Imagine the scariest road you've ever driven on: it winds its way up the edge of a steep canyon embankment, in a never ending series of S-turns and switchbacks; narrow, often barely wider than your own car, a rocky wall to your right, a void to your left; fallen rocks from the cliff face above are strewn across the surface, or worse, immense boulders not even Atlas could lift; there are no guard rails protecting you from the precipice inches away, (but sometimes you will see an impotent wire fence which may keep a stray goat from falling over,) there are mountain goats everywhere even some lazing on the sinuous road; you haven't seen another vehicle in a quarter-hour but one may loom around the next turn vying for the same precious real estate as are you; don't even think of glancing down, it is ominous enough to look out, away, at the other mirific canyon walls facing you from across the gorge that sinks below, way below.
Welcome to Crete!
Crete is known for its gorges, they are ten or twenty kilometers long, usually running north-south to the sea, very steep and a minimum of 1,000 metres deep. Yesterday I hiked down into the best-known one, Samaria, but due to the late start, only spent three hours trekking. Many people hike the entire 18 km length, a five-hour trek down to the land-locked village of Agia Roumeli and then, after lunch and a swim, must take a boat to another port village and finally a bus back to the start -- an all-day affair. I did meet a quartet of French, who were doing the circuit in reverse, including a nine-hour climb from Agia Roumeli to the top of the gorge! That will be my objective on my next visit, my travel-mate willing!
As treacherous as are the mountain roads is as spectacular as are the Cretan villages. It is a veritable wonder how each seaside village is unique in its character and charm, like how it is said no two snowflakes are quite alike. For instance, Plakias has a boardwalk along the beach separating the tourists into two halves, those that bathe in the sun and water from those that indulge in food and drink in one of the two dozen tavernas lining the narrow beach road. And above them are the 'rooms for rent' which are always easy to spot even in the smallest mountain village. Or, take Hora Sfakion, a huddle of tavernas and cafes, bunched together at the top of a cliff, each one overlooking the same bay below, where colourful, wooden fishing boats sway to the incoming waves on one side and the patrons of the beach play under the sun on the other. One of my favourites, Agia Galini, is only accessible by foot, down steep, winding, whitewashed steps, threading a variety of blue and white-painted tourist shops full of knick-knacks and essentials, too, until at the bottom you see a clutch of tavernas jumbled together, on top of, as well as besides each other, facing the sun and the small, rocky beach at its base. On the other hand, there is Xania, not a village but a city, with its old town defined by narrow cobble stoned alleys, meandering in random directions, containing hundreds of tourist shops built into ancient edifices. All the proprietors speak English and many are outside their stores, smoking and chatting with their neighbours in between customers. All this activity surrounds a semi-circular harbour which is lined with a stone boardwalk and thirty or more tavernas, each one with more or less the same menu of fresh fish, Greek salads, pikilias, always soaked in olive oil. In front of every one is the owner, waving down passersby with quick one-liners, offers for free raki or galaktaboureko, or whatever gesture it takes to earn their business. As everywhere else, the hotels and pensions are upstairs, accessible by a back alley, all with views that spill out onto the bustle below, then the harbour, the time-worn lighthouse and finally to the sea.
Here's hoping the seas are calm in your life, too!
Barry the Greek
What is it that the Chinese are supposed to have said? "May you live in interesting times!"
By now you must have read about, or seen on TV, the demonstrations and riots in Athens. The nationwide, general strike on Wednesday shut down the entire country and resulted in my inbound flight, along with hundreds of others, being canceled. Apparently, it also resulted in three poor, innocent souls dying in a burning building while the crowd outside protested. I did ultimately arrive early Thursday and soon after witnessed the burned-out shell of the five-storey bank in question and the charred remains of a car parked in front. Later, when visiting the Acropolis before sunset we could hear the start of Thursday's demonstrations echoing between the buildings and then up through the smoggy air from Syntagma Square below, a kilometer away. Were there 10,000 or 100,000 people marching, shouting, demanding to have their 2 months of annual vacation pay re-instated, I could not see, I could not say?
Not normally one to shy away from exaggeration and hyperbole, I must admit that the average traveler in Athens is not affected, much less aware of these ongoing, historic events. The cafes and restaurants in The Plaka are still bustling with tourists, drinking ouzo and retsina, which accompany their pikilias and Saganaki shrimp entrees. (What other nation would consider cooking giant shrimps with feta cheese in a tomato sauce?) The bouzouki players and singers continue to entertain and it would seem that the demonstrators know better than to upset the one sure source of foreign currency and so The Plaka is never on the marchers' route.
Hugging the base of the Acropolis's east face, the Plaka is quintessential Athens. A maze of restaurants with tasty traditional food at reasonable prices, all flavours of Greek wine and spirits, and smoking allowed everywhere as here the no smoking laws are flouted with indifference. Every 'taverna' has a stunning box seat view of the Acropolis, which at night is all the more spectacular as the Parthenon is lit up against the black sky. Most establishments offer a rooftop garden but I recommend dining al fresco at street level as all the alleys are closed to cars and the tables from one spot spill over onto those of the next. Here's a tip for your next visit: The best restaurants are the ones on the cross-streets -- these are the alleys paved in stone that climb up steeply towards the Acropolis -- where a party atmosphere prevails.
If you are a graffiti artist, I recommend that you stay away from Athens. Try as I did, I could not find any side of any building, nor fence, nor overpass unblemished by graffiti. The artists must be very frustrated with no fresh canvass available. Across the street from my hotel, the owner was painting over his façade -- I cannot guess why as it unlikely to stay immaculate more than a few days! It is my only disparaging comment about this once-great city, unfortunately the graffiti is ubiquitous.
If you arrive in Athens, but somehow have forgotten your sunglasses, no worries! On every corner, or so it seems, there are African immigrants selling sunglasses, as well as counterfeit Louis Vuiton bags, watches and any number of useless tchotchkas. With tourist high season fast approaching, I can guess that even the cheap, the fake and the pointless will all find willing buyers. Here's hoping that there's nothing pointless taking place in your life...
Yasou!
Barry
Today was absolutely my best day of skiing this winter! We started out by taking a gondola and then two chairlifts to get near the top of one of the summits, at 2,700 metres, well above the tree line. We then hiked a hundred metres with our skis on our shoulders before binding them onto our ski boots. Then it started getting scary. Let me back up for a moment.
I joined a group of five other like-minded skiers on Monday morning, all from France as it turns out. The six of us, with our guide, Franco, have been skiing together all week. Franco was apparently once an Italian ski champion or a coach on the Italian national ski team, depending on who's telling the tale. It is clear that at 67 he has skied more than his share of off-piste runs. It shows in his deeply tanned and lined face, his wind-blown, thick grey hair and the sparkle in his eyes when looking out at the mountains surrounding Sestriere. It has not snowed for a week, so the search for fresh, untracked powder requires an experienced guide and Franco is our man.
Where was I? Oh yes, we got on our skis and started to traverse a ridge on very hard, wind-packed snow. The whole week has been exceptionally sunny, warm and nearly cloudless; today was no exception. In any direction, I am looking across one valley or another to the mountains several kilometers away, and the still taller, further mountains behind them, as far as I could see, the Italian Alps to the east and south, the French Alps to the west, and the Swiss Alps to the north. Below, to the right and to the left is certain death if one of us slips. The terrain is unskiable, that is to say, very steep with little snow, ending in a cliff after a couple of hundred metres. You don't think about that until much later. The task at hand is to ski forward, follow the leader, and stay focused. Ultimately, we arrive at a point where Franco without warning takes a sharp left and descends into a steep, snowy mountain face, the kind that you see in the extreme skiing movies. I don't believe any one of us would have considered this to be an option, but one by one we follow. Like lemmings or sheep. It is exhilarating, carving those S-turns in fresh, heavy, powder snow, about a foot deep. As the face of the mountain turns into a gully and becomes more and more narrow, Franco quickly turns left, popping over the ridge defining our gully and drops into yet another mountain face, and we all follow with glee. I am skiing my best all year right here right now, but even so, the legs grow weak, the lungs strain to suck in the rarefied air, and I have to stop and catch my breath, as do the others. And then we continue, another twenty turns before stopping again. At times like this, I don't hear the wind rushing by me, I don't see the unparalleled beauty surrounding me, I don't feel the sun warming my face. I see my next turn. I feel my next turn. I breathe my next turn. Before long, or so it seems, there are a few bare trees, and we continue down navigating the spaces between them, the snow gets fluffier thanks to their shadows (where the sun has not had any success in melting very much). Soon, little by little, the tress are getting more dense, the snow in fact is getting heavy as it has become warmer down here, and the skiing is becoming more and more challenging... and tiring, too, as I am now skiing in a forest of bare trees, whose branches reach out and try to spoil my day.
When we finally end up at a road at the end, exhausted and sweaty, Franco tells us that we just skied 1,700 metres of vertical, and are now 18 kms from Sestriere by taxi. Thanks to cell phone technology, the taxi/van was indeed waiting for us.
Don't you think we did it all over again before lunch?
Madonna!
Barry di Sestriere
I woke up in a prison cell this morning!
OK, maybe I exaggerated a little -- of that I am guilty... it's just a county jail, not really a prison. Comfortable cell, hard bed, private toilet, a lock on every door. I'm guessing that now you want some details. Truth be told, my accommodations used to be a county jail, and just a ten-minute walk from the middle of Helsinki, too. Somebody with a bright idea converted the closed jail into a hotel, so, technically, I woke up in what used to be a jail house cell!
I arrived in Helsinki via Paris-Charles de Gaulle. It's a strange sensation to feel as comfortable in a foreign airport as you do at home. The French immigration officers seem to recognize me and so they save their silly and their nosy questions for others and wave me straight through. Good thing, too, as my connection for the three-hour flight north was tight and I had to first change terminals.
Right in the middle of Helsinki, opposite the main bus terminal is an outdoor skating rink, refrigerated from below so that on a warm day like today (+1C), the ice is indeed perfect for skating. Picture this: a full-sized rink but with no boards, just a low, black, platform that surrounds the rink a few inches above ice level, the sun is burning brilliantly set low in a cold, cloudless, blue sky, music wafting overhead sometimes Bob Marley or the Rolling Stones other times a local Finnish tune, the whole witnessed by an endless procession of travelers walking by, often pausing to watch, on their way to catch a bus. I skated for 90 minutes, at times mesmerized by a couple who were gracefully pairs skating, he, an older man evidently taking a lesson from her, a much younger woman. Otherwise the rink was nearly free of skaters, luckily for me. I can't imagine how I could have better spent my time after breaking out of prison!
If you think the sidewalks are not well cleared of snow at home, don't even think of visiting Helsinki in winter! The streets are plowed here like anywhere else, but on the sidewalks they simply spread crushed stones, which benignly impregnate the packed snow and ice that have accumulated. I always imagined the Finns to be more pedestrian-friendly (like the Swiss) but it seemed as though I was still skating most of the day even after leaving the ice rink. I have to conclude that the Finns have tiny spikes on the soles of their shoes and boots, as they all scamper along as though nothing were amiss.
The Finns are very friendly people. This I know because there are two large cruise ships docked in the harbour. Why would tourists want to take a cruise to a place that has its harbour filled with floes of ice, the water itself hidden below? It must be due to the very friendly natives! Everybody here speaks English, which is convenient, and all the street signs and other public signage are in two languages: Finnish and Swedish. There's even a Swedish People's Party in the national legislature. I guess some Finns want to be part of Sweden again. None want to be part of Russia again, although the Russians must be important to the economy as all the restaurant menus are written in four languages, Russian being one. Not TOO friendly, though, as the Helsinki Times reported today that an Egyptian grandmother had lost her last appeal (to the Supreme Court) and is being deported after spending three years in Finland with her immigrant family. Of course the Canadians would have allowed her to stay if she had first sought refuge in a church for a few months.
Here's hoping you are not taking refuge from the waning days of winter and that you may even go out for a skate before it's too late!
Barry of Helsinki xx
!Hola!
Yes it's true, there are things to do and places to explore here that do not require sand and a volleyball net! The Dominican Republic is rich in history -- as you may remember the intrepid explorer Christopher Columbus arrived here over 500 years ago and decided to stay a while, living in Santo Domingo, a beautiful stately city on the South Coast of this island, which was at first christened Hispaniola.
In fact Santo Domingo was the first "European" city ever built in the New World. When walking through the its Old City you may as well be in Spain, as the original colourful houses and buildings lining the narrow streets are still being lived in today. They were built in the 1500's according to the architectural norms of the day used in Spain: large windows and small second-floor balconies appointed with lots of black, wrought iron decoration.
Because the Moors had at the time controlled the South of Spain, there is also some Arab influence still visible in the shape of the arches, for instance, that lead into interior courtyards. I visited the first church ever built in the New World. I walked through the house (now a museum) that Diego Columbus, Christopher's son, built and lived in with his family until the end of his life. Much of the original furniture, mirrors, paintings and kitchen cooking paraphernalia, are still on display, testimony to the fine workmanship used in those days. I guess Diego had good connections, as he went to Santo Domingo to be governor, reporting back directly to the Queen of Spain, Queen Isabella. As you recall, she was the lady who had the cochones to fund Chris' voyage, when all he had was a dream and good storytelling skills. Besides the first church, there are hundreds of other New World 'firsts' here and the local guides are all too eager to point them out. Tourism is the biggest employer in the Dominican Republic, so most all contact with the 'natives' consists of haggling over the price of some tchatchka or painting. It has been very challenging to pierce the smiling veneers pasted on all the Dominican faces and understand the local mentality!
I always love markets that are free of tourists and fate fortuitously steered me right into a local market, about three city blocks square! At any moment you may smell an array of spices from one collection of vendors, then turn a corner and you see a live chicken getting his head chopped off as it was just then sold to a customer, freshly killed. One street has stall after stall of used electronic parts, stuff that we can't even give away at home. And of course, a couple dozen, if not more, vendors selling fresh tropical fruit, brightly coloured mangos, guavas, passion fruit, coconuts and others that we do not often see in our own fruit stores, saturating the air with a pungent cocktail of flavours! Scooters spouting a plume of malodorous, blue smoke continually zip by in these, and all, streets and lanes; now and then a horse-drawn cart laden with ripe pineapples or watermelons will compete with the cars and scooters for a piece of the road, its operator stopping to make a sale anywhere, at any moment.
Seems this island country isn't free of crime either. A fellow Quebecer was shot dead just a few nights ago during a botched robbery attempt in his hotel-villa not very far from where I am staying. It smells fishy to me and so I am waiting for the facts. For one thing, officials are not yet certain if the tragedy took place New Year's Eve or the next night, or the one after that. If I were a robber I'd sooner choose a villa while the owner was out at the casino or even the local bar. But then, what do I know about these nefarious matters? There's enough on my plate just trying to be a good tourist: do I sign up for a 90-minute Segway 'tour' of the beach, or pet a stingray while getting kissed by a sea lion?
Here's hoping there are plenty of kisses in your life! Got to go, the tropical evening is beckoning...
Barry
