21 October to 29 October

Wanting to go deeper into the Northern Pindos National Park, I decided to take the advise of the man I’d met the day before and go to Vovousa. He’d highly recommended a guesthouse there. I booked a room.

I typed in the name and let Louise(the GPS Google Maps voice)guide me.

As the villages grew further apart, the roads had fewer vehicles. But vigilance was key. The chances of encountering a flock of sheep, horses, and cows increased. There was the inevitable dog stretched out in the middle of the road enjoying the pavement warmed by the sun too. Huge potholes were not uncommon, and asphalt roads suddenly turned to dirt. Some roads oddly had one side covered in grass, others led to unmarked hairpin turns. But driving slowly and attentively made all the above manageable, and at times entertaining. However when Louise navigated me to some uncomfortably narrow roads, I was not amused. ( Of course, I take full responsibility.)

Hunting season for wild boars had begun. It wasn’t unusual to see a man, often alone, wearing an orange vest, with a large rifle standing or sitting by the side of the road. The sight made me uneasy. I’m not a fan of firearms.(I didn’t encounter any wild boars.)

The country landscape,when I had the chance to appreciate it from the driver’s. seat, was splendid. However, the sunny weather I’d been enjoying for so long changed. Dark clouds moved in and by the time I arrived at Vovousa it was chilly and raining heavily.

I couldn’t locate the guesthouse right away and decided to get something to eat. I saw only one taverna. It was on the other side of the roaring Aoös river and reached by a stunning stone bridge. Most of the old stone bridges I’d seen hadn’t been used for ages, except as a nice background for a tourist’s photograph, but this one joined one part of the village to the other.

A huge fire in the taverna warmed me as I quickly ate a delicious spinach and feta pie. I knew the people at the guesthouse were expecting me. Equipped with clear directions, thanks to the owner of the taverna, I walked back over the bridge and drove down a long dirt road.

Antonis, the owner of the Kerasies Guesthouse, came out to welcome me in the pouring rain. He then made me a cup of hot tea while we spoke about the area and the village’s logging industry evolving into tourism. Vovousa now hosts a summer arts festival. The year-round population is around one hundred. In WWII the village had been destroyed by the Nazis. Few original buildings remain, but the bridge from 1748 survived.

Antonis offered several hiking options, but the downpour didn’t make any of them appealing. My large comfortable room however had a fireplace. That evening I gazed at the fire and read.

The following day the rain continued and I was given more firewood. Reading by the fire was the extent of my activities. It was a perfect opportunity to catch up with Graham Greene’s Travels with My Aunt. I only ventured out around mealtimes. I didn’t run into anyone. Signs of life came only from chickens foraging in people’s yards, and the ever-present stray cats. The taverna I’d first gone to was closed. The family had a baptism to attend.

Fortunately, the only other option, a taverna just down the road, served excellent, hearty meals (lamb was their speciality–again delicious). And I had a wonderful dining companion. The two and one-half year old granddaughter of the owners joined me both evenings I ate there. She made sure the napkins on my table were arranged properly, and didn’t mind that my only response to everything she said was “Naí (yes).” When I’d finish eating she would take me by the hand and lead me to the sack of potatoes propped up in the corner. It made for lovely after-dinner strolls.

Unfortunately I could not stay in the guesthouse a third night. The owner and his brother, a lumberjack, had to work elsewhere.

I decided to visit Parga on the sea.

The town was closing up for the season and a choice of accommodations were few. The only other guests at my hotel were a British couple. They were in the throes of trying to take an abandoned puppy they’d found back home with them.

But there were enough locals to keep most of the cafes and restaurants open. Parga is lovely, the people are welcoming. I enjoyed walking along the coast, discovering the small back streets, and watching the traditions of a local holiday.

It is an overall relaxing place to spend time.

However, my second evening there at 2am, 1:54am to be precise, the shaking of my bed woke me up. At first, I thought a large truck must have driven by, I come from NYC after all. Then I thought of an earthquake. I put on my shoes and jacket and left my room. The British woman was standing outside, a floor below me, barefoot, in her pajamas. We agreed it had to have been an earthquake. Terrified that her room would collapse she’d run outside where she’d thought it would be safer. “Where is your husband?” I asked. “He’s in bed sleeping,” she replied.

A young couple appeared, looking relaxed after an evening out. Seeing us they said, “Welcome to Greece. We get earthquakes all the time.” I went back to bed. I’d read the next day that an earthquake with 6.8 magnitude had occurred about 200 kms away.

I hadn’t yet had my fill of the mountains so made my way back inland. Driving up a steep serpentine road I arrived at Papingo–actually two separate villages. There is Malago, or Large, Papingo and Mikro, or Small, Papingo. (“Large” is clearly a relative term.) Tourism has impacted both of them, but they remain charming, and picturesque.

Mikro Papingo, where I stayed, was particularly low-key. It suited me well. Despite the many challenging hikes available, I opted for relaxing walks on easy footpaths and having conversations, hot chocolate in hand, with locals and fellow travelers.

17 October to 21 October

Zagori, a region of the Pindos (or Pindus) Mountains, is also the name you’ll likely see on the bottles of water in Greece.

Although the region takes pride in its pure mountain sources and villages, the crown jewel of the area is the Vikos Gorge: the deepest gorge in the world according to the Guinness Book of Records.

Many people come for the 12km, six-hour hike through the gorge, but I wasn’t sold on it. This probably had a lot to do with the woman at the Pindos National Park Information Center.  She’d provided me with maps and brochures my first day in the area, and told me that after five hours of hiking, my last hour would be a strenuous climb up stairs to the village of Vikos.

When I left Kalarites I’d headed for the village of Monodendri, which is a popular starting point for the hike, and a convenient location to explore the area. But I found the empty, nondescript, village unappealing and drove on. I was enjoying the foliage and high-arched stone bridges that dotted the area before arriving at the pretty village of Kipi.  A taverna was lively with customers, both tourists and locals, enjoying drink and food under a canopy of trees. Unfortunately, all the hotels and guesthouses had closed for the season, except one, and it was fully booked.

I asked a young waitress for some suggestions. It was already late afternoon and I was not looking forward to driving on mountain roads in the dark.

She kindly made some phone calls and I was soon arriving at a guesthouse in the hamlet of Dilofo, a short, but circuitous drive away. Once again I would be leaving the car in a parking area and entering the center by foot on stone pathways. By this time it was nearly dark and I was delighted to be welcomed warmly by Olga who ran the place. The accommodations, previously a private home, and recently refurbished, were surprisingly sumptuous.

Olga gave me a number of hiking options, but most required driving somewhere first, so the following day I decided to hike from Dilofo back to Kipi then take the bus home. The walk was pleasant, but mostly unremarkable, except for a splendid stone bridge. I knew it didn’t compare to the gorge hike.

I hadn’t reserved my room for the following night and came back to learn it had been booked. In the meantime I’d heard that Monodendri’s center, like the other villages, was only accessible on foot.

What I’d seen was the outskirts. I decided to give Monodendri another chance.

I was not disappointed. I found a beautiful, old guesthouse with original fixtures from the 1920’s.  My spacious room had a balcony with a view of the valley. And most importantly, the lovely host persuaded me to hike the Vikos Gorge.

I set out around 10 am with a sturdy walking stick I’d found the previous day, water, food, and some layers of clothing. I was to call my host when I arrived at the end, in the village of Vikos. She would arrange for transportation back home.

The path from the village was encouraging. It was very well-marked and the terrain was easy.

Shortly afterwards, I began my descent, which went on and on–appropriately so. As I gingerly made my way over increasingly uneven, rocky terrain, two runners carrying nothing and wearing only light shorts and tee-shirts quickly approached me and were soon out of sight. The mountainous areas throughout Greece attract scores of ultra-marathon runners and extremely challenging events.

I contentedly walked for several hours alone.

I’d been informed about the final ascent, but unexpectedly encountered sections where I needed to crawl over large boulders and scramble along narrow paths. Fortunately the worst section had a rope attached to the rock as a handrail.

Despite the challenging moments, I reveled in the beauty and silence.

The sheer rock of the gorge walls loomed overhead. The forest was splashed with color. The sky was clear and blue.

Toward the end, I met a man from Athens. We chatted as he waited for his companions to catch up.  And spoke about the places I’d been. He strongly suggested I go to the village of Vovousa. I took out my little notebook and jotted down the name.

Dreading the final ascent up to Vikos, I was pleased it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had imagined. It was steep, but definitely doable, and I prefered it to the more precarious parts earlier on.

Vikos was tiny. There was a taverna, church, a few homes and not much more. There was a lookout over the gorge and a man asked me to take a photo of him and his family. His wife, Maria, had lived in Toronto for many years and spoke English fluently. Christos, to his regret spoke very little. Their ten-year old twin sons were studying English, and although shy, I suspected they spoke well. The family was going back to Vitsa, a few kms from Monodendri, and kindly offered to take me home. I let my host know.

Soon I was being invited to join them and their friends for dinner that evening at Kanella and Garyfallo, a restaurant in Vitsa devoted to mushrooms, and one I was hoping to try.

The food and wine were delicious. I ordered mushroom risotto and shared several salads. The conversation flowed with laughter. When the bill came, my contribution was refused. It was a delightful evening and the perfect ending to a splendid day.

 

 

 

 

 

14 October to 17 October

Large towns were left behind as I made my way from Meteora to the Tzoumerka mountains. I arrived on quiet country roads which began passing through fewer and fewer villages. In what seemed like the middle of nowhere a farmer was selling apples. I stopped to buy some. The vehicles I did see were either logging trucks loaded with fresh-cut lumber or pick-up trucks driven by locals who zipped past me.

An abundance of fir and autumn-colored trees covered the hills. As the road ascended, the view opened up, and the bare mountains appeared. I was leaving the lush forests and waterfalls far behind.

I wasn’t particularly concerned with the increasingly narrow, winding road–my time in Italy and Spain gave me considerable practice with these–as long as there was a road. Heavy rains had taken their toll: large chunks of asphalt had simply fallen away. And there was rarely any indication where this occurred. My speed, already slow, decreased. Fortunately I had the road mostly to myself.

Except for the sheep.

A flock of sheep were making their way down onto the road. I pulled over to admire them and the view. A shepherd with his, I assumed wife, were coaxing their flock to a pasture below. Both were bundled up. The air was much cooler from what I’d left behind. The man set down for a smoke while his wife walked on. Our communication was limited but, I understood enough to know he was asking me where I came from and to say “I’m from New York” in Greek. “Amerika” he said. He looked surprised, smiled, and went back to smoking.

Signs were infrequent, and in Greek. Although I knew enough of the alphabet to get by, I relied heavily on my co-pilot, the Google Maps GPS lady, who I call Louise–since we’ve been spending so much time together I thought it only appropriate.

After much vigilance on the road, I arrived in the hamlet of Kalyrites. Or more specifically a parking area. The only access to the hamlet’s center was by foot on stone-paved paths. Kalyrites, with many different transliterations from the Greek, has been noted for its beauty and hiking opportunities. I planned to spend at least one night there.

I’d read fine reviews of a Napoleon’s Guesthouse and hoped to find it and availability. I wandered past old houses also made of stone and little else. It didn’t take long to find the guesthouse–again thanks to Louise, but there was no one there despite the doors being wide open.

I walked a bit further and saw people sitting around a long, outdoor table. It was Napoleon’s fifth generation shop/restaurant/gathering place/heart and soul of Kalyrites. A dark-haired young man from the table immediately got up and invited me to join them. He and his beautiful, lithe, blonde wife had just gotten married there the day before. Napoleon’s shop was also a wedding hall.

They spoke English fluently. It was the first marriage held in Kalyrites in twenty years. The town’s year-round population hovers around twelve.

I spent several hours chatting with this charming couple and their friends. We shared a meal of lamb, potatoes, salad, and meze. I am not a big meat-eater and have rarely appreciated the strong taste of lamb, however this tasted sweet. I politely declined the additional rounds of the potent traditional Raki.

Before they all headed back to Athens, many well wishes were exchanged. Labrini, Napoleon’s wife, a fine cook, took me to my lovely room with balcony at their guesthouse. She spoke basic English, but her hugs required no translation.

Later, stepping out for a stroll, I saw only a few people sitting outside at the two other cafes/restaurants in town. It was very quiet. I wandered around enjoying the views and silence.

And then I heard a man’s singing and walked toward his voice. He was sitting on a tomb in the small cemetery. A woman and man were video-taping him. I stood nearby listening to his mournful melody.

I would get to meet the filmmakers later–in a village that size it would be impossible not to. Elpida, which means “hope” in Greek, and Nikos were there to shoot a documentary on a dying tradition. In the fall, sheep would be moved from their high summer pasture to a lower one for the winter. For centuries this migration had naturally been done on foot, but most shepherds today preferred to transport their sheep on trucks.

Petros, the man singing in the cemetery, and owner of six-hundred sheep, wished to retain the tradition, and respect the wishes of his father, who’d passed away at ninety-five the year before. His father thought it was unjust to relocate the sheep so quickly. “It would be like us arriving disoriented from an airplane trip.”

There would be some compromising. The original treks had been several days or longer. This more symbolic journey would be for one full day followed by the more expedient option the next. However, the arrival of the shepherds with the flock in the evening would be met with celebration, and no compromising. The migration was scheduled for the following morning.

I learned all this from Elpida, who spoke English perfectly. She’d worked in television for many years and was now making feature documentaries. Her long-time friend and soundman was Nikos.

The story captured my imagination. Elpida invited me to come along. The details were sketchy. She added, the celebration often ends quite late: there’s a lot of eating, dancing, music, and drinking. And she couldn’t guarantee she’d be available to take me back herself. But Napoleon would definitely be there and getting home shouldn’t be a problem. I took a glance over at Napoleon. He looked a bit like Santa Claus. I was thinking of those mountain roads at night, and tried to judge his affection for alcohol.

It was an experience too good to miss. I decided to take my chances.

I met Nikos and Elpida the following morning at breakfast. They were looking pleasantly chipper. They greeted me like an old friend. Labrini brought over copious amounts of bread, yogurt, jam, eggs, butter, and coffee.

Elpida ran off to take some morning shots of the area and Nikos and I lingered over breakfast with plans to all meet up again later.

By 10:30 we arrived at Petros “home.” It was a small camper that he and his family used while they grazed their sheep in the summer pasture. It was simple living–his pickup truck looked more luxurious. But the view was outstanding and there were no neighbors for miles around.

I’d hoped of walking with the shepherds and sheep, but because details remained vague, I decided it best to ride with Elpida and Nikos. We stopped often for filming and each time their equipment was lugged out of the car. I offered to help and was astounded by how heavy the camera and tripod was. Elpida carried it up and down the rocky terrain with ease.

I enjoyed my time driving with Elpida and Nikos-they usually bantered in Greek, but watching the process of filming and the day unfold was never dull.

However I was itching to walk. A few hours later the shepherds stopped to take a break. I was able to gather that for the remaining time the shepherd would primarily be following the road. Any concerns about traipsing over mountain tops was dispelled.

When the shepherds continued, I went with them.

They didn’t seem bothered by my presence, but neither did they appear particularly interested. However they didn’t do much talking among themselves either. I don’t know if asking permission had been involved. I’d no indication it was warranted.

The air was cool and fresh. The views were splendid. And I thoroughly enjoyed walking amidst six-hundred sheep.

There were six shepherds. The youngest, about twenty, was the son of Petros. The others, except for another young man, were older–in their forties or fifties. They all walked upright and carried a wooden walking stick. But their pose at rest was always at a slant.

This ancient way of life may be in peril. The life of a shepherd is difficult and solitary. The young men today are opting for different lifestyles.

The sheep either followed each other or looked lost. I was not impressed with their intelligence, but they were always gentle. Certain metaphors seemed particularly apt. The few goats seemed to have much more on the ball, and looked frustrated when the herd stopped for no reason. Maybe I read too much into their expressions.

I did my share of keeping the sheep together. But my attempts at making the same calls and sounds the shepherds did to encourage movement of the flock–one was a loud BRRRRAAH–was generally unsuccessful. I kept trying. As time went on the men became friendlier.

If the sheep did stray, the two sheepdogs did little about it. They just moseyed along. The men were spread out and that task was left to them. (I would learn later the dogs’ role was primarily to protect the sheep from predators.)

The flock would stop moving when they were not urged on. I’m not sure it was an honor, but I was asked to lead them. And so I walked ahead and the flock followed. The sheepdogs stayed nearby, perhaps sensing my inexperience, and not wishing to take any chances.

Near the end we made our way off the road, through the woods, across a pasture with a small herd of amiable cows, and down toward the pasture.

When we arrived a large bonfire was roaring and both men and women were serving food and drink. My hands were quickly filled with both.

Elpida and Nikos never sat for a moment. They were too busy filming.

Soon the haunting vocals of Napoleon and Petro were accompanied with clarinets, fiddle, guitar, bouzouki, and hand drum. It reminded me of Klezmer music. Men began dancing by walking in a circle holding hands or with their arms around each other. The first two men would be holding a handkerchief held high between them. And the first man would take his solo, all the while holding the handkerchief for support. The movements were generally slow and steps were determined by the dexterity of the dancer. It was a moment for the more capable dancers to flaunt their abilities, but all efforts were welcome. A few women joined in too.

One of the shepherds sat next to me. I hadn’t seen much of him during the day and didn’t realise he spoke English. When the musicians sang, he softly translated the lyrics for me. Some of the songs were the lament of Greek emigrants missing home, others were traditional folk songs about love, and others were songs of these mountains.

Around midnight the chill, despite the bonfire, began seeping in. People began to leave. Tired from a full day, I was pleased when Nikos came to me and said Napoleon would be leaving soon. He and Elpida would stay on another hour or so to pack up.

I got into Napolean’s pick-up and we set off. He looked completely sober. His singing had been beautiful and I told him, then asked if he would sing again. I spent the next forty-minutes listening to his wonderful voice fill the silence as he drove, very slowly, on the dark mountain road.

I felt privileged to share time in his world.

When I went for breakfast the following morning Elpida and Nikos were already there. They were driving back to Athens that afternoon for another project. They seemed to have endless energy. We shared warm goodbyes and spoke of keeping in touch and we have.

I spent that afternoon hiking to Sarroka, another petty hamlet in the area. The hike took me down to a river and up a long, steep bank. The views were lovely, and I had a nice lunch there before returning home, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the images, music, and experiences of the previous day.

 

 

9 October to 14 October

Anticipating crowds at “the most visited place in Greece” I booked my five nights accommodation in advance. My choice was based on excellent reviews, but I hadn’t paid much attention to the location.

Driving through the modern, but appealing town of Kalambaka (the original structures had been burned down by the Nazis) I was pleased that my GPS was directing me to the small adjoining village of Kastraki. I left the hustle and bustle to find steep and narrow roads and other-worldly pillars of rock looming over my guesthouse. Kastraki remains remarkably unspoiled by tourism with its modest homes, bakery, grocery, residents who only speak Greek, and few shops although the tavernas cater largely to tourists.

My decision to stay five days is not typical. Most people arrive on day-trips from Athens, or remain a night or two to see a few monasteries. My plan was to hike in the area and take my time visiting the six monasteries still in use(four are for monks and two for nuns), albeit very few monks or nuns still live there. There are also about twenty abandoned monasteries with varying degrees of accessibility.

Meteora’s unusual landscape, offering isolation and protection, attracted dwellers since ancient times. (Meteora means “suspended in the air”)  By the 11thc. hermits came to the area and by the 14thc. the first monastery was built. Back then the difficult access was intentional. Monks had to climb sheer rock or use temporary wooden and rope ladders. Provisions and less fit monks, until recently, were hoisted up with large nets. The nets are still used for supplies, but the monks, like the tourists, can now arrive by stairs. Admiring the ample girths of today’s monks I could not imagine them attempting their predecessors’ feats.

However, the area today has understandably become a popular destination for rock climbers.

Getting information on hiking to the monasteries seemed purposely difficult.  The “Information Center” seemed intent on selling tours far more than offering guidance. And hiking on my own was discouraged. ” Paths are poorly marked.” But doing some research on the mighty web I found a young, inexperienced, woman hiker’s account reassuring. “You can’t get lost.”

And so with a sketchy map and the kind guidance of a shop owner who pointed me in the right direction, I set off from the town square to the St. Nikolaos monastery not far from my guesthouse.

The village road turned into a dirt road. I then arrived at a crossroads that cars and tour buses use. I crossed it and just beyond noticed a stone path. I was surprised, after being told the paths were poorly marked. But it seemed to be going in the right direction, so I took it up and up. It was wonderful. I knew I couldn’t get lost, except in my thoughts.

I made my way through this peaceful forest enjoying my surroundings. I didn’t see or hear anyone else, only the birds singing. As I hiked I thought of all the effort it must have taken to create such a long path made of stone–then I thought of all the effort needed to build the monasteries.

Some time later I emerged from the forest to the steps of a monastery. I arrived. But it was not at my intended destination. I’d arrived at the Great Meteora monastery instead, some distance away.

Apparently I’d lost track of time, but even more so, I hadn’t thought such a straight forward walk to the most popular, and biggest, monastery existed. No one had mentioned it.

Expecting crowds, I happily walked right in and paid the three euro entrance fee to a particularly good-natured gentleman. He welcomed me in numerous languages. Signs requested visitors to respect the dress code. I wrapped one of the many colorful skirts hanging from hooks over my pants and covered my shoulders with a scarf. I then wandered around the dark wide passages and saw a monk’s cell, no longer used. It was simple and small, but possessed a spectacular view. The old kitchen with ample pots, pans, and soot was on display too. The beautiful 16th c. frescoes in the main cathedral were particularly memorable.

With my new-found confidence–I hadn’t really gotten lost after all–I spent the remaining days exploring. With some perseverance I managed to see all that I had hoped to, including the much-closer-than-I-had-imagined St. Nicholas monastery. My success was largely made possible by the extraordinary kindness of the locals. One man even offered to take me on his scooter to the beginning of a trail that continued to elude me. I accepted his offer.

I returned to that old stone path often. I never encountered more than a handful of people. Apparently the lack of encouragement to hike on one’s own was effective.

I did however chance upon a young monk walking there who quickly averted his eyes when he saw me. Perhaps the locals are doing their share to keep the old stone paths free of tourists.

3 October to 9 October

From Sifnos, I returned to Athens for two more nights. It was a jarring adjustment from the quiet island, but a necessary stopover before heading north to discover the mainland and to see some foliage.

My destination had been prompted during my previous visit.  I’d been walking on one of Athens’ main avenues when I stopped to look at a photograph displayed in a tourist office window. A structure was perched atop an immense pillar of rock.  It was an extraordinary image.

Inside the office a young woman sat behind a desk looking bored. “It’s a monastery of Meteora” she said with barely a trace of a Greek accent. Although I was not interested in her proposed day-trip–it’s four hours one-way from Athens–she patiently answered my questions. The monasteries, according to her, are the most popular tourist destination in Greece. I was surprised I’d never heard of them, but made a point to get there.

I decided to go north by way of Thessaloniki (the second most populace city in Greece.) There I would rent a car for a month and tour some of the mainland.

I’d read that a slow-train from Athens to Thessaloniki, was soon to be replaced by a less scenic fast-train. I bought a ticket the following morning at the station. Although everyone I encountered spoke English well, I made an effort to speak the few words I knew in Greek–they always seemed pleased.

My short time in Athens included a visit to a newly opened center for women refugees. The refugee crisis remains acute and I considered staying in Athens to volunteer, but the walk-in center, at least for now, would not require more than a few hours/week of my time–a convenient opportunity for those already living in Athens, but not enough to intice me into an extended stay.

Unlike the hellish refugee camps people spoke of, and discouraged me from going to, the center was clean, quiet, and welcoming. However as a day center no sleeping facilities, nor food, is provided and attendance, at least when I visited, was low. The center is designed to provide a safe place where women and their children can relax, socialize, and acquire skills for life in Europe, even though the immigration status for most is tenuous.

The 10:14am train from Athens was scheduled to arrive in Thessaloniki at 3:40pm. I found my reserved seat in a six-seater compartment. It was similar to the trains I’d loved and traveled in Europe decades before, except now with central air-conditioning/heating the windows did not open. I’d enjoyed standing back then in the corridors of the old trains, with most of the other passengers , taking in the views and fresh air. I had a window seat and sat with a young couple, their newborn baby, young son, his uncle, and a young man traveling alone.

The family, like me, were not Greek; I presume they came from elsewhere in the Balkans. They doted on the children, spoke softly, laughed often, and focused on each other. The slow train was slower than expected with many delays. The dining car, an amenity fading into obsolescence, was a pleasant place to pass the extra hours and watch the lovely, but surprisingly unremarkable scenery–maybe I was looking out on the wrong side.

Saying “Thessaloniki” tied my tongue–it seemed, like many Greek words, to contain an unwieldy number of syllables– but I enjoyed this city with a vibrant waterfront and noteworthy sights. Like many old cities, it endured wars, destruction, bloodshed, and tragedy. The long standing Jewish population, once the majority, was decimated during World War II: over 90% were murdered. A museum commemorating these residents was built by the small, but present Jewish community today and opened in 2001.

I spent two days wandering through the neighborhoods, visiting the “must-see sights, and finding that the city’s reputation for delicious food was justified.

I’d never thought of Mount Olympus, of mythological renown, being an actual place, but Dina of Sifnos encouraged me to go its National Park. An hour or s away I set off from Thessaloniki in my rented car to stay in Lithohoro, a lovely town abutting the park. Many people come to hike to Mt. Olympus’ summit, but a guide is required and I preferred trails I could walk alone.

Another popular hike is in the Enipeas Canyon from Litochoro to Prionia. It encompasses a scenic section of the E4–a European trail of 10,000 kms starting in Portugal and continuing through Cyprus to Crete. The hike of 12 kms, included over 900 meters of steep inclines and descents with rocky, uneven paths. Fortunately Prionia boasts a welcoming taverna and parking lot for taxis taking hikers back to Litochoro and those with their own vehicles hiking in the area.

I started at 10am in sunshine, but it would drizzle throughout the day, not unwelcome while hiking uphill. The trail was well-marked–for the most part. I savored the tranquility, waterfalls, forest, wooden bridges, and striking views when the clouds cleared. The terrain was challenging, but the sounds of nature and its beauty encouraged my every step.

After six hours I arrived in Prionia hungry and pleasantly tired. The day before, a woman in Litochoro highly recommended the goat soup at the taverna. I’d never been tempted to eat goat before and thought I’d give it a try. Well, maybe it was the preparation or it’s an acquired taste, but the huge slab of meat on the bone with little else in the soup did not entice me. I gave it a try, but instead made the huge, lazy, one-eyed dog there extremely happy. (I had to convince him that getting up and coming over to me would be worth his while.)

None of the taxis were waiting, and getting chilly I hoped to get back to my room quickly for a hot shower and some dinner. Fortunately I met a German couple heading that way and I asked to go with them. The driver’s speed made me question my choice–these mountain roads are not the autobahn–but we did made it back quickly, and safely.

I spent the next few days taking it easy, walking around town and to nearby waterfalls. My evenings were spent chatting with some residents of Litochoro. The owners of the hotel and a sporting goods shop were particularly engaging and generous with their time. I learned about the town’s history, the Greek Civil War, and reminded of the many English words derived from Greek.

The days in Thessaloniki and Litochoro passed quickly. I left Litochoro and Mount Olympus reluctantly, but was looking forward to Meteora.

19 September to 3 October

I took a flight from Corfu and booked two nights in Athens. Despite all the tempting ancient sites to visit, I had my priorities. I made an appointment with a dentist to have my teeth cleaned. He did a great job.

My trip many years ago to Greece, when I’d seen Athens’ major sights, and had gone to the “must-see” islands, made it only slightly easier to choose my next destination.

I decided on the island of Sifnos. It was relatively near to Athens, had a reputation of being low-key, had lots of hiking trails, and some great swimming spots.

The hydrofoil left Athens at 4:15pm and arrived on Sifnos at 7pm when the sun was nearly setting.

Once again I hadn’t made any reservations and found the tourist office was closed. Fortunately, steps from the port in Kamares was the main street with cafes and tavernas. I made a few inquiries and an older gentleman offered me a room. I followed him, lugging my bags, up a very long set of stairs. We finally reached “Dorothea’s Rooms” where I was soon greeted by Dorothea herself. She was elderly, stout, and her sparse hair was dyed bright red. She had a warm smile, spoke only a few words in English, and my Greek at best allows me to be polite, but it was enough to convey the price of 30 Euros for a pleasant room, packed with three single beds, and terrace. The room however, was only equipped with an intimidating gas canister– I was actually relieved it was out of fuel– for making Greek coffee. It was great for my arrival, but hoped for my stay a place I could prepare some meals.

I ate that evening at a lively restaurant on the beach and went to sleep with the throbbing beat of the island’s sole disco. I was delighted to learn that it was its last night before closing for the season.

The next morning I happened upon an Italian man bringing back some sweet pastries to his wife for breakfast. He said they were staying in a very nice apartment nearby. One thing led to another and soon I was introduced to Dina, the landlady, and shown a large one-bedroom apartment with full kitchen and a wrap-around terrace also for 30 Euros. I moved in that morning.

Dina spoke English beautifully, brought me homemade goodies, fresh eggs, and the latest weather reports each day.

A few days after my arrival, news of a serious storm played havoc with travel plans. The summer temperatures dropped and white caps covered the sea. Boat service was suspended. Residents and tourists were stuck on Sifnos.

Fortunately I had no pressing plans, my week there extended to ten days. I was only too happy to explore more of the island.

10 September to 19 September

I expected to have some cabinmates on a night ferry from Brindisi, Italy to Corfu, Greece, but was upgraded to a private cabin when I checked in. I suspect many cabins were empty. Most people apparently just paid for a seat then planned to sleep on the couches throughout the ship’s lounges. Passengers were already sprawled out claiming their places.

After five months in Italy I was accustomed to communicating in Italian and was surprised that the crew prefered English. They were predominately Romanian.

I enjoyed the sunset from the deck before we promptly set off at 8pm.

It was not an easy decision to leave Italy. The Italian I’d learned, while in college, came back to me and I’d been enjoying my conversations with the locals. Going to Corfu would be leaving that and much more behind. But the desire to move on proved stronger. Exactly where to wasn’t clear. I had thought of both Greece and Albania. Corfu, although in Greece, was just across from Albania so going there gave me more time to think things through.

I had a decent dinner in the cafeteria, went outside for some fresh air, then went to bed in my comfortable, but windowless cabin.

I’d been told wake-up would be at 4am, so dutifully set my alarm. But at 3:45am there was a loud knock at my door and the request for my room key. We were already docked. I had little time to prepare before disembarking in Corfu.

I was soon following the crew’s directions and walking down the many flights of stairs I’d taken up in an elevator, which was now out-of-order. It was a young man’s unenviable task to carry down all the luggage. Reunited with my bag, I walked off the ship into the darkness of the wee hours with no game plan. I could see in the distance someone waving to me. As I neared, a women with heavily accented English told me to leave through the gate. Nothing was open in the area anyway.

Fortunately I’d gotten off the ship in a hurry. I’d assumed it would be staying in Corfu, but was scheduled to set off not long after.

A small group of travelers were gathered a short distance away. I made some inquiries. They were waiting for a taxi to take them to another port. When the driver arrived it took him some time and an impressive amount of skill to load the five of them and all their bags into his car. When they left, I was standing alone. One of the travelers however had kindly asked the driver beforehand to call for another car. About ten minutes later a taxi pulled up.

I was surprised the driver spoke English well. As it turns out most people on Corfu do. He asked me where I wanted to go. “Somewhere that is open please.” I replied. His first stop did not look promising. “Is there a hotel in the old town that might be open?” I asked. I had not figured on arriving so early, even though Greece time was an hour later, and somehow had not looked into accommodations beforehand.

He pulled up to the Konstantinaoupolis Hotel. I could see little of it, but the entrance door was lit and inviting. A man was setting up tables in the cafe outside. “Perfect.” I said.

I squeezed into the old-fashioned cage elevator up to the reception on the second floor. A charming woman, heavily pregnant, offered me a cozy, quiet room that looked out on a square in the back. At that hour the only sound came from the cooing of the pigeons who’d nested below my window. After admiring the dawning light I happily got into bed and slept for another few hours.

The man at the cafe I’d seen upon arrival was there when I came down for breakfast. He asked me where I was from. We spent the next hour talking about NYC, where he’d lived for 30 years and the diner he’d worked at on Madison Avenue. I knew the diner well, but rarely went because of their exorbitant prices. He’d been born in Greece and came back to care for his ailing father. (It wouldn’t be the last time I spoke to people who had spent years living and working in the US.)

I’d spent a lot of time in NY, as both a customer and waitress, in Greek diners. I ordered one of my favorite meals: a tomato, feta omelette with toast and potatoes. It was surprisingly disappointing, and cost more than the fancy diner charged on Madison Avenue.

Corfu Town is beautiful. Unfortunately much of it is hidden behind tee-shirts and other items for sale. Perhaps understandably because tourists packed the streets at every turn. Yet, I was told this was “quiet.” Apparently July and August are much more crowded. I still managed to wander down some empty lanes, except for the cats, but it was a challenge to see traces of the town Corfu once was.

I rented a car and left Corfu Town to explore the rest of the island and find a picturesque, low-key, seaside town where I could stay a week or so.

This turned out to be much more difficult than I had imagined. Places that had been recommended were packed with tourists, and as the day neared evening and I began looking with a less critical eye for accommodations, found everywhere was booked.

I finally ended up in a rather fancy hotel. It wasn’t cozy and quaint, but it was on the shore and the bed was to die for. I stayed there for two pleasant nights, but it wasn’t really what I’d come to Corfu for.

I spent some hours looking at my options on the internet and decided to take my chances on an apartment with a terrace in a small beach town.

The town of Kamanaki consisted of two tavernas, some homes, no shops, and a small beach with crystal clear water. Its quaintness aka “very little to do there” and an extremely steep road that descended from the highway kept the visiting population low. The apartment was small, but clean and the view from the terrace was lovely. The only noise came from the sound of the sea, besides the cats–they are everywhere–fighting for their territory. I spent my days swimming, reading, practicing the little Greek I knew–mostly remembered from my time as a waitress– and dining on fresh seafood.

I’d found what I was looking for.

July 31 to September 10

My time back in Palermo extended longer than I had originally planned. Although I’d already seen some of Manifesta 12, the citywide arts festival, I realised there was much more to discover. I was happy to stay on. Not only were the exhibitions noteworthy, but most were housed in old palaces generally closed to the public. It was a fascinating display of the old and new.

And the city was endlessly startling me with memorable sights and its beauty.

And then it was time to move on.

I made my way to Brindisi with plans on taking a ferry from there to Corfu,Greece.

But first there were places nearby to explore.

And then I took an overnight boat to Corfu, Greece. It was a tough decision to leave Italy.

15 July to 30 July

After my roadtrip, I returned to Palermo for a few days before heading to Ustica. I’ll include my time in Palermo, and an encounter with four firemen, in my next post.

Ustica is a tiny volcanic island about 60 kms north of Palermo. The one road that circumnavigates the island is 9kms long. Its natural marine reserve is a mecca for divers, but its rocky coast with cliffs, thus lack of sandy beaches, keeps the tourist population low.

Ustica has only one town where one finds several shops for food, clothing, swimming/diving gear, excursions, and daily necessities. There is also an ample selection of cafes and restaurants offering granita, gelati, pastries, pasta, seafood, and lentils-the local specialty. In the piazzas, the typical group of men pass the hours in conversation. Women, although often tending to the shops, are less visible. Houses and agricultural fields dot the island.

I decided not to book ahead, but to find my accommodations upon arrival. Pippo’s taxi/van was already waiting for passengers as they disembarked from the hydrofoil. The steep incline from port to town virtually guaranteed a thriving business.

I inquired about lodging options. Pippo directed me to a man loading a couple’s baggage into his station wagon marked with a hotel logo. I asked if he had any apartments available for the week. He offered to take me into town and show me a “favoloso(fabulous)” apartment with view. Needing to attend to the other guests first, he suggested I have lunch while I wait, conveniently, in his restaurant. I was hungry and happy to oblige.

After a lunch of pasta prepared with swordfish and tomatoes, I was driven to the “favoloso” apartment which overlooked a parking lot. The refrigerator was oddly placed in the middle of the kitchen, there was no living room and the bedroom was small and dark. It was 70 euro/night. I decided to keep looking.  My inquiries led me to look at several options, none of which I found as charming as the residents who directed me from place to place. It was nearing 6pm and I considered returning to an apartment that displeased me the least.

Fortunately, I spotted a pretty balcony with a For Rent sign and phone number. I sent a text message and moments later a man with a shy smile showed up and offered me a lovely, spacious duplex in an old, but well-kept building for 30 euros/night on a quiet street in the center of town.

Days on the island were very hot and humid. Hiking any time after 9am or before 6pm, I soon learned, was foolish.

The pace of the island was slow and peaceful, but the days passed surprisingly quickly and enjoyably. So much so, that I extended my stay.

Although scuba diving appealed to me in theory, I’d never been tempted to actually give it a go. But given the pristine waters, the islands’ reputation, and memories of Jacques Cousteau’s glorious films, I decided to try it. The diving company referred to my first dive as my “baptism” (The term seemed to raise no eyebrows, other than my own, in a country predominantly Christian.)

I went to the port an hour before my lesson to get my gear and to be briefed. Getting on the wetsuit was a lengthy affair involving considerable contorting and tugging. (Getting it off again was an even greater challenge.)

The brief instruction I’d been given was quickly put to the test. Unfortunately, it seemed completely unrelated to Nicolo entering the water lickety-split: backward, fully geared up with tanks, mask, and mouthpiece, with his hands placed here and there just so.

It took me much more time to adjust all the unfamiliar equipment, compose my thoughts, take the appropriate steps, and follow him. Nicolo had warned me of not swimming too far ahead. There was no risk of that. Despite my many years of swimming, I was suddenly an ungainly land beast striving to gain a modicum of equilibrium and momentum in open waters. My efforts did not improve the situation. And Nicolo’s instruction to alleviate the building water pressure, as I submerged a few meters, literally fell on deaf ears. I learned later that it’s preferable, and more common, to practice all the necessary steps prior to needing them all at once. Needless to say, my hour or so outing did not result in much appreciation for the sport. But no regrets. It was an interesting way to spend a morning.

I returned to the clear sea that afternoon, blissfully unencumbered. My goggles alone revealed multicolored fish and an underwater world even Jacques Cousteau would undoubtedly have found beautiful.

Looking up one evening, expecting to see the full moon I’d seen the night before, I was surprised to see it markedly less round. I had no idea there would be a rare and magnificent lunar eclipse that evening. I spent the next few hours on a piazza gathered with some residents and a few tourists gazing at the spectacle feeling humbled by our solar system.

My walks, swimming, encounters with residents and travelers, visits to various sites, including an archeological museum (previously a prison), and of course the eclipse, created memorable moments and a delightful respite before returning to Palermo.

14 June to 14 July

The last time I spent a month traveling around Sicily, I was hitch-hiking with a friend. It was decades ago. I left with memories of an old man driving a donkey-cart filled with apricots on a back road, of hauntingly beautiful towns deserted during the afternoons and remaining quiet before and afterwards, of generous, warm people who still retained their traditions (I’d met a young man who’d been forced to marry his girlfriend after they accidentally fell asleep and spent the night together.) And I remember a spectacular rocky coast and pristine sea.

I had trepidation in seeing the Sicily of today. I feared bearing witness to soul-altering “progress,” but the pull to return proved stronger.

I rented a car in Palermo, bought a road map and guide of Sicily and set off on the coast towards the east and the city of Cefalú. I’d heard horror stories about the drivers here, but found them mostly respectful and the roads relatively quiet (my being accustomed to NYC drivers and streets may account for this).

But my departure from Palermo presented some challenges. I managed a full city tour while attempting to find the highway and within minutes the skies opened up. I was soon driving through a torrential downpour on a flooded coastal route with limited visibility. Fortunately it was the only bad weather I encountered for the month.

During my usual travels, I prefer to stay in one place for several days or more. Here I tended to hop-scotch from place to place. (The exception was a week stay on the island of Marettimo.) I favored the coast, but was happy to visit the “mountain” towns and central farm lands where tourism is often in its infancy or hasn’t yet arrived.

Sleepy towns, whose beauty had dazzled me, like Ragusa Ibla, Noto, and Siracusa are now major tourist destinations with all the trimmings: Michelin-starred restaurants, upscale hotels, tee-shirt and trinket shops, and electric tourist trains that wind in and out of the narrow streets. It was a stark contrast to the towns I’d known, but that’s not to say they were devoid of charm. And the influx of funds has been used to restore buildings, previously in disrepair, to their original glory.

And was pleased to see a burgeoning art scene in unexpected places.

The history of Sicily is rich and varied and its economy has evolved through the ages. Remnants of its once thriving tuna industry remain.

My trip incorporated a return to certain places and largely places I’d never been.

My week on Marettimo, one of the Egadi islands, was a highlight. It was a welcome respite from the busy towns and dependency on a car. Marettimo is virtually a car-free island. I hiked, ate delicious blackberry “granita,” and was befriended by locals who invited me to an unforgettable, animated evening where discussions rose to loving shouting matches and the fresh seafood we dined on was elevated to an exquisite culinary art.

I used Marettimo as a base to visit the nearby, and more touristy, yet lovely islands of Favignana and Levanzo. However, I was always happy to return home again.

Returning to Trapani where I’d left the car in public parking, led to a minor adventure. The car was no longer there. Theft came to mind, but my wits prevailed-after voicing some choice expletives-and sought assistance in a nearby hotel. The kind receptionist informed me that during my absence there had been the city’s annual street fair. She then spent considerable time investigating the situation for me. My ill-placed car had been towed. After paying the 56€ fine, I was relieved to be united with the vehicle and the belongings I’d left behind. But the car was covered in dust. I joked with the attendant that the fine should include a car wash. I tried cleaning it with the windshield wipers, but the cleaning fluid wasn’t coming out. He disappeared for a moment, returned with a bottle of water, and poured  it on my windshield. With clean windows I was ready to hit the road.

I made my way up, up, up to the nearby splendid medieval town Erice. There I indulged in a divine almond pastry, relieved that my car-towing adventure was over.

I headed to the beach and found it in full summer swing. After spending one night in San Capo de Vito I was ready to move on.

Fortunately I found a wonderful B&B in Scopello. It’s a lovely, tiny town neighboring the stunning, quiet Zingaro Natural Reserve, and only an hour outside of Palermo.

During the month, I didn’t see any donkey-carts and I’m not sure if a couple’s inadvertent overnight stay would still result in a shot-gun wedding, but the rocky coasts, pristine waters, generosity and warmth of the people remain.