A Good Day to Die at Prater Fun Park

I’m not amused by amusement parks whether they’re in the United States or in Austria.  We were in Prater in Vienna, home to a very old Ferris wheel called the Wiener Riesenrad.  This relic was a marvel to look at, but its age further dissuaded me from hopping onboard.  Before leaving the United States, I was convinced that my country was singularly serving up unhealthy and shallow forms of fun.  I was quite pleased to discover that America is not alone.  

Even the classy European city of Vienna featured junk food kiosks selling expensive heart attacks accompanied with tawdry entertainment.  Pleasure centers ranged from scare-houses to vomit-inducing, death-defying metal contraptions that fling the willing guinea pigs higher than humans should find themselves without standing on a sturdy staircase or descending in an airplane flown by an experienced pilot. 

Needless to say, I don’t stand in lines to shuffle my lunch inside my stomach like a load of laundry in a spin cycle.  Let us consider the matter rationally:

Before walking around Prater, I ate a kasekrainer, a fatty, oily sausage that could satiate a heavyset man for three days.  The sausage along with a bottle of Coca-Cola cost me roughly five euros.  If I were to board the Ecstasy for three euros, I would be thrashed around in a cramped box and tipped upside-down while spinning in directions unaccustomed by my cochlea and my brain.  Eating the greasy bratwurst in itself is an excuse to spew one’s guts.  However, if one adds rapid motion and gravity-defying stunts to the equation, one can easily see that I would have invested eight euros merely to throw up.  Then I would have to pay even more to replace the lunch I just lost on the pavement. 

Aside from thoughts of nausea and indigestion, I considered bravery’s role when dealing with certain rides that instill fear into those gawking at the deathtrap safely from the ground.  I saw a ride in which you are to sit in this robotic hand connected to a stiff mechanical arm.  The hand rotates violently like a mixer obliterating cookie dough.  The arm swings back and forth until the victims’ swiveling heads are pointing directly at the concrete over fifty feet below. 

A group of onlookers, including myself, stared up at those shrieking in the sky.  Who are the brave ones?  Is it courageous to climb aboard this relatively safe contraption that is likely to cause both excitement and discomfort?  Or is it more courageous to be the odd one out who waits alone and watches his crazy friends?  The person in the sky conquers nerves and images of himself flying briefly before splashing onto the pavement.  The person on the ground, however, conquers peer pressure, and he is not afraid to look out of place.  It is normal to ride the rides at an amusement park.  To do the opposite of what everyone else is doing——isn’t that bravery?         

We spectators stood, rooted to the ground, and questioned the riders’ sanity.  Could it be that we were silently asking ourselves why we didn’t feel that hunger to put ourselves in unnecessary danger?  Or maybe we were perversely seeking an opportunity to witness a terrible accident and a gruesome death. 

Amusement parks make a mockery of mortality.  High cholesterol food like oozy nacho cheese and fried dough are slow killers, whereas one design flaw could instantly crumble a roller coaster.  Every now and then the general public abandons rationality and tempts death from a safe distance.  In this case, I preferred to live dangerously in vicarious fashion and achieve a sort of contact high. 

Sin City

Venice was built on a swampy island in a lagoon by the Adriatic Sea.  The city has no castle and no defensive wall; the water acted as fortification that kept plundering armies at bay.  Despite its natural defenses, Venice was ruled first by Napoleon and then the Austrian Empire before joining Italy in the 1800s.  

The network of canals may have been a smart idea back in the day, but now products are so expensive in the city because all the goods must be shipped on the water.  During high tide in the winter, the streets are often flooded.  Since the dams are not finished, Venetians and tourists must walk on raised wooden platforms or slosh through the dirty, rat-infested waters with knee-high boots.  Living in Venice certainly is dreamlike, but it also seems impractical.  Maybe that’s one reason why less than 60,000 people live in the heart of the city, and most of them are old.

All this I learned from a local guide, an Italian woman with a long nose and a bubbly wart on her upper lip.  We started in the San Marco Square near the wharf on the Grand Canal.  The church is decorated with golden mosaics both inside and out.  A security guard was denying people entry if their shoulders and knees weren’t covered.  I pulled down my cargo shorts, being mindful to hide the hinges on my legs, but I was also wary of displaying my underwear to the church-goers. 

Although God supposedly designed the human body, apparently he took issue with our butt-cracks and bendable areas.  Perhaps he was disappointed in his work and was disgusted each time he saw the results.  There was a man ahead of me whose cargo shorts insufficiently concealed his joints, and he managed to slip past the scrutiny of the guard.  Despite his success, I adopted a stern look when confronted by the guard.  My austerity was enough to grant me admission.  Upon interpreting my facial features, the guard trusted I would not befoul the religious icons with the sight of my anatomical pivot points. 

These bizarre rules only exacerbated my puzzlement with the church.  Why could I show my elbows but not my knees?  I didn’t have to cover my ankles, but my shoulders could not be bare.  Was God upstairs reviewing the security cameras installed in his churches?  Was he searching for wardrobe malfunctions?  I suspect the real reasons had nothing to do with naked joints.  Those were family-friendly stand-ins for unspeakable private parts.  When the security guards said you must cover your knees, they were really saying that penis better stay in your pants.  The church, by the way, was exquisite and free.

Just outside the square, hordes of visitors were snapping pictures of themselves in front of the Bridge of Sighs.  On the canal below the bridge, prisoners would take their last boat ride before being hanged to the death.  As the convicts passed under the bridge, the legend goes they emitted a sigh of relief or regret.  I don’t know why modern visitors want to record a smile in front of a place with such a dark history.  They may as well be taking Selfies while sitting in the electric chair.

 

From the Bridge of Sighs, we made our way through the labyrinth of narrow walkways to the Rialto Bridge.  Along the Grand Canal, all sorts of boats were docked:  gondolas, motoscafos (water taxis), police boats, fire boats, and ambulances. If there were an emergency, the cops would meander their way through the little canals that run like capillaries to the main artery that snakes its way through the center of Venice. 

Not all areas are able to be reached by boat, especially when the high tide swells up the canals so that vessels cannot duck under bridges.  This would serve as an ominous warning if I were an old man searching for a settlement in which to retire.  There is nowhere to drive a car, and bikes are outlawed as well.  If you want to get anywhere, you have to walk or take a water taxi.  Fortunately, the city is not too large. 

After the walking tour, the group attended a demonstration on glassmaking.  We sat on the floor.  Above us hung sparkling chandeliers that cost as much as this trip to Europe.  I consider the vacation to be a wiser investment because there is no dusting involved.  Below the sparkling decorations, there was an oven that emitted an orange glow.

“The temperature inside is one thousand degrees Celsius,” our guide explained. 

Sand is melted down into a malleable cross-breed between a solid and a liquid.  The glassmaker then inserts his rod into a fiery chamber and swirls some volcanic goo onto the end of the stick.  He blows into the hole in the rod and the glass expands like a soap bubble.  He spins the glass against a flat surface to create a cylindrical shape beginning to resemble a bottle. 

But the glassmaker didn’t intend to create any ordinary chalice.  He wielded his pliers and plucked at the gelatinous substance.  Out of the amorphous blob he pulled out a head, a mane, and four legs with hooves on the ends.  In a matter of seconds, the glassmaker crafted a horse.

“Now this is still extremely hot,” the guide said.  “Around 900 degrees Celsius.  If I were to touch this, I would stick to it.”

He flapped a piece of paper until it touched the glass.  Instantly, the paper caught fire.  The guide explained that the glass must cool gradually in a chamber.  If exposed too long too soon to the open air, the glass would cool too quickly and explode.

After the demonstration, I browsed around the shop.  There were wine glasses, animal figurines, jewelry, clocks, and various unnecessary decorations.  Two colorful wine glasses cost 120 euros.  The red glass is especially expensive because gold dust is used to create the specific hue. 

“These luxurious items don’t fit in with my middle-class belongings,” I said out loud to no one in particular, and April laughed at my joke. 

“These fancy wine glasses will look nice beside my plastic cups,” she said.

Surrounded by first-class tchotchkes, I am always tempted to buy beautiful things even though they serve no purpose other than to distract me momentarily.  Ornate paper weights are functional, but then again I could find a rock that would do the job and save me fifty bucks.  An expensive piece of glass is merely an affirmation of one’s wealth, or a reminder of one’s lack thereof.  The glassmaker told me the artworks are pricey because they are original.  I prefer to think you pay more simply because you can.

If you make a lot of money and store most of it in your bank account, someone could mistake you for being poor, which could be a blow to one’s ego.  Therefore, if you are wealthy, you must buy flashy junk to prove that you are, in fact, wealthy.  As I walked around the shop, I realized that the price is not only a deterrent to buy, but also to use.  As the prices soar exorbitantly, the less it is handled. 

Most of my grandma’s expensive possessions are stored behind glass cases, and I never touch them.  They do not help me provide food, and they do not make me happy.  That is precisely why I chose to visually adore the disuse of these expensive glasses in the store rather than at home, where they would sit in equal disuse. 

On my way to the wharf, I doubled back to San Marco Square.  The plaza was filled with old cafés.  One of them has been in business for over two hundred years.  The longevity enables them now to charge the highest prices in the area.  Near the major eateries, a pianist accompanied by a small string section played such romantic music that forced me to linger around the band to savor the pleasing melody.  The music captured the feelings I got while watching movies that romanticized Europe.  The music also reminded me that Venice is a city for lovers on private gondola rides.

I took a ride on the gondola because one is expected to do so, and the discounted price was more than reasonable when you consider that many people all over the world dream of such a day.  But if you think in terms of merely floating on water in a glorified canoe, the idea of paying such a fee seems farfetched.

I boarded the vessel with friends, none of whom were romantically involved.  We didn’t have a musician playing an accordion, but it was pleasing to hear the oar dip lightly into the water and propel us down the murky green canals. 

The bases of the brick buildings are covered with algae.  A putrid smell like raw sewage hangs in the air.  The gondolier didn’t say a word to us, not even hello or goodbye.  Instead, he chatted with his fellow gondoliers in Italian.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” I said.

“They’re probably complaining about their girlfriends,” Ash said.

The gondola ride wasn’t as romantic as I anticipated.  It was more akin to a wordless romp with a well-meaning, but financially-driven prostitute.  I enjoyed lazily floating on the canals despite the driver’s lack of engagement. 

After stepping off the boat, I indulged myself with a final scoop of gelato before heading off to Austria.  Despite being neighbors with the Pope, Italians seem to worship pleasure in all forms.  There may be too much traffic, way too many carbs, and way too many gypsies in Italy, but if I should ever return to this country I can overlook all of that.  A sweet scoop of gelato on a hot summer days makes all your problems go away.

Tent City

Every time the Contiki group reaches a new destination, we lug our tent parts into an open field and find a soft patch to hunker down.  We hammer the pegs into the firm ground and assemble the A-frames.  A rain-proof tarp serves as a roof.  Temporary homes are constructed in less than ten minutes.  I find the warmth of my tent comforting, but its lack of a closet is inconvenient.  Or perhaps the feeling that my possessions are necessary is the true burden.

I was initially skeptical about spending so much time outdoors inside a stuffy, nylon pyramid.  I couldn’t watch my favorite TV shows, and it contained no pantry to store my snacks.  My blow-up mattress did little to cushion by back against the cold hard ground, so I eagerly awaited the day I could sleep in my soft bed once more.  After reading Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, I changed my mind. 

Thoreau built a cabin in the woods and lived deliberately for two years to escape the trivialities of society.  Even in the 1800s, people were tied down by expensive mortgages that take years to pay off.  We were——and still are——imprisoned by our houses.  We work so much to pay off our houses and our cars.  The bigger the house gets, we spend more time at work, more time driving to and from work, and less time at home.  What’s the point of paying so much for a house you barely inhabit?

During this vacation, I had the opportunity to live simply without the stigma of poverty.  If you live in a small hut, some may judge you in a negative fashion because your abode is not luxurious.  I grew up in a double-wide trailer and thought I was poor when I watched celebrities give tours of their mansions on MTV’s Cribs.  I was hypnotized by this drivel. 

I wanted a ten-bedroom house with an indoor basketball court and a thirty car garage, but I never stopped to think how I would fill up that space.  Why did I need nine extra bedrooms?  Star athletes and rappers always seemed to be having pool parties with their massive posse of mooching friends.  They must be the ones sleeping in the guest bedrooms, I assumed, but who did the dusting around the house?

Thoreau retreated to the woods to reclaim principles lost amidst the narcissism and stratification of our society.  Many of us have forgotten the original purpose of shelter, which is to provide warmth and protection from the elements.  My tent was not equipped with hardwood floors or marble countertops, but the rain cover lived up to its name.  My humble fortress also kept out the mosquitos and the wind, and sweeping the floor took up no time at all. 

I will admit that sometimes it was a pain to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.  I’d have to put on my glasses, my jacket, and my shoes and walk the unfamiliar path in the dark.  Every city we visited had toilets and showers in different places.  If your mind was foggy from drink or lack of sleep, you may forget where you were on the map and end up lost and peeing behind the nearest tree. 

Nonetheless, a nomadic lifestyle is refreshing.  At home, my shower and electrical outlets never move.  The voltage and the water pressure are constant.  Every morning I can find my cereal in my pantry, and my coconut milk stays cool in my fridge.  Some days I never leave the house.  There is no need to adjust, but this is not the life for which humans were designed.  We were born to run from predators and scavenge our prey, but now that lifestyle is optional and considered bizarre. 

I cherish my days in the tent, where putting on pants is an elaborate process because I cannot stand up inside.  I scrunched up my neck pillow and that is where I rested my head at night.  Before turning in, I read a few pages illuminated by my tiny flashlight.  I hand-washed my socks and spread them out on my backpack overnight to dry inside this mesh humidifier.  When I’m at home, I can press buttons to make life easier.  Although I love the convenience of light bulbs and dryers, I savored my semi-primitive home.

Heritage

There was no shortage of flat stones on the pebble-strewn beach at Corfu, so I skipped several across the placid surface of the Ionian Sea.  My grandfather, whom I called Pap, taught me how to skip stones.  The most important part of the process, he told me, is finding the right rock.  One side has to be relatively flat and smooth. Then you grasp the stone between your thumb and forefinger.  Position your arm perpendicular to your hips and make a side-armed toss.  Be sure to flick the wrist and bounce the stone off the water.

When I was a child, the majority of my first attempts splashed into the creek near my grandparent’s camper, where they stayed in the summer before wintering in sunny Florida.  Although Pap didn’t like to swim, he enjoyed sitting out by the water under the sun.  Tanning was embedded in his genetic history, which traced back to Greece.  During beach vacations in New Jersey, Pap would get so dark that he could pass as a black man. 

After retiring in his late sixties, his skin had faded into a light tan, but he was still the darkest white man I knew.  When my twin brother was about six years old, he drew a picture of my grandfather riding his bike, and he colored him in with a brown crayon. 

During the summers of my youth, my brothers and I would visit our grandparents in rural Pennsylvania.  Pap would often take my brother and me on bike rides down a winding gravel road to a shallow creek that gurgled under a wooden bridge that connected the campsite to a trail in the wilderness. 

Pap confidently tossed stone after stone that lightly kissed the creekwater and hopped several times before sinking to the bottom.  My brother and I would scour the creek bank for flat rocks, and we’d collect the best ones for Pap.  They would be wasted on us and swallowed by the creek without a single bounce. 

Although I wanted to practice so I could become as skilled as Pap, I preferred to watch his seamless movements.  Skipping stones at that tiny, muddy creek became a favorite activity, and I would always look forward to another visit to the boonies of Pennsylvania.  Year after year, I visited my grandparents in their summer home until eventually I could bounce the rock a few times before it disappeared into the murkiness. 

As autumn approached one year, my grandparents announced to the family that they might not come back to Pennsylvania anymore.  The chilly air was too harsh on my grandma’s lungs, which had been impaired by years of smoking.  My grandparents wanted to prepare the family for their inevitable ends.  They weren’t young anymore, and death was becoming more and more of a possibility. 

Contrary to their warnings, they did come back to Pennsylvania for a few more years.  They celebrated their 50^th anniversary together and danced to their wedding song.  As they embraced on the dance floor, I witnessed one of the most beautiful moments in my young life, one that strengthened my faith in the concept of marriage.  When I visited their rural Pennsylvania home the next year, only my grandma came back.  The family gathered at my grandpa’s memorial service, and I haven’t been to the creek since. 

On the beach at Corfu, I could skip stones as confidently as my grandpa once could.  The sport is so simple, yet so fulfilling because each stone is heavy with memories.  As I got older, the stones could travel farther and stay above the water longer, but eventually they all sink.  As I stared out at the ocean, my thoughts wandered into the impenetrable space beyond the horizon.  I bounced one last rock across the water and headed toward the restaurant at the Karda Campsite. 

I ordered a gyro at the bar from the Greek woman who ran the place.  Everyone called her Nana.  She is a beautiful and gracious woman with long dark hair and a radiant smile.  A natural caretaker, she is attuned to subtle nuances that most of us can’t perceive.  I have rarely encountered such a welcoming presence.

“Where are you from?” Nana asked. 

“The United States,” I said.

“Which part?” she asked.  Her speech had a lilt that suggested her words were chosen carefully as her second language was not automatic. 

“Pennsylvania.”

“Oh, I don’t know that one.”

“Do you know Florida? My family lives there.”

She shook her head.  Many outside the U.S. know New York and California, but the states in between are a blur unless you mention Disney World.  I told Nana about the Greek community in Tarpon Springs, Florida, about an hour north of Tampa on the Gulf Coast. 

In the early 1900s, the Greeks started a sponge-diving enterprise off the peninsula’s western shores.  When my grandparents retired and settled down in St. Petersburg, we’d often drive to the sponge docks and eat gyros and baklava at the same Greek restaurant year after year.  We even requested the same waitress who always greeted my grandparents with a hug and a kiss.

“My mother’s maiden name is Dristas,” I told Nana at her restaurant in Corfu.  “My great-grandfather is from Greece.”

Nana’s eyes lit up.  She tapped her forearm and said, “You have Greek blood?”

“Some.  I am German, Irish, about one-thirty-second Greek, but I always emphasize the Greek parts because they’re my favorite.”

I wrote down my mother’s maiden name on a piece of paper that Nana offered.  I spelled the original surname before it was anglicized:  Dritsis. 

“Ah, that is a very Greek name,” Nana said.

“When my great-grandfather came to America, he changed his name to Dristas.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “Many immigrants anglicized their names to sound more American, I suppose.”

After I finished my gyro, I ordered hot green tea and handed her the exact change, but she wouldn’t accept my money. 

“It is my gift to you,” Nana said.

I thanked her in English and then asked how to say thank you in Greek.  She grabbed a pen and a slip of paper and taught me basic expressions.  She finished the last line and said, “When you see your mother, you can tell her:  S’agapo, Mama:  I love you, Mama.”

I thanked her in Greek for the lessons and the tea.  I messaged my mother on Facebook and asked where her grandfather lived in Greece.  Due to the major time difference, I had to wait to hear from her the next day.  After receiving my mother’s message, I went straight to Nana to talk more about our shared Greek heritage. 

“I asked my mother where Nikolas, my great-grandfather lived,” I said to Nana the next day.  She smiled and waited for me to proceed.  “He lived in Smyrna, but now it’s not part of Greece.”

“It is Turkey,” she said.

“Do you know what happened?” I asked her.

Between 1919 and 1922, there was a war between Greece and Turkey. The Ottoman Empire had been dissolved as a result of the First World War, and the Allies took land from Asia Minor and granted that territory to Greece.  Smyrna, once part of the Ottoman Empire, became occupied by the Greeks.  Turkey won the war for its independence and reclaimed their land, including Smyrna.  Many Greeks fled to the mainland or immigrated to other countries due to the conflict.

“Maybe my relatives are in Turkey,” I said.

“No.  All the Greek people moved back into Greece, or they moved away.  They did not stay in Turkey.” 

There was a population exchange between Turkey and Greece engineered by a Norwegian diplomat who aimed to reduce tension between the ethnically diverse nations.  Orthodox Greeks from Turkey and Muslim Turks from Greece were essentially swapped to create homogenous populations devoid of minority conflicts.  Nana explained that many of the Greeks in the new Turkish lands were educated, and they were ridiculed and treated with hostility because of their relative wealth.  Most of them relocated to avoid civil unrest.

“Maybe that’s why my great-grandfather fled to the US,” I said, although I later learned he moved to escape his abusive, alcoholic father.  If it weren’t for this pugnacious, drunken behavior, I probably would never have been born.     

“My grandfather, too lived, not in Smyrna, but another part of Greece that became Turkey,” Nana said.  “He moved to the mainland because of the...”

She flicked her fingers and gestured with her hands as though she could grab the elusive word from the air.

“The war,” I offered.

“Yes.  That is the word.”

“It is interesting to think our families, our ancestors, are the same,” I began.  “We have the same history, but the war caused your grandfather to flee to Greece and my great-grandfather went to America.  Yet here we are in Greece again.”

She tapped her forearm again——the same blood runs through our veins.

Most Americans are mutts of various nationalities.  Since I am a few generations removed from my relatives who first stepped upon American soil, many of my European characteristics have faded.  I don’t tan as well as my grandfather, who was half Greek.  Perhaps my Irish genes have tampered with this ability.  Despite the near century that has passed since my great-grandfather crossed the Atlantic, seeing Greece and connecting with the people made me realize the importance of one’s heritage. 

I used to mock my schoolfellows who would tattoo their bodies with Italian flags or Native American insignias.  You’re not Italian.  You’re not Cherokee, I would think.  You’re American.  But I was wrong.  We are all from somewhere else.

Somehow, I managed to be born in a small town in central Pennsylvania in the United States of America.  There are worse places to be born, but I always contemplated my plain surroundings and thought, “Why here?” Luck had a lot to do with it, and so did the war between the Greeks and the Turks. 

Nana’s existence owed to this conflict as well.  Although I just met her, I felt strongly connected to this woman because we share the same roots.  Our hair is both thick and dark.  Our noses protrude at similar angles.  Our meeting——like our existence in the first place——was highly unlikely until I traversed the Atlantic and retraced the route from which I came. 

When I sailed to the Greek islands, I only needed to heed my grandfather’s advice in order to reconnect with my ancestral past.  To skip across the water, you need to find the right rock.    

Seaside Roots

Island living is easy on Corfu, and nearly everything is cheap.  The local restaurant serves gyros that costs less than three euros, a deal that Subway can’t match.  I would rather retire here instead of Florida, where conservative thinking is as rampant as the head-on collisions between impaired drivers with uninspected cars. The weather is just as suitable in Greece, and the residents are younger than the buildings. 

An ancient Byzantine castle clings to a cliff on the western side of the island.  Aaron bought a map and plotted his course.  A small troupe, including myself, followed him in blind faith.  We shuttled into town and walked the café-lined streets alive with pedestrians puffing on cigarettes.  I stopped at a bakery where I recognized a dessert that my mother made for a heritage celebration for my high school history class. 

We students researched our family lineages and brought in dishes from our ancestors’ homelands.  My great-grandfather was born in Smyrna, Greece, and he was the last immigrant in my family to sail to the United States.  When I get my summer tan and a lazy, patchy beard covers my cheeks, I scrutinize my face for imprints of Old World genetics.  Although my family hails from Germany, Ireland, Scotland, and Greece, I prefer to emphasize the Greek in me. 

“Is that baklava?” I asked the Greek man behind the counter.

“It’s like baklava, but different,” he said tersely and then attempted to persuade me to buy a larger, more expensive chocolate cake. 

“It’s all traditional,” he marketed.

“No,” I said, “I just want two pieces of that,” I pointed toward the triangular sweets with flaky phyllo dough.  The dessert was cheap and overly sweet.  The dough was slightly crunchy, and the almond paste and honey conglomeration was gooey.  I finished the first one but dreaded stomaching the last piece.  The sugar was so intense it alerted me about the damage I was causing my teeth with very little reward from my palette.  But I paid for the sweets, so I ate them both.

We boarded a bus heading west.  There was a man on board who walked down the aisle and collected payments.  I handed the man a two euro coin.  He tapped a few buttons on his hand-held screen and printed a superfluous receipt, which I later threw in the trash.  Aaron conferred with him as to where we should get off. 

After answering Aaron’s questions, the worker sat next to a Greek woman, a friend of his I assumed, and proceeded to flirt with her on the clock.  His protruding nose resembled mine because we shared similar genes.  I hoped this meant I, too, was capable of casually wooing foreign beauties.  No opportunities availed themselves, so I stared out the window until the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere at the foot of a hill.

The road zigzagged up the incline so that our route was never steep but inconveniently indirect.  The path was mostly deserted except for a few locals selling homegrown wines and honey under the shade of screen-less tents.  Scooters and tiny cars sporadically sputtered up the street. 

As we climbed higher, the view became grander, and the desolate quiet thickened.  I could hear the leaves rustle as the tree branches shook in the wind.  There was little to see except the woodlands, but I’ve seen so many attractions lately that it was refreshing to wander around amidst the simplicity of the country.

We rounded another bend and entered a small neighborhood built on a straightaway nestled between the hills.  The road would only permit one car at a time.  Two cars heading toward each other would be considered a traffic jam.  

Family-run restaurants were empty inside.  Outside their doors left ajar, there were menus littered with misspelled English words.  One sign advertised FOOB. 

I found a shop that sold homemade olive wood carvings.  Locally sculpted art makes for ideal gifts to take home because it probably won’t get crushed in your bag, and you can’t easily find these authentic products at home or online.  As I approached the shop, I noticed an old man chiseling a piece of wood inside a detached workshop.  No one was helming the cash register as I browsed his collection in the building nearby.

Household items like wooden spoons and spatulas filled the shelves, but I was searching for something that epitomized Greece.  A sailboat seemed fitting.  My mother could briefly look at the carving and remember that I bought this wood carving on an island.  When I visit a new country, I buy small knickknacks like an ebony elephant from Ghana or a mosaic bull from Spain.  They’re my exterior tattoos that transplant me to past adventures and encourage me to save my money so I can leave again. 

I lifted the sailboat and read the price tag on the bottom.  I wasn’t expecting to run into civilization on this hike, so I didn’t have much cash on me.  The old man walked into the shop as though emerging from a nap.  He hovered near me and silently implored me to speak first.

“Do you take credit cards?” I asked him.

Judging by his blank look and considering the distance from his shop to the touristy beaches, I suspected he didn’t speak much English, so I pantomimed swiping a credit card. 

“No machine,” he said.

I pointed to his sailboat and said, “I like this, but I don’t have enough cash on me.  If I had more money, I would buy it.”  I tried to speak slowly, and I think he got the gist.  I apologized for wasting his time and left his shop. 

We hiked for another thirty minutes before we saw the castle perched atop the summit of a hill.  After stopping at a viewpoint for a quick photo, we ascended the rocky staircase until we reached the Byzantine fortress.  

The walls of the entrance were intact albeit spotted with orange lichen.  I climbed up the courtyard rubble and stood a safe distance from the edge of a cliff.  From the top I could see pockets of Carolina blue water surrounded by the sea of a darker hue.  The ocean stretched onward for miles.   

No wonder the castle is still standing.  Soldiers could see ships far in the distance.  Anyone attacking by land would have a tough time climbing up the hill without being shot by an arrow.  Within the castle’s grounds, grass grew around the rocks.  There were coffin-shaped holes dug into the slabs of stone.  I managed to squeeze into one of them and gained a new appreciation for my tiny air mattress I slept on each night. 

“This is the coolest thing I have ever seen in my life,” Shyla said.  She’s a Canadian college student who recently joined the group in Rome.  The others with me——Aaron, Bridget, Ash, and the two ladies from Taiwan——were emphatic with their excitement.  I heard words like stunning, amazing, and breathtaking.  I did not use these descriptors because I am very selective with my adjectives of praise. 

Reaching the peak was certainly an achievement, and the view of the electric-blue sea was worthy of a few photographs.  Undoubtedly the view from the castle is more picturesque than the one I have from my bedroom window.  However, I was not overwhelmed with a sense of euphoria like my companions.  Why did I have to complicate everything?  Why couldn’t I simply admit the view was breathtaking, like I was expected to? 

When asked about my voyage, shouldn’t I excitedly describe the climax with a touch of wonder?  Any divergence from the spectacular would be a disappointment.  If you climb up a steep hill, you come to expect a brilliant view.  When I looked at the evergreen trees and the inviting water I saw the beauty, but I also saw the inevitable end of the dirt and the beginning of a different element.

We spend so much time on land that we become fascinated by the novelty of water.  Our ancient home beckons us.  When we gaze out beyond the cliff, perhaps we are visited by memories instilled deep within our DNA when we slithered out of the sea and said goodbye to our friends with gills.  But that just sounds crazy.  It’s much easier to say that some indescribable quality took my breath away.        

George's Boat

The rain stopped in the night, and in the morning we set sail around the island of Corfu.  Near the beach, the sea is a luminescent neon, but the deeper waters are as blue as the stripes on the Greek flag.  George the Gregarious Greek was our captain.  He’s a raunchy, pot-bellied man with a sleazy sense of humor, replete with sexual innuendos.  

 

We dropped anchor near a rocky shore.  Several people hopped off the vessel and splashed into the ocean.  I have always been reluctant to swim in an ecosystem not my own.  I can swim, but I can’t outswim a shark.  When I’m floating in a vulnerable position, I’m all too aware I don’t belong in this particular habitat.  I was nervous as I stood at the top of the bow and gazed at the water roughly ten feet below me.

 

I convinced myself that I didn’t fly halfway around the world to sit on a boat and watch people swim, so I took the plunge and crashed into the cold sea.  I resurfaced, kicked my legs, and chopped through my waves to reach the shore and to generate heat throughout my body.  I was careful about flailing my legs because I couldn’t judge where the ocean floor was and what it would feel like until I stepped softly upon the pebbly surface. 

 

Instead of a sandy beach, there was a narrow passage in a rock wall, and I followed my friends inside a tight crevice.  The water reached my waist and then slapped my belly when the tide rolled in.  The cave grew darker as we walked beyond the rays of the sun.  Some light seeped in from the entrance and reflected off the water and gave it a milky sheen. 
 

Lines of my friends stretched in front of me and behind.  As I inched farther into the cavern, I had to duck.  If the tide moved in and stayed here, we’d have an opportunity to test the strength of our friendships while drowning.  But this was an unlikely scenario borne of irrational concern.  The corridor eventually opened up into a quiet grotto bathed in shadows, and I could stand again in the knee-deep water.

 

The exit was a tiny opening underneath a low-hanging rock that nearly reached the floor.  I lowered my body horizontally in the water and waited for the tide to fill the gap.  When the sea gushed inland, I dove under and propelled myself to the other side and hurried to the boat.  My teeth chattered as a chill coursed through my body. 

 

During lunch the captain reminded us repeatedly that the tzatziki was “good for your sex life.”  While we ate fresh fruit for dessert, George announced that his oranges were “soft and juicy” and his apples were “nice and firm.”  A sign on the cabin window read, WARNING:  63 & SEXY.  He played club music and taught us Greek words that sounded like an English expletive.  I wondered if he was married.

 

With drinks being served and music blasting, I grew tired of being part of a group.  I wanted to find a quiet corner away from the crowd, so I could read The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Hemingway.  Since I was on a small boat, escape was impossible.  I was running out of things to say and found it more and more difficult to connect with the group on a personal level since my friends left in Rome.  I watched everyone singing along to pop songs and wandered why my chemical makeup didn’t permit me to indulge in such activities.  I got along with everyone on the trip, but our ideas of fun didn’t always coincide. 

 

The captain called up the Australians, the Kiwis, the Canadians, and finally the Americans to the front of the boat.  First the captain played the national anthem and then a popular song that embodied each country.  I stood with the newcomers Jackie and Alisa, and we all botched the lyrics to “The Star Spangled Banner.”

After being embarrassed for our lack of patriotism, we were expected to dance.  The girls started shaking and shimmying, but I stood at the front of the boat and held onto a rope.  People in the crowd egged me on, so I lazily moved a few of my limbs to please them.  I wasn’t against dancing; I just wasn’t in the mood.
 

When the song ended, I wondered which was the best course of action.  Should I do nothing and seem out of place?  Or should I join in on the dancing to appease the crowd?  Ultimately, I gave into peer pressure.  I didn’t want to be a party-pooper.  Instead, I wanted to act authentically, and this trip was a great opportunity to practice that and potentially change my personality. 

 

I wanted to be a maverick——the guy who swims against the current and stands still while everyone else is dancing.  My problem is that I want everybody to like me, but I was worried by doing this I could sacrifice my integrity.  I needed to let loose and shake off a few hard-wired tendencies, so I turned to my new friends for options. 

 

Since the group was so large and diverse, I could treat it like a library.  I could rent whatever piqued my interest and return whatever didn’t align with my values.  I danced this time, but maybe the next time I wouldn’t.  And I jumped off the boat because nearly everyone else did, but I didn’t force myself to leap.  I just needed a little push from my friends.       

The Stray Dogs of Greece

We could sleep in beds on the overnight ferry to Greece.  The dinner was mediocre, but at least we could rest in a horizontal position.  So much of travel is merely the reduction of life to the basics.  A good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and a filling meal are simple pleasures that we often don’t appreciate when surrounded by the conveniences and comforts of home. 

I was worried about this journey because there were rumors we’d have to sit in airplane-style seats, and most likely the ferry would be late because we were entering Greece.  The country runs on “Greek-ish time,” meaning I’ll get to it after this cigarette break.  We left port from Sorrento late and were expected to miss our connecting ferry unless that boat was late, too.  But we felt confident that nobody would punctual. 

Since I’m late to work all the time, I fit in well here, and I didn’t mind the tardiness one bit.  I don’t believe we should center our lives on the precision of time.  The Greeks take more vacation than the Americans.  Although the U.S. economy is stronger, perhaps we should spread their way of life rather than our way of business. 

We left Italy well after dark, and we expected to reach Greece before dawn.  The group retired to their cabins.  My soft mattress was a welcoming comfort after spending weeks on a blow-up sleeping pad inside a tent.  I got the best sleep of my life on this trip, and I was out swiftly, oblivious to the drone of the engine and the subtle churning of the ship. 

Aaron told me a crew member on the ferry opened our cabin door at 3:50 A.M. and announced we would soon be reaching the port.  Aaron shut the door and went back to bed.  I slept through the whole encounter.  My alarm chimed at quarter ‘til five, and our haggard entourage emerged from darkened dens into the lounge.  Most of us sat on the floor with our eyes squinted and our faces puffy from deprived slumber.

After waiting over an hour, we finally disembarked.  I’m not sure what the rush was.  I could’ve had another hour’s rest, but instead I was forced to listen to a droning message that needlessly heeded truck drivers to go to their vehicles.  Apparently the drivers needed to be reminded fifteen times and in several different languages.  And, apparently, my fellow non-truck drivers and I needed to be awake for this.   

We docked and then drove to the next ferry, which was empty.  To kill time I strolled around the sleepy town and spotted a small café with its lights on.  Even the bakeries weren’t open yet.  Inside there was an old man with a haggard smoker’s cough.  He could barely speak Greek let alone English.  The café was a cramped space covered in dark brown wood and equipped with a few small tables.  I ordered a Greek coffee.  The drink was cheap, sweet, and sedimenty on the bottom.  The caffeine did much to turn the lights on in my brain. 

Inside the dingy bathroom, there was a sink with a crooked faucet that spewed out water I couldn’t drink.  The room contained a woman’s stall to the right and a man’s stall to the left.  The stall had no lock or handle, so I had to hold the door shut. 

I was surprised to learn that Greek commodes cannot handle toilet paper, which is thrown away in a trash bin instead.  A previous trip to Ghana introduced me to this practice, so I was not shocked or disgusted.  In Africa, I sucked water out of bags and brushed my teeth with bottled water and bathed with tepid bucket water.  I associated non-potable water and poor sewage systems with developing countries, so I was uncertain how to categorize Greece. 

Outside the café near the harbor, two stray dogs sought attention from our group.  Their fur, although thick, was dirty and frayed.  One of my rules when visiting a foreign country is to never touch the animals, no matter how cute they are.  The dogs were plump for being homeless probably because they mastered the skill of begging for food from strangers who couldn’t bear to see a dog go hungry. 

A shaggy dog walked along the port, approaching us.  The two strays nearest us spotted the loner.  They barked and chased him away.  A few of my companions thought the dogs were being mean, but I knew they were fighting for territory and resources.  If we were to feed all the dogs, each dog would get less food since they had to share.  The animals were increasing their chances of survival by scaring away competitors. 

The scene served as a fitting metaphor for Greece’s recent economic crisis.  Germany bailed Greece out of bankruptcy to keep the European Union intact.  Helping each other out was a main purpose for unification, but assistance did not come easily to a continent rife with a history of warfare.  Germany has had a negative worldly image for nearly the entirety of the 20^th century, and now they were the good guys. 

Although a few Greeks I met were very thankful for Germany’s generosity, I heard stories of disgruntled patriots who felt ashamed to receive such handouts.  By the same token, many Europeans were unhappy with Greece for diminishing the value of their currency.   

But if it weren’t for the Germans, the Greeks may have ended up like the strays begging for food from docking tourists.  I was shocked by the nation’s poverty.  Greece is where democracy, the pinnacle of civilization, was born.  This was the home of Plato, Socrates, and Aristotle, who revolutionized mankind’s conceptions of the world.  This was an intellectual and educational hotbed in ancient times, but now you can’t even drink the tap water here.

My volunteer experiences have taught me the contradiction of giving freely.  If I were to feed these homeless dogs, they would grow more dependent on handouts and would be less inclined to be self-sufficient.  Aid is only a temporary solution to help one rebuild.  If a dog truly wants to survive, it has to learn to hunt for its food.