So is it nearly 4 in the morning or what
Bits from my travel notebook:
29 August. Acropolis at Athens. Hot, sweaty ang mohs, very historical-looking cranes and scaffolding.. delightful. I'm to be honest more charmed by the stories behind the Parthenon (its curves, concave floor, unique blocks, Doric pillars, temple of Athena then church then mosque..) than its physical leftovers.
(Note: I'd just had ~14 hours of flying and transiting, therefore not prone to being filled with wonderment.)
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I don't actually know that guy
30 August. Mykonos. Apparently Europe's premier gay destination. Convincingly had many men in thin v-necks and short shorts. Sort of the "bad twin" to Santorini, something like that. We visited the shopping part of the island though, the clubs and pubs are all on the other side. Windmills are nothing to look at, huge dustbin in front of them. But the steppes are lovely at about 5pm when we were there, despite the tourist hordes. Sat about casting clean shadows on cobbled ground and white walls. At night the more touristy shopping streets are lit up with unromantic white lighting, smell of drunken pee in areas.
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31 August. Wake up with Kusadasi, Turkey outside. Port is colourful, built out of the hills, looks so typically like an Islamic port! I want to say middle-eastern or Arab but it's Turkey? Weather is gorgeously warm. We walked out of the main tourist trap out to the main street that hugs the round of the hill and is spooned by the sea. A white and yellow dog strolls past. I thought Turkey was Muslim?
Heading towards Pigeon Island, a fort-looking thing connected to the mainland by a strip of road, along which are ferries full of very red tourists. A man calls out to us from his "Tours of Ephesus" shed. His name is Sina and he asks us (my little sister and I) if we're married lol.
The yellow and white dog is waiting for us at the steps up to the fort. Pigeon Island is dappled light, gentle rustle, pale brick path and scattered trees and cats. Through holes in the walls is the sea, the port, a minibus driving along the road up the hill, the sound of its horn in the distance as it makes a turn.
On the way back another man with Sina asks my little sister if "you married? You marry me?" lol or maybe a bit creepy, I don't know. Dog comes along with us through the tourist bazaar with "genuine fake watches" proclaimed. He doesn't have any suggestions for a lunch place, so we have it on back on the cruise ship.
Patmos in the afternoon. A very specific robin's egg blue, as opposed to the saturated turquoise of Mykonos. Bus up to The Cave of the Apocalypse/St. John's Grotto where he is believed to have written Revelation. Walk along a path lined with trees through which the sea and the port town of Skala below can be seen. A middle-aged and overweight woman sells rows of saints on pebbles. An old Greek man dressed and bearded religiously sells lace tablecloths and runners and poses for pictures. At Skala eat pougi - love pougi.
This is not pougi
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1 September. Rhodes Island. On the way to Lindos we pass a village called Archangelos, with a mountain as its guardian. Next to the foot of the Acropolis at Lindos is a tiny grove of olive trees, beyond that is the edge of the cliff. Standing just beside the edge, a content and gentle silence. Tourist noises are absorbed by the stone walls and the rocks. The Acropolis is being restored. There must be a whole industry in Greece revolving around construction equipment to blend in with your ancient ruins.
Rhodes Old Town. We roam through residential areas trying to find our way back to the port. Every so often, a little square with a dry fountain or a gazebo in the middle. Down one little street in an open doorway are bowls of figs and white grapes and a tray of candied apples. The inner room is dark, only the TV is on and put on mute. A woman's voice calls out and I couldn't tell where it was coming from at first but eventually she emerged from an armchair-shaped dimness in front of the mutely moving TV. She washes the grapes for us and we give her €2 for them. They're really sweet.
Seen in the Old Town
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7 September. At Fiumicino, transiting to Florence. We wait standing in the shuttle bus taking us to the airplane for about 8 minutes. A stewardess gets on and the bus starts off. Then the stewardess calls out something to the driver. A man picks up the call and shouts a little louder. Finally a man leaning in a corner reading the paper with a scarf around his neck folds his paper, puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles - the driver finally stops. The man unfolds his paper and continues reading.
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View from San Miniato
9 September. San Miniato. The church no one cares about because when they reach the top they're too distracted by the unbelievable view. Inside is shadows and more depth than you are at first aware of. Frescoes along the bare walls revealed when the whitewash was removed as recently as the 20th Century - why were they whitewashed over in the first place? They're incomplete, one of them is just a sketch. The crucifix on the left wall is damaged, Jesus' eyes are scratched off.
The poor monks of San Miniato. They don't charge entrance fees and pay no one to yell at tourists not to take photos and especially not with flash dumbass, and they have to sing their evening prayers before unbelieving sightseers.. The little shop next to the church that sells their handmade honeys and herbal liquors is run by a real monk in white robes. He is a very hairless man, just a half-halo round his head, the rest of him is practically luminous. He tells us politely, just before 5pm, "I am closing in 3 minutes." At 5.30 down at the crypt you can listen to them sing and will actually take part in the communion.
Its full name is San Miniato al Monte, which is St. Minias on the Mountain. He was this guy who was beheaded then picked both his head and his self up, crossed the Arno and walked up a hill, I suppose the hill the church is on. It was used as an artillary post during a siege and Michelangelo had it wrapped in mattresses to protect it. I loved it best of all the churches. Maybe because it's much quieter than the rest. Or maybe it was the beautiful weather. Or maybe its gorgeous views of Florence that had put me in a romantic frame of mind. Or its cemetary at the back, where the author of Pinnochio is buried. The 6 monks singing around the altar as if the people there were believers not oglers. The actual parishioners coming in for choir practice after evening prayers. Its shadows, like resting your head on a pillow as you look into them. And the monk at the shop who had firm eyes but an easy smile and a voice that was smooth and lightly musical with just a taint of breathiness..
(Note: YEAH I had a crush on him. I fully admit to casting lustful eyes upon a Catholic celibate. Those chaste white robes contributed... I am disgusting :( Anyway I took a picture inside the shop because it was run by a genuine monk and I got a shot of him putting up his finger, I think he wanted to tell me that no photos were allowed and I felt so ashamed. Later we bought the prettiest bottles of herbal liquor and as he rolled them up in paper he said in only slightly accented English that when he was younger he made this and there are 20 kinds of herbs in it. I'm not sure if his voice is musical because he sings or because he's Italian.)
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10 September. In the Duomo, the speakers echo like the voice of God: "Shhh. Silenzio. Shhh. Silenzio per favore. Shhh. Silence. Shhh. Silence please." It was hilarious and the best part of the entire cathedral.
Lunch at Mario's. About 50 chairs around like 8 tables, everyone squeezing by each other good-naturedly, open kitchen where the cooks call out greetings to customers and beside which we were seated. When the chef chops the bistecca you can feel the thumps in the ground. The menu is handwritten on brown paper and dated today with English translations by the side in ballpoint. The man seated at our table with us, white hair, bald top, black bushy eyebrows, round cheeks, small chin, hamster smile, had fish with clams that I had read as "fish with claws" on the menu lol. He tells us that there's a sign on the wall that says it's the custom to grab the T-bone (of course we ordered the bistecca!) with both hands and suck the meat off, that it's unusual in Italy to have an open kitchen like this, that the mother of the family-run trattoria, the lady with a blonde bob, has very Tuscan features and maybe some years ago she'd be in a Boticelli painting. He has a Tuscan dessert that is biscotti and wine and it's called vin santo or "holy wine" lol. He's Italian but works in the UK and apparently friends who are foodies (he said "gluttons") separately recommended Mario's to him.
While we dithered the octopus soup sold out :(
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11 September. Siena in the morning. At the bus station we meet an old Taiwanese couple waiting for the same bus. They've been travelling for 17 days all around Europe, and are going to visit their daughter who's married to a Sicilian.
The Duomo in Siena is absolutely insane like it was definitely made by crazy people. We didn't go in.. maybe a bit of church and religious art fatigue.. but just the outside is enough to see its madness.
Yeah I didn't get round to writing after that but we went to Lucca (I loved it) (see above) and Vatican City (I didn't love it, but I loved Michelangelo more afterwards) too and it was cool