winter storms

We're sitting in a lounge of a large vessel. Almost cruise ship size. With levels and cabins and lounges and imagine -- escalators. But it's not a cruise ship at all. It's the ferry that traverses the Aegean Seas. And at 5:30 in the morning, having unloaded a huge number of cars, vans and people with suitcases and bundles in Chios -- passengers who traveled overnight from Athens, it picked up just a handful of fresher faces -- people who did not sleep on the boat, people who got on to travel to the next stop -- Mytilene on the island of Lesvos.



ferry lounge



leaving Chios at 5:30 a.m.


That we are on this ferry at all is the work of good luck (and my ultimate capitulation: I hate anything that sways in water). The previous night a storm rolled over the Greek islands and it brought with it rains and gusty winds, winds high enough to keep many ferries from sailing. But in the course of the next night, the winds receded and the ferries set sail.

Of course, we did have ourselves a rainy, windy last day in Chios. It had been in the forecast for so long that I knew to expect it. We had the little car with us and there were things to see and do despite the burts of wetness, though let me tell you -- it was blustery out there!

Morning breakfast was wonderful (especially when you consider that we are the only guests at the b&b).




Apple cake and fried eggs and of course, the olives, the oranges, the feta cheese, the pomegranate and yogurt...

And now there's no pushing it back -- time to get in that little car, navigate the narrow lanes of our neighborhood...


 


... and make our way up to the Nea Moni monastery. I have no problem in principle visiting this 11th century artistic treasure. The problem is in the getting there. It's nestled in the mountains and on sunny days (which apparently are the norm from April to November) you can see clearly, if not forever, then at least down to Chios the port and, too, Turkey at the horizon.

This is no sunny day.





The narrow mountain road, cluttered with fallen rock and somewhat ripped open at the sides, climbs relentlessly in a serpentine fashion. Rain makes it slick as anything. Clouds hug the mountainside shrouding the world around us. I tell Ed that one more hairpin turn and I'm out of there. Of course, I couldn't possibly mean it. So I shrink into my seat and cover my ears, giving forth occasional wimpy pleas for a slower pace, even though, in truth, Ed is for once, being very cautious.

When we find a sign toward the monastery and get out, only to find that it is the wrong monastery, I almost say -- okay, let's go back. It's a monastery, for heaven's sake, who's to know if we did or did not see the Byzantine mosaics of Nea Moni? This monastery is plenty pretty!





But, we are a mere two kilometers from our goal and so we continue, though by now all calm feelings have left me and I am negatively disposed toward monasteries, especially ones high up in the mountains, ones with crumbling narrow roads washed by heavy rains.

And so when we do arrive at the proper monastery I take few photos of note. Just this, to give you an idea of how Nea Moni looks from the outside.




Inside, there are indeed beautiful mosaics. Trust me.


In the afternoon, we drive up the coast just north of Chios the port. Initially, it is a pretty enough drive.





Chios is a modest vacation destination (compared to, say, Mikonos or Santorini) and there are no hotels or resorts lining the water's edge. At least not in the parts that we visited. And you can see why. The rocky hills descend sharply into the water and only the occasional fishing village, huddled around one inlet or another gives relief to the barren landscape. And, too, mountain goats -- they are a reminder that there is life on those hills. Spilling onto the roads.





It's hard to get lost on an island where there is just one road that makes its way along the coast and you have three maps showing you that same road and the villages it passes through, but we manage it! Somehow we miss the turn off for Langada. And I definitely want to pause in Langada where they say you can eat the freshest seafood meal on the island. (Of course, it can't be fresher than yesterday's waterside meal, but I'm surely willing to consider the possibility.)

Anyway, we overshot it, landing instead at Kardamila, the port which is notable for its view toward the open waters and sunnier skies over in Turkey.





The rain lashes out at me, at my camera and the waves splash over the banks onto the road so that I do not linger outside for long.

We backtrack. Carefully. And we find Langada, by counting the kilometers rather than looking for (the nonexistent) signs.

And it seems that this is indeed where people come to eat. Large families around long tables, finishing up Sunday lunch, eating what Greeks love to eat -- calamari, fish, salad, and oranges for dessert.










Sitting at the table by the old tree, we have all of the above.





















And our kind waiter throws in baklava-like treats. For free of course.






Which does not stop us, as we leave the tiny fishing port...





...from pausing at yet another bakery in Chios port. For the obvious.





The rain has mostly finished its work and now we are just stuck with the wind, knowing, too, that this wind is bringing (for two days only, but still..) winter to the islands. Our host talks of snow. Not on Chios, he says, suggesting maybe that we may not fare so well over in Lesvos.

I don't expect snow. I've checked my trusty weather charts. But certainly we'll be in for the coldest stretch of our trip -- temps hovering in the thirties. Two days. We can take two days of it. On the island of Lesvos. 

warmth from within

I hadn't realized how shuttered our rooms were until I woke up in the middle of the night to total darkness. How does one know when it's morning without the hint of sunlight? I throw back the shutters. A gray day, dripping with a passing rain.





Well now, Chios, you're going to have a tough time showing off your hidden charms if you give us cold rain. (Chios retorts: you travel in January. That is our winter. We need the winter rains.)

First thing's first. Breakfast.





Our hosts are really trying hard today. The breakfast is proudly presented to us: eggs from their chickens, juice from their orange trees, olives from their olive grove, pomegranate from their garden. As we eat in their company, they tell us about coming here from Montreal fifteen years ago. (They are one of three couples we encounter today where the Greek man goes to North America, finds the woman there that he intends to marry and travels back with her to Chios.) He has family here -- lots of it. And so they build a life in Chios, cultivating oranges and olives (we shake the trees with sticks! -- she tells us... Ed and I want to recommend a French powered shaker used in Turkey, but something holds us back) and now also running this b&b. But wait, that's not all: they have a plantation of mastic trees. Maybe you don't know these? They produce a resin that is used in creams, sweets, who knows what else. These two spend the winter months rubbing dirt off of bits of mastic resin. Like this:





Is it tedious, boring, repetitive? Surely all of the above. And yet, there they are, all winter long shaking trees, rattling beads of resin and occasionally, for a break, changing sheets for their b&b guests.

I ask them about the political upheaval in Greece and whether she is one of those who thinks the country should leave the EU. She shakes her head. We've gone through the worst. Eventually, things will improve.

And now we have some decisions to make about this day. If we had hoped to make our way by bus around the island, it surely becomes evident that this would be foolish. There isn't much movement by bus here at this time of the year. Connections would be difficult. If we want to explore, we have to rent a car. But the deals are there to be had! Our hosts call a friend, who is also a car rental agent and he comes over to the b&b with a small car for us. We can have it until we leave early on Monday morning. Just leave it in the port, he tells us. 
Keys? I ask.  
Leave them in the ignition.
Really?  
There are no car thefts on the island, he grins. Yet.

We drive the car down the narrow lanes and then out into the country roads. There are just a few roads that cross the island and surprisingly, there is almost no traffic. No movement. (Well, not counting this guy.)


 


Our goal is to visit the two medieval villages on the other side of the island. They call them mastic villages because here and only here, on this island in the far corners of the Mediterranean, you'll find the resin producing mastic trees.

The first village is Pirgi. Here's the thing about Pirgi: the walls of the buildings are decorated in geometric designs.





This is unique and fascinating, at the same time that you have to wonder -- do the people who live here notice this about their village? Do they love the triangular designs? Do they miss them when they go to another village or town?









In other words -- it's fantastic visiting medieval villages. Is it also fantastic living in one?









The life of the village in this off off season is not hard to describe. Young men (unemployed young men?) mess around on their scooters.





A priest walks from one house to the next, bestowing blessings.





A very pleased with himself (and he should be) gent brings in some mushrooms from the forest. The ladies come to admire them. They want some. He'll only spare a few.





An older woman (and another, and another), dressed in black, comes out, crosses herself many times, goes back in.





Not complicated. People say hello to us when we pass by. They know the word, they use it.


There is yet another village worthy of a more detailed exploration, but here we run afoul of our differing attitudes about driving. I am who I am and who I am is a pretty insecure passenger, especially on curvy hilly roads and especially when the driver is Ed. After one wince too many, he does what he always does under the circumstances: he gets out and says -- you drive.

And I do, but it is unfortunate, because I really love to leave the driving to someone else. Whom I trust to take all reasonable precautions and then some additional ones as well.

Still, I drive toward the second village, Mesta, and at the last minute, I pass it by and drive on toward the little port by the sea. I need the calm waters of this day to make me feel calm again.





This little fishing port is so inconsequential in the scheme of things, so sleepy and forgiving...


 


...that my sulkiness at having to drive recedes. We watch a fisherman's wife mend nets...





...and a local threesome eat fish at the water's edge. Wouldn't you like to do that? Ed asks. It's not suppertime, but maybe one can forget about suppertime just this once...





I suggest we explore Mesta first and then come back for some food after.

And it is a fine idea, except that the medieval stones of the village really make their impression early on and after a quick stroll, we both want to step out of these dark tunnels of a bygone era...


 


... and breathe some fresh air again, where sage and oregano grow amidst hills with olive trees.





Up we go into the hills above Mesta. It's great there, among the brush and flora of the rock strewn slopes, where getting a good grip of the terrain isn't easy, but once you do and you get up high enough, the view can be very rewarding.





We note (how can you not?) that the sun is coming through along the water's edge. And, too, that the Mesta village roofs all appear to have solar collectors. (I ask my innkeepers later -- did you get paid to install these? No, she tells me, but they were inexpensive -- one thousand Euro a panel, and in the summer time, they are fantastic!)

So we're done exploring. Back we go to the small fisherman's bay, with the table by the water's edge.





Can we eat dinner -- I ask. Of course! Here, pick your fish and we'll cook it for you: fried or grilled? And where are you from? America? Where? Oh, our family (she introduces her sister, brother, father, aunt), we have cousins in West Virginia!




We eat by the light of the fading sun. I can't say it's warm. In the forties maybe. But my inner soul is heated by the loveliness of this most perfect meal by the sea.







a fisherman rows out to sea




with cousins in West Virginia






The local cats hover at our feet and it is tricky to throw bits at them evenly, fairly, democratically.





Or, would you have rewarded the cat with the limp? Or the one who has courage to leap after the prize while the more timid stayed behind? Or would you have ignored the cats, seeing them as moochers, living off of the bounty of others?

We just fed them democratically. So that brownie and blackie and limpy and scrawny and the young frisky one all got their share.



The drive home is always faster and friendlier than the ride out. Ed, as the one who doesn't especially like wine, does the driving now and I settle in to the role of the good passenger. One who doesn't notice that the roads are narrow and the turns a bit tight.

We have an errand to do in town -- pick up the tickets for our early ferry out on Monday. At the ferry office we ask again after a good bakery and we're given several names and locations, but it really doesn't matter because we find plenty in the commercial blocks that line the seafront. In one we buy chocolates and baklava (a bigger version of what we found in Turkey) and in another we ask for two smaller slivers (of baklava) and as I reach into my purse for the couple of Euros, the sales person smiles and waves me away.  No pay, no pay, she tells us. No no, Greek people, this is not how it's done! Eek out all the Euros you can out of those who pass through! Do not be so generous! Generosity is never the trait that gets you out of financial crises! Even as it is the trait that will earn you a spot in heaven someday (or at least in my blogpost).





Our afternoon meal is plenty big for the day, but we stop by a Carrefour (ubiquitous European grocery store) to buy some munchies for the evening.  Cheese and bread - that's a favorite Ed snack (and mine as well). What cheese is good -- I ask the young woman at the counter. Ed shakes his head in amazement -- only a woman would ask such a thing, he mumbles. For cooking or with bread? she asks in perfect English. With bread. This one. We have with us the most perfect Greek goat cheese.

Late at night, we munch on the cheese, with tomato and bread and I eat a chocolate covered fig and Ed eats a chunk of baklava and we think life is treating us very very well.

crossing borders

It has been a long day. A charming, fascinating, delicious, warm, tedious, surprising, annoying, tiring, frustrating, enchanting -- ultimately long day.

CHARMING

We wake up to a sunny day in Alacati. Our hosts at the b&b are perfect and their staff prepares an incredible breakfast (the husband, that's him in the photo below, makes small batch jams and marmalades as a hobby... imagine, just as one example, blackberry jams in three stages of ripeness). With Turkish eggs, omelets, crepes...


 










I say to Ed -- take two brilliant minds and add hard work and there's not end to what can happen. These two, here at the small Incirliev b&b, have perfected the art of innkeeping. I don't think you can do better than what they have done.



FASCINATING

On their recommendation, we go to the fish auction (it takes place in the morning, each day). It's a gloriously sunny day and Alacati shines in the morning light.


 


The fish auction -- now that is is truly unique.


 


We cannot understand what they're saying or how they're bidding, but the very idea of a fish auction is, to me, unusual and therefore cool to watch.The people are keenly tuned to what's on the table. The cats -- they are, for once, territorial and also fixated on what may come their way.










 











 


Alright. We leave the men and women and cats (mostly men and cats) to their fish.


DELICIOUS and WARM

With the end of the fish auction comes the end of our stay in Alacati. We bid our perfect (this in no hyperbole) innkeepers goodbye, pat their dog and set out. A dolmus delivers us to the heart of the port town of Cesme. From here, the ferries take off: for Greece, for Italy, for the world. We had chosen a modest destination: Chios. A Greek island a mere 8 miles off the coast of Turkey.

The ferry is sets sail at 5. We have many hours to kill until then. We leave our backpacks at the ferry offices and set out to explore this seaside town. First, let's take a look at the boats. Men, fixing nets. Sailboats wait for the season.










Perhaps the best view comes from  is the climb to peak of the hill where the castle stands. (You can see the big freighter, then, in the next row, the ferries and finally the fishing vessels.)


 


There isn't an entrance to the castle there, but we do have brilliant sunshine and we rest on the castle walls and soak in its warmth. I feel that life could not be a whole lot better.






I had asked at the tourist office where the good bakery in town was and after a too long of a rest period, we return to the commercial center of Cesme in search of treats. The baked goods are not just good. They are excellent. The baklava is superb.


 






A man from across the street brings us chai (tea). It appears that there is always just one place that makes tea and then a man with a tray carries full glasses to whoever has called in for it. Considering how much tea Turkish men consume, I think it's quite the plum job to be the tea maker on the block.






TEDIOUS

Hours pass in this leisurely way. We stroll the streets and finally, it is time to walk over to the ferry terminal. (The ferry for Chios runs just a few times each week, which tells you something about the relations between the two countries.)

Taking the ferry is a complicated undertaking. You have the printout of your online booking. You need to show up at the ferry office early to pay some tax or other. We do that. But you still need to go to the ferry station early. Once you've gone through passport control, there is no place to sit except at the cafeteria where you are compelled to order chai and the waiter will tell you it's 3 Turkish Lire -- which is at least three times the cost of a chai anywhere in town. (If that's even the real price. Upon noting your surprise, he'll tell you that these are Cesme prices. Since you have just had a chai elsewhere and know that to be incorrect, you begin to doubt the veracity of anything else that he says. Including that the price really is 3 Turkish Lire.) Okay, you pay, you sip. You get on the boat, reach into your pocket for candied ginger because you are the type that gets sea sick upon any roll of any boat. (Your traveling companion, meanwhile, is utterly thrilled to be out on a boat again. Even a small ferry boat with the name of San Nikolas.)





The departure is delayed because the crew is trying to figure out how to allow a second car to get on the small boat. Since everything else thus far has been so punctual in Turkey, you start wondering if you'll miss Turkey. Then you feel terrible about forming preconceptions. You settle in for the journey.
Good-bye Cesme and Turkey.





Hello Chios and Greece, there across the waters.






SURPRISING and ANNOYING

It's dark when we pull into Chios town. We'd been warned that the town is not too attractive. In the summer, people take day cruises that include a stop in Chios and they all complain (on TripAdvisor, for instance) that Chios is a sad state of affairs as compared to Cesme. Expecting the worst, we are pleasantly surprised. It could be that twinkling lights prettify the town, but it looks just fine to us, though very different from its neighbor across the sea.





We have to take a taxi and that's slightly annoying. We had mapped out the location of the Mouzaliko b&b and found it to be about five kilometers away from the port. That's an hour's walk. We can certainly do an hour's hike. We have only our backpacks and I have a shoulder bag for my computer. But it's dark and the roads are complicated and street names are in an alphabet we cannot fully decipher. So we do what we hate doing: we hail a cab. And the cab driver, upon learning of our destination passes us over to his buddy. Who agrees to take us, but consults with his friend in long Greek sentences as to the location.

We finally get inside the car. He has been smoking just seconds ago so the car is filled with tobacco fumes. Ed opens the window. It is now both smokey and cold.

The driver takes us into the countryside where you can't see a thing because the roads are very narrow and on each side there are stone walls more than six feet high. So that even Ed, at 6'4" wouldn't be able to see a thing.

The driver does not turn on the meter. I'm thinking we're screwed.

Therefore, I am shocked when he finally pulls up by the Mouzaliko and charges us only 10 Euro, which is what our host had emailed me it would be.


TIRING and FRUSTRATING

Our hosts are a combination of Greek and Quebecois. (He is Greek, she is from Canada.) Neither speaks English well, though she is better at it. I can speak French with her. She's good at that. She doesn't speak Greek perfectly. She communicates with him in French. He is sort of okay in French, so I wonder how they proceed in a life together. Whereas Turkish people speak very very quietly, this couple speaks very loudly. Especially when they are agitated. And we cause them to be agitated. Here's why:

She shows us our room, which is really a huge suite of rooms. Cavernous. And each room is heated separetly with a loud heating unit perched high, near the ceiling. You feel guilty running it in the room that you do not inhabit. So one room is cold, the other is warm.

But that's not the source of frustration. We are paying very small prices. We have no expectations of luxury. (Though you should never go to another b&b after experiencing a perfect one. Comparisons are inevitable.) The real problem is that the internet does not work. The password she gave us is rejected. Both by my Mac and Ed's PC.





We try caps, we try spaces we try everything. Finally, Ed goes to chat with our hosts. They tamper with this and that. Nothing. They think maybe our computer is not working properly. I bring over my computer to show them. It is dark, it is cold. We are standing on the steps outside their private residence having this conversation about passwords.

Our host calls the Internet providers (he brings his phone outside). He speaks loudly at them, then he speaks loudly to his wife and she reminds him he should speak Greek to her because otherwise I can understand what he is saying in French. Which I gather is private. Possibly it is an assessment of us. They just had Turkish guests and their computer worked fine. True, they had internet problems a few days ago, but the company fixed that. Maybe it is that our American computers are different? Though they had one American guest this summer and he didn't complain. They hand us the phone so that we can talk to the Internet guy who speaks a modest English. He asks us to run through some clicking of this and that and I have done this already, many many times, but here I am on the cold dark steps of the hosts' residence doing it again, balancing the Mac in one hand and plunking away with the other. Nothing.

We spend a good half hour like this. I feel sorry for them, but I feel more sorry for us. Finally, we suggest that we attack this problem tomorrow. It is late, I am cold. I am unfairly perhaps thinking how our previous b&b hosts treated us to warm tea and cookies after our journey.

We go back to our room to leave the computers and set out to the only taverna within walking distance. Our hosts assure us it is decent food.


ENCHANTING

Just as we set out for what they say is a half a kilometer's trek but is really more like a mile, our hosts knock and tell us that at 9 pm, a 'friend' is coming over to help us with our American computers.

So we hustle over to the taverna. When we enter, we realize that Greece is the only country in the EU that has not yet banned smoking in restaurants. But, the room is large and though there is one family dining there, they are at the opposite end and only one person is smoking. Still, you can tell. And you have to wonder why those who do not smoke put up with this lenient attitude toward those who do.

The menu has an English translation, but it is very basic. Fried this fried that. Meats without a description. Chicken. Liver. Etc. We pick a Greek salad (why not!) and I take a plate of calamari and Ed takes some shrimp dish, even though we know that these shrimp are going to be small and most likely from some distant place. Possibly Vietnam.





The waiter brings our food and the salad is delicious and the little jug of wine is fantastic and the calamari plate is huge and fresh and, with a squeeze of a lemon, very very tasty.





I cannot finish it all and Ed refuses to eat calamari because he says octopuses are a lot smarter than we think. The waiter looks at my plate with one piece of calamari left on it and he is honestly aghast. You do not like it? He appears seriously offended. I say -- too much! In response he brings more wine. For free. You have to smile at this different attitude toward wine consumption. In Sirince, on New Year's Eve, we had paid a huge sum (at least it was huge by our standards) for a not too complicated dinner and it included two glasses of very indifferent wine from who knows where as we never saw the bottle. We split a third glass (because the evening was long and the glasses were very small) and got charged 12 Turkish Lire (about $9) for it. Ufff! Here, the waiter is pouring delicious wine as if there was no tomorrow (and perhaps that's the Greek attitude toward life right now) and refuses to charge us for it. In fact, the entire meal is 20 Euros (about $25) - cheaper than any we've had thus far. By a lot.

We ask if he has dessert and he said yes. What is it? I cannot explain it. He brings us (again, without charge) a plate of small fruits bathed in a sugar syrup. Kumquats.

We leave a very large tip. It's hard not to feel empathy for the Greeks right now.

Back at the b&b, we do not see our hosts, but two men are lingering in the courtyard. They approach us as we enter and tell us that the problem with the Internet has been fixed. And you know what? They are right.