beyond the tourist trap

In 1973 at the Polytechnic University, located on a street once dubbed the Silicone Valley of Athens, a large uprising was held in protest to current military rule. The three day battle, ending in multiple deaths due to a military tank crashing through the university's main gate where students hung in protest, changed the course of the government's history.  That day, November 17th, became a public holiday from that moment forth. The event also became the foundational backing of a rule later instated making every university in the country a sanctuary, only allowing police to enter the grounds by invitation from the dean.

Fifty meters (165 feet) from the Polytechnic University lies Anarchist Square. Although, that's not the square's real name. Nor is the square actually a square.  The triangular area known as Exarcheia gained its nick-name after a 15 year old boy was fatally shot by a policeman after a verbal exchange. Soon after, riots broke out all over the city, lasting for days.

As Panos, a friend of mine, was showing me around his hometown, he orally debated with himself whether or not he should take me there. "Should I? ... No... Well, maybe, yeah."

I had no clue what he was talking about. After he explained, I made his decision for him.

Nearing the square, there was a group of riot police at the start of the road entering the police no-go-zone.

"They can't get any closer due to the 2008 shooting," Panos informed me.
"Then... what are those guys doing down there," I asked.

Directly across from the square, a handful of armed riot police, dressed in hunter-green colored jumpsuits, stood stone faced against a wall plastered in anarchy posters. Panos looked genuinely confused.

"I don't know," he stated, "I've never seen them so close. But they definitely won't step across the street... otherwise there will be trouble."

We later learned there had recently been issues in the area, and more rumors were spreading about potential riots.

Due to the proximity of the square to the university, it has made it easy for groups of people, 200 strong, to storm the square, let off Molotov cocktails and rush back to safety behind compound walls before police interception.

We stood on the square, the one spot outside of universities police are forbidden to enter, and a small part of me secretly craved to see some action.

(I say small, but since I'm spilling secrets, I actually meant quite a large part of me...).

TO THE UNKNOWN GOD

Standing majestic on a slope, dominating the area around it, lies the Parthenon in all its glory. Through the marble columns and outer walls, a golden Athena, towering at 42 feet tall (13 meters), keeps guard inside. Tourists come in droves to stare at its beauty and marvel at its odd placement in the world: Centennial Park, smack-dab in the center of Nashville, Tennessee.

Litte did I know, nine years ago, as I sat on the steps of the life-size replica of one of Greece's most prominent buildings, that I would make a journey 5600 miles away from that exact spot to admire the remnants it was duplicated from.

the Parthenon (the original)

the Acropolis Theater of Dionysos

The Erechtheion

Mars Hill

main entrance 

room with a view

With a hotel room view this stunning, the 30 hour delay to reach Athens was well worth the wait.

life in captivity

My flight was canceled. I realized it was better that way, but I wasn't happy. I no longer wanted to be in Santorini. Or, rather, I didn't want to be held prisoner - not on an island unable to be enjoyed, and especially not in my white and blue apartment. A white and blue apartment that had a TV that showed more static than image and wireless internet which, in the 90-130 mile an hour winds, provided a signal for thirty seconds out of every ten minute stretch. Granted, I had a book. A good one at that. But the moment I had a lasting signal on my iPod, I did what any 30-something year old girl on the verge of insanity would do: I Skyped my mom. I'd like to say her words consoled me, but hearing: "Oh, Claire, get over it. You're on a paradise island for heaven's sake," just left me feeling defensive. Then, right after that statement, she turned her laptop towards the television. "Here, what do you want to watch," she asked. For the next hour, on my little iPod Touch in a blue and white apartment off the cliffs of Santorini, I watched American late night talk shows on my mother's TV, via her laptop, in Germany.  That is true love. (Plus... shout out to modern day technology! Whoop, whoop!)

The following day, with the winds calmed a small degree, I added another check-mark to my list. I walked one of the island's black beaches.

It must be said, though, I was giddy with excitement to reach the airport for my flight that evening. Excitement which waned each hour as flight representatives announced yet another delay in the departure time.

One hell of an island

When Greeks go on holiday, they rarely leave the country. Those living abroad return home for the majority of their vacation hours. "Greece is a vacation spot," one Greek friend told me, "why should we go anywhere else?" And when speaking about Santorini, most locals get a glimmer in their eye as they fondly recount the memory of their visit(s) to the island and gush about how beautiful it is.

But even paradise isn't perfect. Oh, no. Not even a Greek version of it.

I planned a two and a half day visit to the island, arriving early afternoon on a Monday and leaving early evening on a Wednesday. To be quite honest, I was more than ready to leave Tuesday evening, but figured I could make the most of my last day by taking a quick visit to one of the island's black beaches, something I had wanted to see since the dawn of (my) time.

Come Wednesday morning, though, the shutters on my windows rattled so loudly, they beat my alarm clock to its job by a solid 2 hours. And as hard as I looked, I couldn't find a snooze button for the wind. Instead I got up, still determined to see my plans through before my flight.

The winds did more than howl though. They whipped around at hurricane forced strength: 90-130 mph. Tops of trees bent so far they nearly touched the ground. Tiles flew off roofs. Open doors were ripped off cars. Most shops never opened for fear of broken merchandise. Cruise ships couldn't navigate the waters. Planes couldn't navigate the skies. With winds so strong, no one in their right mind ventured outdoors... which is why I walked the streets alone.

I clearly didn't make it to the beach.

Lost City of Atlantis

"According to Plato, Atlantis was a naval power lying 'in front of the Pillars of Hercules' that conquered many parts of Western Europe and Africa 9,000 years before the time of Solon, or approximately 9600 BC. After a failed attempt to invade Athens, Atlantis sank into the ocean 'in a single day and night of misfortune'."  (Wikipedia)

Legend has it, the lost city of Atlantis is the sunken, underwater, caldera of Santorini.

Whereas most calderas are the highest point of a volcano, Santorini's caldera (12 by 7 kilometers or 7.5 by 4.3 miles) mysteriously, and quite suddenly, collapsed. Coincidence? I think not.

Along the 300 meter high (980 foot) cliff leading into the caldera, is an 11 kilometer (6.8 mile) path that stretching from the capital city of Fira to the northern most city, Oia. I had a 2.4 kilometer (1.3 mile) advantage, since my temporary resting spot was in Imerovigli, which, coincidentally, is the most picturesque of all the spots on the island.

The hike, leading me up, down and around giant hills, was beautiful and completely relaxing. Wildflowers dotted the landscape. Churches were placed sporadically along the cliff's edge, overlooking the caldera, and standing as lone beacons amongst an unpopulated stretch of land. My leisurely pace brought me to Oia three hours after my departure. But I swear they must have seen me coming-  why else would they have rolled out the marble roads, except for my arrival?

It was no wonder why top Blockbusters hits such as "Laura Croft Tomb Raider: The Cradle of Life" and "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" (parts 1 and 2) were filmed there.  It's an incredible location and completely photogenic... which was why I spied at least 3 Asian couples posing for engagement photos. But, it didn't keep my attention for too long. I enjoyed Fira more.

After a nice wander around the city, and lunch with a view, I headed for the bus - as enjoyable as the hike was, I felt no desire to repeat it. While standing in front of the stop, looking at the bus departure times, a taxi driver approached me. "Want a taxi to Fira?" he asked me. "No, I'm waiting for the bus," I responded. "For you, I'll make a good price... that way you can leave right now instead of waiting." I looked at him suspiciously, "How much?"  "10 Euros," he stated. I gave a half-hearted chuckle, and put on my game face. "5," I challenged. "8," he played back. "6, final offer!" I exclaimed. He laughed, draped his arm over my shoulders and said, "OK, you win. 6 Euros it is." I felt victorious... even though, at that price, I was still, most likely, swindled.

A little blue and white

Reflecting the future

Santorini is an island that thrives on tourism. It makes sense though, since the white washed walls and blue shuttered buildings make it as picturesque a local as any can find. But, seeing as though the island makes nearly all its revenue off tourists, the tenants do all they can to ensure their guests have a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Which is why, when I was left stranded at the (tiny, three gate) airport upon my arrival, I became the talk of the island. The only two people left to keep me company was a lady collecting carts and a kindly, extremely helpful, rental car representative.

When the (previously paid for and quite expensive) hotel transport finally arrived, after a number of phone calls, I was not the happiest of persons. Yet, I smiled and spoke sweetly through gritted teeth to the driver and hotel owners. And then I walked down the white-washed stairs to my traditional cave-room overlooking the sea, when an Australian man stopped me to say he had seen me on the plane. Confused, I asked, "Wait... what? If we were on the same plane, then... um... how did you get here?" "Oh... the hotel taxi," came his response.

I should have figured my first taste of Santorini was just a prototype of things to come.

Not for the squeamish

Lamb.

That is the only thing on the minds of Greeks during Easter Sunday. Lamb. Those on grilling duty have to wake early to dig a pit in the ground to prepare a rotisserie, if they're not lucky enough to have a permanent one already. Lamb. The entire corpse of the animal, from head to hoof is pulled out of the butcher bag. Lamb. A metal skewer, larger than the animal itself, is shoved up its rectum, through its body until jabbed through the skull. Lamb. Prongs are forced through the inside of the carcass to the outside, along the spine, and screwed in to stabilize the lamb to the skewer. Lamb. A thick, large needle is used to sew the two sides of the belly, previously opened by the butcher to remove the innards, shut. Lamb. Slits are made in the arms and legs for garlic and other herbs to be inserted before being sewn back together. Lamb. Sheets of skin are placed over the nearly prepared body and held into place by knots of string sewn in random spots. Lamb.  All set, the skewered animal is propped against a wall to drain any remaining juices.

Lamb.

A second skewer, just as large as the first, is held upright to be filled with a delicacy. Lamb. A prized, highly anticipated, treat - coveted more than the whole lamb propped against a wall awaiting its fate. Lamb. For, the second skewer is layered like a shish kabob: liver, heart, skin, liver, heart, skin, liver, heart, skin - repeated until sufficiently full. Lamb. Although, that alone leaves it incomplete. Lamb. It is missing an essential, mouth watering, ingredient: intestines. Lamb. To add it involves more hands. Lamb. Creating a delicacy is a two person job, one to spin the skewer while the other wraps the intestines (cleaned three times and left soaking in vinegar) around the pieces of heart, liver and skin.

Lamb.

The skewers are placed on the rotisserie. Lamb. The meat is roasted. Lamb. Fingers and mouths become greasy. Lamb. Stomaches fill. Lamb. Dinner completes. Lamb. And minds move on to other things.

skewered

sewn

prepared

propped

spinned

wrapped

roasted

ready

He is risen

"Christos Anesti!" they exclaim to one another while giving congratulatory kisses on each cheek at the midnight hour. It is a time of celebration, for Christ has risen.

More Greeks attend Easter Mass than they do Christmas. For them, the power to overcome death (along with death and sainthood in general) is greater than birth itself. In fact, as an interesting side-note, most Greeks not only have a birthday but also a name day - which is the day of the saint (ie. the date of the saint's death) from whom they are named after.

But Mass doesn't start when the doors of the church are opened. Its beginnings stem much earlier, and in an entirely different country.  At the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, in Jerusalem, an Orthodox priest enters the spot the Catholic church believes to have been the temporary resting place of Christ's body, in order to receive the annual holy light.  That light is then transported to a small, rather unremarkable, church in Athens (called "The Remote Office of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher") near the base of the Acropolis at six o'clock in the evening. During following six hours, that light is carried to each and every Catholic church throughout the country by helicopter, plane, train, boat and police car.

An hour before midnight, men, women and children begin to silently file into the church as priests chant hymns of doctrine. The strict Orthodox make the sign of the cross and kiss idols located on the left and right sides of the entrance. Those who haven't brought their own candle purchase one just inside the church doors. Once inside, the women congregate to the left and men to the right. It is an observation Aurelie had never made before. "Out of all the weddings and funerals I've ever been to, I have never seen this type of segregation," she whispers. A look of disbelief crosses Alex's face before explaining that the separation has been around for as long as he can remember... although it may be that this was the first time Aurelie had been inside the walls of a church during Easter Mass in order to witness it.

Moments before the holy light is brought forth, all lights in the church go out. Those eager to be the first to receive the holy light rush to the front and stick their candles in the air before the head priest even enters. When the high priest emerges from behind a hidden door, he says the words "Come, receive the light" and holds a candle, lit with the holy light, high for all to see.

The light is passed on from person to person until candlelight fills the chapel and spills outside to those waiting beyond the church doors.

Immediately after, bodies turn and slowly shuffle towards the door. We join the herd, making our way outside; with the wind doing its best to keep us actively trying to protect the light from blowing out. A few minutes later the high priest joins the crowd, along with other priests carrying a cross and an image of an idol. Together they chant. People shush each other in order to hear. They're waiting for the words, the celebration, the affirmation that Christ has risen. "Christos Anesti," the high priest begins to sing. The congregation joins in. Everyone is singing and giving congratulatory kisses.  Church bells begin to ring. Home-made fireworks start to explode. And I absorb the sights and sounds while trying to capture the moment as best I can with the video function on my camera.

Then the greatest feat of the evening begins: transporting the light home to have it grace the table for dinner. Forty days before Easter, Greeks fast, abstaining from meat. The late night/early morning, break-the-fast, dinner is just as anticipated as hearing the priest sing Christ has risen. And just like the traditional Easter soup they eat, the holy light is essential.

Together Alex, Aurelie and I walk back to Freda's house, trying our best to keep our perspective candles lit. Every three steps give way to sounds of "ooh, ooh... no, no!" and one or all three of us turning in circles to block the wind from the light. Every ten steps finds us huddled together. The rate we're going, we would make the half-mile journey by day break. For a brief moment I even thought those who were driving home, with a candle blazing in one passengers hand, were pretty smart.  And then there was an audible gasp, in surround sound. All of our candles blew out.

We laugh it off and quickly make our way to the end of Freda's driveway.  That is when I have a 'genius' moment. "Why don't we just stop the next car that drives by and ask them if we can re-light our candle with their light?," I ask. It seems like a brilliant enough idea. Plus, we were in luck... there was a car coming towards us that very second. Alex waves them down and asks if he could light his candle with theirs. Smarter than others I saw drive by, they have a lantern covering their candle. It is handed to the person in the front passenger seat. They open the door of the lantern and Alex begins fidgeting with the candle, trying to get it to light. And then, just as the light takes hold of the wick, a huge gust of wind blows both lights out. The look of shock on the faces of our Good Samaritans will forever haunt me.

We mumble our apologies as they drive off... and then, we laugh.

star treatment

As Alex and Aurelie drove me up the winding mountainside in Akrata, I sat in awe. I had found paradise... or, at least a Greek version of it. Freda moved to the holiday haven twenty years ago to escape city life in Athens.  She couldn't have picked a better spot. Purple trees dotted the large green slops.  "They're called Judas trees," Aurelie informed me, "because they only come out around Easter."  Glimpses of the Mediterranean came into sight from time to time as we'd switch-back. It was as if each angle were competing for the title of 'best view'.

We pulled up the driveway and through the gates into a yard filled with grapevines and olive trees. Upon exiting the car, Alex grabbed my suitcase, led us through a doorway into a courtyard and opened the door to the guesthouse. "And this is where you'll stay," he stated while urging me inside.

Just like the main house, the guest house was over a century old, but was renovated from its prior life as an animal shed into an apartment that many would spend top dollar to rent. I looked around the whitewashed walls, the sunken living room, the authentic Greek kitchenette, generous bathroom and everything else in the large space that was to be my home for the next two days. I was overcome with gratitude and sent a telepathic greeting of thanks to my friend George (he had not yet arrived) who orchestrated everything, allowing me to spend a Greek Easter with his family which caused a domino effect ending with his mother offering me the guesthouse -something well beyond my expectations, since I was in need of nothing more than a spare sofa to rest my head on.

Having to pry my eyes away from my temporary abode, we walked into the main house so I could meet the woman who had already accommodated me beautifully. "Thank you so much for letting me stay here," I immediately exclaimed. "Uh, huh," Freda mumbled and then stole a quick glance at the kitchen table dressed for a banquet, asking: "Are you hungry?" 

It was then she became my new favorite person.

It's all Greek to me

Three Saturdays ago I sat on a sofa in the seaside village of Akrata, Greece. A long row of windows providing incredible views of the Mediterranean, as the house is situated on a hill, thus avoiding any obstruction of the view. Although, seated on that sofa, I wasn't absorbed in what lay outside; the situation occurring inside was ten times more riveting.

Freda, a friend of mine's mother, her son Alex and his girlfriend Aurelie were in a discussion trumping all discussions. Their voices raised, spewing out Greek so fast it left my head spinning. (Not that I understand the language no matter how slowly it's spoken). But the dialog appeared so intense it was as if the world would end in five minutes unless they, and they alone, could find a way to stop its eminent destruction.

Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth it went until at one point Alex stopped, looked at me, and stated: "We're just figuring out what to get at the grocery store."

Naturally.