Pt2 - 7:

GREECE

24^th April – 20^th May

 

SAMOS

True to his word, Mehmet from Hermes Car Hire drove us down to the coast to board the Kuşadaşi Prenses at 8:15 this morning and we were underway fifteen minutes later. Although hazy, it was pleasantly warm and calm for the short hop across to Samos. The shallow turquoise waters of the Turkish coast gave way to the inky blue of the deeper Aegean while the grey shapes of Samos and its family of small rocky islets loomed in the distance. Indeed, we never actually lost sight of land for the entire ninety-five minute journey. As we steamed into the port of Samos Town the sun won its battle to burn through the haze and broke over the colourful buildings lining the waterfront, a fitting welcome to continent number three, Europe, and country number five.

Customs formalities were unusually casual at both ends of the crossing. Although we could have waltzed through with a kilo of heroin, this is definitely how international travel should look.

Confession: I love Greece. I have very fond memories of my first visit twenty years ago and have been keenly anticipating this return. It was already feeling familiar as we stepped onto the spacious balcony of room 102 at the Aeolis Hotel and took in the view. We were separated from the placid harbour only by the road hugging the shoreline off to left and right, and the promenade dotted with benches and colourful umbrellas. Under a canvas awning directly below, the Café Europe bubbled with the morning coffee crowd. I inhaled lungs full of the softly salted air. Across the water a rainbow of pastel coloured neo-classical buildings tumbled down the green hillsides to the shoreline in a sublimely peaceful postcard scene.

Late afternoon we took a couple of pre-prandials across the road and consumed them on a bench in the warm rays of the lowering sun. On dusk we dined at the charming Restaurant Christos in the whitewashed backstreets of the old town. The room is packed with wooden and earthenware bric-a-brac and the walls hung with old photos and drawings; it was like eating in someone’s private house. Christos himself joined us at table and insisted I smoke one of his cigars. I will buy some and repay the courtesy when we return to try his renowned moussaka tomorrow evening.

As we ambled back to the Aeolis the town erupted in celebration, with cheering in the streets, ships at anchor and cars competing in an orchestra of horns, fireworks over the water and houses flashing their lights in the distance. Surely this wasn’t in our honour! Up in the room we flicked on the telly to learn Greece had just defeated Barcelona in Rome to claim the European Basketball Championship. The festivities continued well into the balmy night.

Geographically, only a matter of kilometres stand between Kuşadaşi and Samos, but culturally the ferry may as well have been a spaceship and we’ve landed on a planet light years distant.

Three days here will not be enough.

*

The bright yellow Typhoon 80cc scooter whines up the modest hill outside Samos Town. It’s been a while since I’ve been on two wheels, and never on a scooter, so I keep going for the foot pegs. We crest the hill and begin the freewheeling descent into Pythagorio, the old capital on the south coast, at a breathtaking 60kph. The speedo runs to an optimistic 120kph; two up on the flat it’s struggling at 45kph. The sun is out and we feel like Audrey Hepburn and Marcello Mastroinanni; I start dah-dah-dahing Zorba the Greek at the top of my voice and the wind blows it away into the valley. What a hoot!

Down at Pythagorio the stiff easterly whips up the white caps along the breakwater. We order cappuccinos and cake at a little bright blue café on the cobblestoned waterfront and idly watch the vibrant impressionism of primary colours and stubby masts bobbing briskly quayside.

Pythagorio goes back a long way. It was the home of Pythagoras, he of hypotenuse fame. As a musician and music teacher I’ve always thought of music as the sound of mathematics, so it follows that my favourite Pythagorianism is his endearingly eccentric idea the planets create inaudible music as they move through the heavens. The breakwater here is built on foundations originally constructed in the 6^th century BC and there’s a cute little chapel built into a stope about five meters underground. We climb the hill behind the town to inspect the Eupalinos Tunnel, a geometric wonder of its day cut out of solid rock to carry water to the settlement. A bit over a kilometre long, it’s believed to be the first working tunnel in history to be excavated from both ends to meet in the middle. From there we follow the bay around to Ireion, then ride inland to the highest point of the island on the road to the north eastern coastal village of Karlovassi.

Between Hora and Pirgos the wind freshens and gets in behind my sunnies to make my eyes water. The wind-chill factor reaches the point where I’m glad I brought my coat and gloves. We stop at Pirgos to give our bums a rest and admire the panorama from this eminence. We shelter in the lee of the little chapel, where the ground is littered with used condoms and tissues, a random juxtaposition I find faintly amusing.

The breeze becomes a force 10 gale on the last stretch into Karlovassi, whipping dust and grit into my face. The cloud closes in here. Karlovassi turns out to be a grey little place that seems to collect all the weather on Samos and is fit only to refuel in. This we quickly do, and hit the road back to Samos Town along the northern coastline.

The sun re-emerges a few ks out of Karlovassi and brightens both the landscape and our mood immeasurably. Never more than a few meters from the blue Aegean, we sail sedately home through postcard pretty whitewashed villages, past rinds of white beach tucked into every small cove. On the run into Samos Town I rip into Zorba again at the top of my lungs. Today is one of the most exhilarating days of the trip so far, just raw fun.

The little Typhoon is back at Gianni’s Hire near the Aeolis by four. Time to shower, enjoy a couple of drinks on the balcony and make our leisurely way to Restaurant Christos for that famous moussaka.

*

The backstreets and byways behind the waterfront reek of that uniquely Greek charm entrepreneurs spend big bucks trying unsuccessfully to emulate back home. In the Middle East and Turkey, crappy buildings just look crappy; here the peeling façades and crumbling stucco look like art. Although there is rich history here, it still feels like we’ve slipped through some temporal wormhole from the medieval to the modern. Excepting Israel and parts of Jordan, we’ve passed the last eight weeks in traditional male dominated Muslim cultures with the emphasis on social and religious conservatism. Even in the “liberated” secular Muslim state of Turkey there are relatively few women on the streets or in positions of authority and, while they don’t generally adopt the hijab, niqab or burka they dress very modestly by western standards and occupy a conspicuously secondary place in society.

What did Christos say last night? “Without women the world would be nothing!” Ignore the obvious biological truism and concentrate on the romance. Here there are women on the streets again, elegant, confident, ferociously feminine; although I’m puzzled why those who wear glasses invariably prefer the thick-rimmed Nana Mouskouri’s. On the subject of glasses, I invested in some funky new sunnies this morning and can’t wait to lounge indolently sipping lattes al fresco at Café Europe; the passing parade of beautiful people with their little fluffy dogs on pink lamè leads will surely mistake me for one of their own.

Oh, and the moussaka was sublime, the atmosphere convivial. Tip for the moussaka – nutmeg on every layer.

*

Bill Duff was one of the first people I met when I started work at Bridgetown High School in 1987. We quickly became firm friends. We worked together, played in bands together and got horribly drunk together. Bill is the brother I’ve never had. For some time we’ve been working on synchronising a rendezvous on the road using a free flight included with the package deal he bought for his long service leave holiday. He’s in London at the moment and, a bombing campaign by the IRA in the lead up to the British election notwithstanding, we’ve contrived to meet up in Athens in two days. That’s where we’re headed now.

We breakfasted lavishly at the Aeolis and cabbed it to the airport at Pythagorio. Two of only fifteen people aboard the overwing ATR 72, we were airborne at 10:25, five minutes early. Feeling just a bit sad, I watched Samos recede through the window. It was soon replaced by island after island floating on the blue Aegean; I didn’t count them all, but in the old measurement approximately shitloads of islands large and small passed slowly beneath us on the hour long flight to Athens.

Next time: Athens...