the weather synchronized with my mood, and the clouds began to dampen the ground. By the time I reached the next monastery a downpour had begun, and thunder rumbled with the howling wind. I took shelter outside, thinking that perhaps if I waited until visiting hours actually began I would have better luck. More people passed me on their way into the monastery, and I was finally forced inside by the chilling cold. I was hungry and dripping as I wandered inside. No one tried to stop me, neither was I greeted. I could tell that this monaster, the Grand Meteoron, was more of a tourist destination than the others. I was glad to warm for a bit in the chapel, and my heart rose up when the visitors were offered a bowl of some sweet confection, but when I tried to enter a warm room that many of the visitors exited from the door was once again closed on me. I spoke to the monk who had brought out the sweets, and he began to speak with me, then walked off, apparently forgetting me. I sat on the hard stone bench next to the chapel and shared a bit of bread with a hungry cat as I watched fog pour into the covered walkways. My feet were as cold as the reception I had gotten the night before. A bit later the monk motioned to me and led me into the warm room where I had wanted to go earlier. He brought hot coffee and chocolate-covered pastries for me and a family who had entered with me, and I thawed as they spoke inuntelligible words. A few sentences were addressed to me, and I asked if there was any way I could stay and speak with them about their ways and beliefs. I was told that he would have to ask the abbot. I waited for some time, wondering again if I had been forgotten. My new monk-friend brought in another family, and when they left, we began to talk. I asked him questions, and his answers seemed to me to be right and good. Another monk joined us, and we had a very enjoyable conversation. After a short absence, my friend returned with a tiny envelope in his hand. "The abbot is preaching at a village without a pastor," he told me. "We can't make the decision to let you stay here. We recommend you go to Mount Athos, where there are many monks (we are only 10) who speak English well. Here are 30.000 drachme for your journey." I was overwhelmed. The contrast between the monks there and the monks of the night before was unbeleiviable. When I left they gave me an english-edition book on prayer and a (very long!) rosary from their personal belongings, as well as a small icon from the shop. I was warm inside and out as I climbed back down the stairs. I tried to flag down a ride, and one stopped almost immediately. I told them I just needed to get to the bottom of the mountain, but somehow they misunderstood and sped off without me. A man approached me from near a tour bus, and (once again in a language I didnt understand at all) motioned to the bus. I wasnt going to put any hope in getting a ride in a bus, but within a few minutes, there I was... my pack stowed in the spacious baggage compartment, and me with a group of, believe it or not, Serbian women on a pilgrimage tour! One of them spoke a bit of english, and we talked as we went. They were happy to take me to within about 60 Km of Thessaloniki, where they were staying for the night. The men running the bus, and Mr. Bravo, the tour guide, seemed quite happy to have me, and as dark set in (and we visited a few more churches) they invited me to stay at the hotel and continue with them in the morning to Thessaloniki. The hotel was not expensive, and the room was the best I've had. The group went to dinner, and Mr. Bravo threw me in with the group for free! It was quite excellent. Later we sat and chatted over wine, although it was the Serbians who chatted, since only one of them spoke any english. I had fun showing Djianna, Natasha, and Dragana the things from my trip to Douz. We walked around in the quiet town, making our way to a second hand shop where I bought a much-needed wool sweater. After the included breakfast we hit the road, and I arrived in Thessaloniki about 10am. It was sad to say goodbye to their generous group and the gregarious Mr. Bravo, but I have much to do... I hope to see them at home in Serbia. So here I am. I must contact Mikey and get a special visa to visit Mount Athos, which is much like Vatican city in the way it is governed. Only men are allowed within 2 Km of the "island" and you must have special permission. I plan to try for that tomorrow. I continue to ask for your thoughts and prayers... I don't know when I will write next, but It will probably be the last letter from the road (at least the European road!). -dustin |