7 October Monday Tel Aviv to IstanbulToward the end, the routine dullness, the discomfort of imposition, the heavy food, the pestering advice, the annoyance of a stifling way of life, all really started to get us down. We were glad to be on our way. Still, it was a melancholy parting with Binem and Anja who were so good to us in their way.
Istanbul now offers five days of interest for us: our first explorations have given us the uneasy feeling of similarity with Kabul and other Moslem countries. The slovenliness of the men, unshaven and hustling, leering under their dark brows, the streets packed with vendors, the crudely Anglicized signs — the feeling that every one is on the make. But there is a hint of elegance here, the broad European boulevard with cafés, the harbor and the mosques, the squares. All that remains to be explored.
8 October Tuesday IstanbulThis is really not so odd. Throughout Asia we have encountered envy at the "good things" of American life (like Japanese radios, French clothes, Italian cars!) No, seriously, that same feeling we got in Japan, India, Thailand, Israel, that the people of the world are all striving to emulate us, that our life is what they all envisage as the better one, we feel here.
Now we are in Europe, at least half the time—Istanbul is a city divided by the Bosporus which runs between the Aegean and the Black Sea, half in Europe and half in Asia.
9 October Wednesday IstanbulWe spent hours chatting with some Turkish men who wanted to learn French and English and taught us some Turkish and German. The frustrations of language were again evident, but the good will of ordinary people was also dominant.
10 October Thursday IstanbulThe waterway, wider than a river but narrower than a sea, actually a link between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora, was full of merchant ships at Istanbul. Further up, fishing boats bobbed on its surface. Finally we reached the last port, Yenikoy, where we had a wonderful lunch of red mullet, grilled and very tasty at a restaurant on the dock.
This evening we ate at a local restaurant in the city. Stew with lamb, potatoes, beans and eggplant with rice and garbanzo beans and watermelon for dessert. Later we strolled to get Bea some sweet candy stuff and me some hot chestnuts.
A beautiful day.
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| Copper tea set from Grand Bazaar, Istambul |
We spent another day in the covered bazaar and Bea was in all her glory. She is happiest when either eating or buying. She does both with an apparently insatiable appetite. She pursues both avocations with obsessive zeal. And like most obsessions, these carry with them neurotic guilts and afterward, let downs. I too have my problems with these areas of life: I care little about eating most things most of the time, but am as obsessive about my favorite foods. Shopping and buying (the distinction is important) are not my favorite ways of passing time. Shopping bores me and buying terrifies me.
These incompatibilities make traveling together difficult often since much of a tourist’s time is spent in these pursuits. We both become so sensitive of the other’s sensitivities in these areas that neither can make a decision.
Today Bea bought beautiful gold earrings, a copper tray and two teapots, an onyx dish as a gift. To me it represented three hours of haggling and being cheated out of $80. Since Turkish food is not the best, we will probably return to the bazaar to buy more.
[Written on stolen stationery of Hotel Zohar Beer-Sheva]:
11 October 1974 Istanbul
Dear Ron & Laura, S&S, F&G &Stinky,
Tomorrow nite at 7pm we fly on Air France to Athens and I have promised myself to be sure and eat some turkey in Greece because we have certainly eaten plenty of grease in Turkey.
The food here consists mainly of everything cooked in grease. The staple is shish kabob— they spell it ‘sis kebop’, which shows what kind of country this is: can’t even spell the food properly! This lamb-skewered dish is so important— so Turkish— that no matter what you order, you get sis kebop. Every nite we go out to a new restaurant and order something different on the menu: and it always turns out to be sis kebop. Luckily they serve sis kebop in many different ways: with yogurt, with rice, with eggplant, with peppers, with salad and always with plenty of grease!
Other than eating we have walked, sightseed and shopped. Walking is fun— but everything in this city is uphill. They have no downhill. You trudge up a street and when you reach the top, there is another hill! It is a marvel of civic engineering.
You see many interesting people as you walk ... all men. Like all Moslem countries, women always stay at home while their men tend to the important work: like playing cards and drinking tea in cafés all day, or standing on street corners looking manly.
And Turks do look manly. Everyone needs a shave. They all have thick black hair over every square inch of their faces and must shave with blowtorches each morning. But it does no good. They all have "ten a.m. shadow."
We went to the famous Blue Mosque which is a big mosque that has blue tiles and mosaics all over. We came during a prayer service which sounded very much like Hebrew. The women sit separately from the men, their faces always veiled— probably to hide their beards.
We also spent a day at the Topkapi Palace. We saw all the famous jewels, including the dagger Peter Ustinov wanted, and an emerald that made Plymouth Rock look like a pebble. We went all around the grounds and into the harem which still has a certain familiar fragrance though it has been unoccupied since 1909.
Later we went to St. Sophia’s which was built by the Byzantine Christians firm of Constantine, Justinian and Theodosius, then was converted to a mosque when Mohammed made Moslems out of all the Islamic world: Persia, Turkey, Arabia and North Africa. The church / mosque is just a wee bit smaller than the Astrodome but draftier.
Oh, yes, in Topkapi, they have a few strands of Mohammed’s hair, his footprint, hair from his beard and other relics which are kept in gaudy solid gold and diamond encrusted boxes— very bad taste, I thought. And, incidentally, I almost forgot: the they also have part of his skull, and John the Baptist’s forearm is also in the ghoulish collection.
The next day we took a ferry ride up the Bosporus, zig-zagging between little ports of call in Europe, then in Asia, and back again. Look at a map and see that the Bosporus divides Istanbul— half in Europe, half in Asia, and runs from the Black Sea with Russia on one side and the Sea of Marmora and Aegean on the other. It is a beautiful waterway— reminded me of the upper Hudson: very green hills rising quickly on both banks. We ate at a dockside restaurant (good fish— red mullets) in a small town and came back. A nice day.
We have mostly been shopping— in the covered bazaar, a maze of shops selling jewelry, leather goods, brass, copper, onyx, clothes— very big and lots of fun— for the first 10 minutes. We got some of it on tape and I will be sending the tape as soon as we get to a post office I can trust— probably Paris.
... It feels like we have been gone forever and we are both often homesick— which for me means missing the football season. But we are determined to stay at least 6 months and one day so you can win your bet with Marko.
And anyway, in another month we will have our car (unless Italy goes on strike— I read in the Tribune that Fiat put its workers on a 3 day week because of no sales & the unions don’t like it. Everywhere people scream that tourism is down, but prices are up. I hope that you are too, up that is. Love Mort & Bea.
12 October Saturday Istanbul to Athens to Aghia Paraskevi This was one of those days that you look back on and laugh at but while you are struggling through it, you are sure it will finish you. First, we spent four hours trying to change money so that we could pay our hotel bill, finally ending up with a $9 lunch at the Hilton paid with a $100 traveler’s check, this after wandering all over town trying to change money. We then roamed the bazaar for the shirts we had chosen and ran to our hotel to settle up and leave. A taxi and bus and three hour wait at the airport and half the day was over.After the flight, the landing process was highlighted by the breaking of the buckles on both our suitcases, which Air France promised to repair. We then had only the worry of whether Jon Olin would be home. But first we had to find his home. A bus into Athens and a $3 taxi to Aghia Paraskevi, hunting and finally finding him. A warm reception and we ended our day at 2 a.m.
Incredibly, everything worked out reasonably and satisfactorily. Jon is out in the suburbs and so, of course, we are dependent on his availability, which gives us some foreboding, but we are now in Europe.
[Note: in Greece we stayed with Jon Olin and his daughter Meg. Jon had taught with Bea at Jordan Junior Hi in Burbank, but when divorced and given custody of Meg, went to Europe. In the summer of 1970, Bea had met them and Jon’s then girlfriend, Robbie, and joined them in Jon’s VW bus touring for a while through Spain and Italy. Jon and Meg were now living in this Athens suburb, teaching at the American Community School in Athens. Jon had generously offered to put us up while we were in Greece. MB 1 June 2002.]
13 October Sunday Through 14 October Monday AP to Athens to A
[I wrote the next entry while drunk and had to rewrite it coherently when sober. The following is a combination of the two versions.]
Today, we went to town and took care of business and then walked the Plaka to the Acropolis, finally seeing the Parthenon and other ruins there. Quite an experience. Despite all the ruins we have seen in the East— a subtle unexplainable difference, perhaps having to do with the civilization, art, architecture we have grown up with. After a few short hours there we returned to the Olins and went to a Greek restaurant for a feast on goat, potatoes, salad, yogurt, nuts and honey and lots of retsina.
We were a big, convivial group: Jon—and Dorothea (who warmed up a little with the infusion of wine); Stavros; Nora (she is English but without the famous reserve); Bruce &Marsha H. (he’s a teacher from Long Island); and Ron & Liz (also a teacher, from North Carolina). We all got along very well, or maybe it didn’t matter because we were all determined to enjoy ourselves. We ended at Stavros’ house Greek dancing and drinking brandy. It was the type of night we have missed on our trip— a happy night with friends, eating, drinking and talking. Greece promises to be great fun and we may never leave if the price is right.[I think it was this night that I first drove Olin’s VW bus. This had been our first real saturation into the joys of Retsina, the Greek specialty wine, which begins tasting like shellac and after a few glasses, makes you laugh, and be willing to drink some domestica, the local red wine, and of course some ouzo, and brandy.
As the party petered, Jon decided to sleep at Dorothea’s, so he asked if we felt brave enough to find our way back to his place in AP in the bus. With enough alcohol in my system I can be as courageous as a medal of honor winner, so I of course readily agreed. Jon, who was also plastered, made a crude map with directions for Bea, who was merely happy, very giggly.
The first problem was that the gears on the bus, which Jon fondly called "Big Red," wandered, making luck of the shifting process. Somehow, following Bea’s guidance as she read Jon’s map in the dark we made it back through streets which were totally unfamiliar, dark, with signs in Greek.
The next morning, brutally hung over, we looked at the map Jon had made. It was complete gibberish, totally indecipherable, by Bea and even by Olin when we confronted him with it. A miracle. MPB 13 June 2002]
15 October Tuesday Aghia Paraskevi
Both of us woke up with heads the size of small zeppelins and just as delicate. Gallons of wine and brandy take their toll. We spent the day relaxing and recharging, one we needed anyway.
I read about places we might go. There's Athens, the Main peninsula (Mt. Olympus up to Thessalonika and Macedonia), the Peloponnese (Mycenae, Thebes, Sparta, Corinth) and the Islands (the small ones and the popular ones, Mykonos, Rhodes, Crete). This weekend it looks like we will go with Jon through the Peloponnese to an island for 3 days. Then Wednesday we will rent a car (Stavros arranged a decent deal) and drive north for a week, roaming the mainland. Then we may go to an island and relax or the Peloponnese for a longer stay.
In the evening we made -- they made, we watched them make -- spaghetti dinner. I washed dishes for the first time since the trip began.
[A bit of an aside. On one of the first days of our trip, Bea, the experienced traveler, washed her delicates in the sink of our room. She urged me to do the same. I filled the sink with water, added some detergent and washed my black socks. After wringing and hanging them, I went to place my white socks in the same water. Bea was appalled at my ignorance. She grunted that she was going to have to do laundry for both of us during the entire trip. To placate—and tease—her I said that I would agree to wash all the dishes during the trip, knowing how she hated that chore, and also believing that there would be no dishes to wash, at least for many months. Some joke. At Bea’s insistence, I now washed all the dishes at the gatherings in Greece. MPB 10 June 2002]
16 October Wednesday Athens
We spent the day, at least the afternoon, wandering through Greek history as it appears in the National Museum. The "art" is so skillful and patient, and reveals such a clear and intricate knowledge of science and psychology that it is hard to imagine that the civilization did not continue forever, expanding its knowledge and deepening its skills until it reached an infinite utopia. The reasons why it fell short and stumbled seem to lie in the mundane realities of the world: competitive economies, the loss of wars to envious neighbors. Many have suggested more subtle reasons: a religion too superficial to provide spiritual strength, softness induced by wealthy indolence, subversion by dissenters. Many of these causes seem to me to be conjured by people wishfully trying to draw parallels to modern society.
Whatever the ancient Greeks were really like, they have captured us because they had a better public relations system. Eloquent historians, philosophers and elegant writers, great artists and architects have all existed in other cultures. But the Greeks were lucky to have had the Romans as conquerors. If it had to happen, it was well to have it done by "barbarians" who appreciated what they plundered, so much so that they adopted the Gods of the society they subdued, copied the sculpture, used the buildings. In fact they added to them in a style which was respectfully imitative. 17 October Thursday Athens
I spent a day alone, Bijou having gone with Jon to see his school, with some idea of inquiring what it might be like to teach abroad. I walked through the Plaka, along the winding streets, meeting churches and interesting buildings at every twist. I then spent a few hours in the eeriest place I have ever visited. I walked along the base of the Acropolis, the temples and theater of Dionysus, then up the hill to the Parthenon itself and its remarkable associate, the Erechthion, with its supporting cast of Maidens.
Looking at the ruins and seeing a drawing of what it looked like before its ruin was shocking. Sad and melancholy, finally understanding what it was all about, I went to the Aereopagus, the hill where the ancient trials were held.
Tonight we met Earl and Sue Ballard and Matt, all ACS teachers. Earl is a muscleman from Brooklyn, one of the few WASP’s. Sue is Jewish. Matt has a pegleg, and a story to go with it. We all got pleasantly bombed.
I spent the day writing, a good 3 hours. Then I asked Bijou to read what I had written. She did so and I asked for criticism. She is reluctant to do this because she senses my ego stake in it. What she doesn't realize is that while I crave approval, it's true, primarily at this stage, I need a sounding board. I know the defects but I cannot pin it down, my perspective is off, like trying to hang a picture straight. I don't need a pro, I need someone who compares to the average reader to say what is missing. I know it is hollow, it effects me, but the affect does not come across. I am being too subtle. Bijou is no pro, but she has intuition, judgment, taste, has read broadly, studied and taught literature, has a strong grasp of form.
We hassled while I tugged it out of her. There is still a tension between us that we have never worked out and it interfered for a while, but in the end, it helped.
Tonight we went to Dorothea's with the group. More drinking and socializing. Matt was right. You can't live with people and work— too many temptations. Bijou and I have yet to face the crisis. I see new directions, but it is scary.
19 October Saturday Athens
We went with Earl B. into Athens to a tiny upstairs office of Nick Demetrizas. Nick is a travel agent who does most of the trips for ACS teachers. He is a tall, thin Greek gentleman with a long hooked nose and a gray, thin mustache. I felt I was stepping into an Eric Ambler novel.
Nick promised to get student ID's for us. In return, we had him set up a trip to Cairo and our return to Athens, then a hop to Rome and Turin. They will be the most expensive student cards in history.
Earl and I then painted— with brushes — his '62 VW Bug, which he had bought for $100, then put $300 into. A great bargain. Those cars run forever once they establish their worthiness. We painted it red with 2 white racing stripes. From about 20 feet out she looks new. Closer, her brush lines are more noticeable and real close one can see dark ugly patches of darker red, globs of paint, and brush hairs.
We celebrated with a dinner of octopus, fries, fabulous shrimp and lots of retsina, which vastly improved the paint job.
20 October Sunday Athens to AeginaWe were almost alone on the ferry. Jon’s bus was the only vehicle on board. Aegina is one hour or so from Piraeus, thus a busy weekend spot for Athenian tourists. The sky was moody and the air cool without the hidden sun. We strolled along the thoroughfare lined with cafés, restaurants and souvenir shops facing a small marina. We ate some octopus and shrimp with ouzo and found a small hotel for Bea and I.
After a walk up winding streets, ogling the old white washed houses with their fascinating styles of shutters and eaves and clean lines, we drove out of the town and found a small taverna open. We had dinner and a couple of liters of retsina and were in a talkative mood. Dorothea warmed up considerably and we ended the evening giggling and joking while talking to one of the owners – feeling far superior to mere tourists.
21 October Monday Aegina
Back in the town, the wind had whipped up tremendously and the little sailboats and even larger ones were bobbing like corks. We discovered that no car ferry could cross in these heavy seas, so Jon and Dorothea and Meg took the people ferry back. Bea and I bought food and parked in the most sheltered spot we could find, ate, played scrabble by the light of the lamp post and snuggled to bed by 8 p.m. The wind whipped trees and whistled and rocked the bus, we made love to the rhythm, I slept like a babe.
22 October Tuesday Aegina to Athens
We awoke at 8, to find a line of trucks waiting for the ferry. It came on time and we were the last on – after the ride back – the first off. We made our way from Piraeus to Athens and crawled in the traffic making our way back by our simple (printed) map, unreadable street signs and looking at the Acropolis as a landmark (the Parthenon faces exactly East / West). Somehow we made it, bought some food and ate it, and spent the rest of the afternoon washing clothes and listening to the wind as it blew our clothes off the roof top wash line.
Jon & Dorothea finally arrived and we went out to yet another new taverna, the "Rocky Mountain Oyster Taverna". The Americans living here have not mastered Greek names, so streets and restaurants are known by their characteristics: "The Flukes Taverna" on Aegina is decorated by fish fins; "Pepsi Road" is a main drag which has a Pepsi billboard; "Democritus Road" I did not catch why. As Dorothea said, it is somewhat shameful they have not bothered to learn the language, living in Greece for two years and not learning more than a few phrases; all the Americans here denigrate the locals for their laziness, the silly bureaucratic regulations, their "un-American-ness." 23 October Wednesday Athens to Korinth to Mycenae to Napflion
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| lion gate Mikini |
After moaning over the high prices of the tourist shops we drove again, through green country to Mikini (Mycenae)and up to magnificent, darkly primitive ruins of the Mycenaean civilization that flourished 800 years before Athens’ height. The entire Argolis valley lay below. Then we continued on to Napflion and ended at a youth hostel which is new, modern, with fine facilities and empty. As is the town – more so because there is a football (soccer, of course) game which many locals watch in the tavernas around the town. Summertime the place swings, I’m sure, but now it is like a ghost town, eerily still.
Seems like throughout our trip we either hit big crowds or empty towns. Somewhere there must be a happy medium.
24 October Thursday Napflion to Epidavrus to Napflion to Tiryns to Argos to OlymbiaIt has been a perfect day, filled with wondrous surprises. First, we went to the theater of Epidavrus and picnicked in its stadium. We then visited ancient ruins at Tiryns, as old as the Mycenaean, marveling again at what they had accomplished. On to Argos, still more amazing ruins – Roman on top of Greek and a theater even bigger than the first one. From Argos it was a long upward climb through the Arcadian mountains with the fertile green farmland below. Finally a brief stop in Tripolis and then a tortuous, but breath-takingly beautiful three hour drive to Olymbia.
The images came fast and dazzling: sun over pine mountains, terraced farms on the mountainside, deep gorges between mountain ridges, all green and autumn orange and yellow. Villages set in steep slopes, its people seeming mountain goats. White washed houses with red tile roofs, churches, bridges, a herdsman, or boy or woman with sheep or goats, horses, mules, donkeys, dogs all rushing or sauntering alongside the road, chickens trying to get to the other side; the sun behind the mountains, the sky darkening blue, the mountains green becoming gray, a river in dusky outline. The road then black and winding, through one-road towns and finally to Olympia, where it was said man’s form was the most perfect and beautiful. 
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| Temple of Philip of Macedon |
25 October Friday Olympia to Patras to Arta
26 October Saturday Arta to Ionnanina to Metsovon
26 October: "A land of contrasts ...picturesque ... breathtaking ... verdant ... West meets East:" Travel brochure lingo with which we have been drenched. Clichés to be sure but so often accurate. The superlatives seem to be true and as we bend away from the latest mountain zig, leaving us only able to gush "beautiful ... incredible ...fantastic." Bea scarily terrified at my constant "Look at that" while I steer past the incredible, fantastic and beautiful scenery, the verdant mountain slope with the picturesque quaint village houses clinging at breathless angles above the ... verdant farmland ... etc. as our rented VW Bug ticks around the next zag.
As for the land of contrasts, how about this: as I am writing this we are in Metsovon, a picturesque town–of course—there aren’t any other kind in this travel land— 5000 feet up in the Pindus Mountains in Central Greece. The wind whips around the side of the mountain on which slope our room in a private house clings at a breathtaking angle and we can’t wear enough layers of clothing to keep warm—we have some sweaters and light coats and wear all of them and are still cold. Two days ago we sweated our way across the archeological ruins of the sun drenched Peloponnese.
On Friday we left Olympia and drove to Patras, then cross on the ferry to Arta, stopping only for food, gas and a misadventure over textiles in a small swampy coast town, Etolikan. Arta was up in the hills, reached by coursing more scenic, if not breathtaking (as was the road to Olympia truly b’t’) country. Another cold water shave and we hopped to Ionnanina, in the hills, but warm at midday, a bustling city, modern in a provincial way.
We toured a cavern at Perama, picnicked overlooking a lake and continued through mountains on a rocky, winding road, climbing steeply past verdant valley after picturesque village. Finally a last squirmy climb and we were here. In Metsovon where the ski season is one month away, where women wear Swiss or German costumes, men wear alpine gear; where Oriental Turkish and Venetian style architecture and Byzantine churches van be found—that’s right, East meets West— and where every hotel in town is full up, and where we lie huddled in a picturesque non-insulated room, our breath taken, incredible-ly cold, our noses a beautiful shade of red.
27 October Sunday Metsovon to Meteora to Trikkala to LamiaWe climbed the slippery rock steps to our car and drove through the village, stopping only to buy a piping hot fresh bread and salami. We carefully threaded through the streets filled with church goers. The road wound back through the mountain still rising snakily through the morning fog. The rain became sleet and coated the windshield of our heaterless car. We munched on the moist hot bread which Bea kept on her lap for its warmth.
In an hour the road twisted down into another valley and soon the rain eased, though the day continued gray and cold. The view maintained its beauty, though, the fall colors startlingly vivid, saturated under the gray light. We went on and by midday were crossing the plain to the Meteora Rocks. The monastery clings to the tops of the towering pillars arrogantly and independently.
On to Trikkala on a sleepy Sunday afternoon where we bought a long haired wool Flakati rug, which has yet to be made for us—trust and trepidation. Across a flat plain we headed south to Lamia. The town was jumping and we joined the strollers and watched a movie.
28 October Monday "Oxi Day" Lamia to Delfi
It is "Oxi Day" (x pronounced "ch" as in "la chaim"), a national Greek holiday, celebrating the 1825 war of independence against Turkey in which a Greek general when asked to give up said "Oxi, No." Sort of like the WWII American general, McAulifffe, who answered a German surrender demand during the Battle of the Bulge: "Nuts."
All during our trip, flags have been draped and signs of celebration appeared. This morning I awoke to sounds of band music from the square. When we got there it was jammed with people around the statue of a soldier. Officials, dignitaries and their wives, a priest and soldiers held a prayer and laid a wreath. A parade began.
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| Shepherd's stick with whistle |
Again, for the umpteenth time the road began to twist upward into mountains, lush green slopes. Finally we crossed into the town of Delfi. We found a room and walked to the museum, crowded with Oxi Day weekend tourists. Its gem, The Charioteer, impress
ed us as Olympia’s Hermes / Dionysus had not. We coursed the ruins of the treasuries and temples again marveling at the complex richness of what was. We asked the Oracle about our future and kissed to seal a promise of what will be.
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| Greek flokati |
We awoke to another dreary rainy morning, the type of chilled to the bone days we had better get used to this winter.
We returned to Athens and Jon’s house as if it were our own, anxious to wash ourselves and our clothes. I was also desirous of reading a newspaper. Though not reliant on my daily dose of news and sports, I do find I miss living without some news. Tonight Jon and I buried ourselves in the last few days’ Stars and Stripes for an hour.
Picking up political and sports news as rumors or as follow up news stories is somewhat disconcerting. You pick up a Tribune and an article headlined "Former President Nixon Recovering After Surgery" stares at you. This can be quite a shock if you hadn’t heard about his resignation or blood clot. On the sports page you see "Ali May Forestall Retirement To Defend His Championship." If I hadn’t been lucky enough to conquer the static for a few minutes and get Armed Forces Radio, that would have been indecipherable. It has been three months. But I guess some things do change.
Did they ever find Patty Hearst?
30 October Wednesday Through 6 November Wednesday Athens
30 October: There was a full moon tonight at exactly 2100 hours Athens time.
For the two weeks we have been in Greece I have carefully studied the phases of the moon, my heart quickening as it showed first a sliver, then a crescent, a quarter, a half, then gibbous. Last night watching it rise, almost full fledged and I knew tonight would be the night.
Today while chore-ing in Athens: returning the rental car, changing money— I dropped in at the National Tourist Office and confirmed what I knew: the full moon was tonight and so the Acropolis would be open to allow visitors the monthly pleasure, if cloudless, to trod the stones in the full moon light. So we gobbled 3 pizzas and drove downtown. We climbed the hill and arrived at 8 p.m., long after dark, the moon a perfect round silver plate above the sacred hill which the Gods aimed down so its light would bathe the white marble and cast long shadows of the Parthenon’s columns. As we reached the top, we found the entrance gate inexplicably closed. The others shot accusing glances toward me—it was my information relayed from the Ministry of Tourism relied upon.
Dumbfounded I merely pointed up to the moon, which seemed to be grinning mischievously. We scrambled toward the side entrance, still further up the hill. Its light was on, a guard inside. I heaved a sigh. But as we neared, we saw the gate was locked. Dorothea conversed in Greek and came away shaking her head. "He says the full moon is not until 9 p.m.."
We stared upward, disbelieving but resigned to wait an hour after this latest example of bureaucratic brilliance. When finally let in, it was worth it and quite indescribable.
Meg cavorted over the stones, cartwheeling in the moonlight in the long shadows of the Parthenon. I wonder whether she will remember this distinction later in her life.
31 October: American Community Schools Varsity basketball team blew a 15 point lead tonight and lost to a more experienced Air Force MP five. ACS built up an early lead to as much as 15 in the first half with torrid shooting. Toward the close of the period the AF men, who appeared to be no better than a pickup team of out of shape old men for much of the half, closed the gap to 10. But experience triumphed over youthful indecision as the ACS Lancers were unable to protect the lead, their shooting hand turned cold and their defense failed to keep AF’s 6'8" center from scoring underneath the rim. Refereeing were Bruce Johnson and Jon Olin who were barely adequate.
1 November: Our days have become periods of time to fill while waiting for the next night time get together for eating, drinking and partying. Each bout with plates, bottles and cigarettes leaves us exhaustedly spending the following day largely recuperating in Jon’s heatless terrazzo floored cold storage house.
We have had moments of daytime energy sufficient to accomplish some things: I have outlined 6 chapters of the Wayne Case account. If I could take a couple of weeks or a month to work steadily I could do or at least begin a rough draft. Bea has rebuked me saying this year is for traveling not writing. She is right of course. That was our bargain but it is a pity with my energy level so high at the moment and all the juices flowing.
Memory is an odd thing: it takes time for an event to attach the proper perspective in the mind so that it can be seen as a story, but after that time has passed, it begins to fade and melt in the mind among the other flotsam there. The time seems ripe, but this year is for experiencing. Maybe next year they will be ripe for recovery.
We have also managed to make several trips to Athens to take care of business: finalize plans for the Cairo trip: plane fares, etc., send home pots purchased, via Am Ex and others via Parcel Post. Bea bought boots to replace her worn out walking shoes.
On Sunday, we had a pancake breakfast and an outing on the beach at Marathon which replaced another expected weekend trip with Jon & Dorothea that fell through due to our having to rely on their energies to do things.
In the meantime, the evenings have been filled with frivolity. One night we formed a party at Stavros & Nora’s, meeting Nora’s brother Chris D.and his wife, Denise. Chris is in plastics in London, is in his mid-forties, as consciously English as his sister and with almost the same reckless sense of humor. We drove to an expensive restaurant in Athens and dined on several tasty "mezes", hors d’oeuvres and plenty of Retsina, listened to and joined a trio of Greek musicians who began sedately according to the boite’s prevailing atmosphere but soon awakened in response to our rowdiness. Chris passed out midway through the evening.
At our Sunday outing we repaired to Dorothea’s house for more of the same, popcorn and beer. For a while a slide show seemed to deaden us, but dancing later livened things. The flow of alcohol took its toll again however in the loss of Stavros’ dignity. That elegant continental gent again dropped the facade enough for a solo flight, Greek dancing with a certain heavy grace until his spinning sloshed the scotch within him and he ended up on the terrazzo floor on his ass.
Earl B was another victim—or perhaps his already shaky marriage. My tendency when in the company of Englishman is to take up the precise controlled way of speech and polite manners. It must sound awful: articulated high-falootin’ speech attempted with my lispy accent which is neither Brooklyn nor LA but a shoddy characterless mixture of both.
Earl has little of my self-consciousness. On conversing with Chris D. he launched into several gross jokes delivered in his Brooklyn flat accent and a Black Amos and Andy which he deems to be his specialty. Chris’ wife, Denise, who drinks little, seemed clearly put off by Earl’s raunchy humor and crude manner. By the end of the day Earl had consumed enough wine and beer to be numb for most of the ride back through the Sunday night traffic; but he awoke long enough to stumble into the back of the van, slide back the side door and piss into the passing countryside.
At that point his wife Sue, herself a straight talker, sort of a NY bitch princess, iced up. They quietly had it out on Dorothea’s living room flakati while waiting for the arrival of the rest of the party. They left early and the winner was clear last night again at D’s when we dined on snails and barley stew. Earl was quite subdued, forsaking even his precious beer and rock for red wine and classical crap which he dutifully spent the night taping for Sue.
Tomorrow we may or may not leave for Spetse or some other island for 2 or 4 days. It is now cold and always threatening rain and all the islands are bitter cold, colder even than Jon’s icebox apartment.
6 November: A few observations of the stand back and look variety. We find ourselves suffering again from the itch to be on our own, similar to what we felt in Tel-Aviv. It has been better with J&D, but the feeling is different here because the people are like us and enjoying a life we could enjoy being a part of, instead of unattached, floating visitors we are.
The quasi-comfort of the regularity of this life has lured us from the often uncertain and uncomfortable world of our wanderings, and we face the renewal of our journey with queasy laziness. The weather too has turned our mood cold gray and solemn as we face the prospect of a chill European winter ahead, rootless and heatless. Having spoken this and cleared the mind of it we now face more confidently our trips: to Idra, Poros, Cairo, Rome, Turin, Paris and beyond.
Incredibly, we were able to conjure the energy sufficient to pack and go to a Greek Island. This was no mean feat, considering that to do it we had to wait an hour at the cold bus stop waiting for a bus to Holandri to get the bus to Piraeus to get the boat to Idra. All this took 6+ hours to go the equivalent of about 100 miles, reminding us once more of the daunting hassles of public transport and making us dread our future travel to Cairo, back to Athens, then Rome and Turin, including trips to and from airports, hotels, etc., etc., all in the space of two days.
But all that is in the far off future, now as we begin to explore the town of Idra on the island of the same name (Hydra in English maps). It seems to repeat the picturesque Mediterranean architectural motif: white washed houses on narrow, steep cobblestone streets, and the island pattern of the small harbor clogged with fishing boats, kaikis, sailboats bobbing on the clear blue water of the quay. Around the U shaped harbor are the shops and stores on the harbor front street, the main street of the island town.
The shops are for the tourists who alight from the boats which arrive like tour buses, in intervals. The tell-tale Am Ex decals in the shop windows removing illusions of innocence. The tavernas have menus in English and this too lets you know that you are not blazing a trail.
All day the clouds have gathered and it begins to drizzle as we find our hotel room, A Class, up the hill, off the harbor. Getting dinner we felt like salmons, going downstream as the storm dumps its torrents on the hilly streets, and rivers flow to the sea over the cobblestones. We flow with it and find a cold, empty taverna to eat at and dry off, then brave our way back upstream to our warm beds.
8 November Friday Idra
The morning begins to clear up as we hunt up breakfast dockside, Greek omelet soaked in olive oil, and explore the world of the shops, and the more charming little world of the hillside homes on the island.
Later the rains drive us back to our room, which is just as well because it is cozy and we need the rest and closeness.
After eating a so-so dinner, we stumbled into a taverna that is unusual in that it has customers— in fact, non-Greeks, too. We learn that they are English and American residents, "writers" and "artists" and they keep to themselves, noses down to Greeks and tourists alike.
We are invited to a table by some Greeks to drink as is a Swedish temporary resident, a woman who complains of the snobbishness of the other non-Greeks who see her alone, night after night, yet ignore her. Only the Greeks are friendly to her. We talk and drink retsina and are invited to a birthday party of one of the Greeks the next night and are tempted to stay, but we have already committed to meeting Jon, Dorothea and Meg on Poros.
[That morning while having breakfast, we met a Greek guy who we later met again at the taverna that evening. This morning, he was having coffee, cigarette and newspaper. He told us that he ran one of the shops that lined the harbor side. There were a string of them, all now shuttered. Suddenly, we heard a distant ship’s horn. Our friend put out his cigarette announcing that he had to go to work. He strolled to his shop, unlocked and raised the shutter. Other shops also opened.
A huge day boat rounded the bend and curved into the harbor, horn blaring and speeding too fast it seemed toward us. Suddenly, it back watered and skidded to a perfect stop at its mooring place. A ramp was dropped. Dozens of tourists, mostly Japanese with cameras and very expensive travel dress descended and went into the shops in the harbor.
From the rear of the ship, wagons deposited boxes of cargo on the pier.
After an hour, the horn blared, the tourists ambled back on the ship, which backed out, and once out of the port, chugged to the next island.
Our friend put the shutters back on his shop and ordered another coffee and lit a cigarette. He explained that nothing in the shops was made on Idra; rather all the souvenirs and stuff came on the same ships the tourists travel on; the crates stacked now on the pier will replenish those he sold. Not a bad job, except for lugging the crates to the back of the shop; there were no cars on the island, just a couple of garbage trucks. MPB 13 June 2002.]
9 November Saturday Idra to Poros
Our plan to catch the 6:45 A.m. boat is short-lived. We awake at 11 after a rough night and meet a Seattle couple who have just arrived. We give them the lay of the land and run to meet our boat, and Big Red which comes across while we sit over a Domestica with a guy named Christopher who has come to Poros to meet partiers and take them to Idra.
We explore the island with J& D, and Meg, and have a feast at a wonderful little find after many false tries in our walk around the hilly streets.
10 November Sunday Poros to Athens
We drive up to a shepherd’s hut, giving the old man a ride in the VW Bus and hearing through Dorothea’s translation, his sad life story, then we follow him to find his lost sheep, hiking up into the rocky hills. Hiking is not for us (especially Bea who has been stumbling in her high heel boots—and we find ourselves annoyed again at having to cater to and rely on the whims and tastes of others for our good times. We do better when to reliant on our own devices.
We ferry to Galata, and without Bea who has wisely pooped out, we trek on a search for the birthplace of Theseus in Troizen. All we find is mud, a lovely waterfall, many rocky outcroppings, a woman and daughter and their sheep herd.
When the ferry arrives, we pile on. We all drive back to Aghia Paraskevi, but for Bea and I, our thoughts on the near future: the adventure of Cairo, the comfort of our own car and the uncertainty and excitement of what awaits in Paris.
We have come full circle, our experience here at the turning point and about to begin a new and perhaps hazardous series of travels.
11 November Monday Athens to CairoCairo! The Borensteins are in Fucking Cairo!
We just arrived to our hotel room from the airport having been nervous all day expecting to be discovered for the cheats and spies we may seem to be. Our forged student ID cards which provided our flights at lower rates (this trip is not covered by our Pan Am tix) caused no questions at Athens or Cairo Airport though we fully expected to be thrown in irons at any moment. There was no comparison of the ages on our passports with those on the student cards, and no one noticed the staple marks where our Israeli visas had been before we removed them.
Once off the plane and through customs we felt more than our now usual uneasiness at being in an "Asian" country (though we are actually in Africa, it feels like Asia). The extra feeling was provided by the difference between this trip and the travels to India, Nepal, Afghanistan, etc. This is Egypt and we are (I am almost afraid to write it) Jewish.
It gives me a little thrill mixed with my annoyance with the usual headaches: the shabby crowded streets, the dark and hustling people. Our hotel room brings back Kabul and New Delhi in its not-quite cleanliness, the muggy heat to which we have become unused and for which we are ill-dressed, having come from cool Autumnal Athens. It is a few stories above the main drag’s traffic and constant noise, making us nostalgic for Hong Kong and Nathan Road.
Yet with all the air of alien strangeness, the conductor on the bus we rode went out of his way to be friendly to us, offering his Egyptian cigarettes, and leading us out at what he thought was the right stop, proving once more that there is, within every nation, a smaller nation of human beings, who show themselves when a fellow member of the race needs help. These strange people are everywhere, a humane underground which we feel a part of, at times.
[Excerpt from letter written on 14 November to Ron & Laura on the folded panels of a large street map of Cairo]:
...Our first view of Cairo—the airport, the public bus ride and our hotel–was a shock. After our Asian and mid-East jaunt, we had spent a month in Greece and become accustomed to the European civility, helped by the company of our friends; and the familiarity and friendliness of the surroundings, the "good life" of good food and wine, partying and picnicking, the relaxation of staying put for a while.
We had forgotten the hectic pace, the heat, the smells, the seediness, the hustling of non-Europe.
It struck us like a shock wave. Porters tried to grab our bags, guides tried to hustle tours, the old whisper: "change money" from the black marketeers, the dark grimy faces, dirty Arab robes, the ramshackle bus with people clinging to the sides, the smelly streets filled with smoky jalopies, donkey carts and dung, half-paved, decaying.
We quick-walked to the hotel through the same gamut of staring men (leering? Hostile? Curious?). ... As we caught our breath, we verbalized our thoughts.... We were back in it again. We would have tore-adjust to it, remembering what we had learned: carry your own bags, don’t take the old worn bills, count your change carefully, don’t drink or even brush teeth in the water, slow down your pace in the heat, get good directions—written in Arabic for the taxi driver—make sure he uses the meter, learn Arab numerals and money.
It all came back. The hassles would be fewer because of our experience—or at least, prepared, we could be patient and cope with them and enjoy more. This was Cairo. Egypt.
...We hopped a cab to the bazaar (again uncertainly as the driver jabbered to us in Arabic and we answered "Khan-el-khalil" the name of the bazaar which we had been given. Never knowing exactly what he was talking about, we got there and wandered endlessly the stalls and shops, dodging the hawkers, hustlers, donkey carts, dung, etc. etc...
12 November Tuesday Cairo
We stayed up late last night chatting with an Aussie couple and American guy. Today we spent money like we wanted to get rid of the filthy stuff. The Egypt Museum was the usual hodge podge of thousands of ancient treasures numbing your senses with their beauty, skill or merely the age. The loot from Tutankhamun’s tomb was one of the wonders of our trip (along with the Nara Buddha, gold Buddha, the Taj Mahal, all of old Jerusalem, Topkapi, the Acropolis, and Delphi).
We joined Barry and Chris, our Aussie friends for Chinese dinner. They went to Giza today and we will go tomorrow.
[Another excerpt from the letter of 14 November]:
...The Egypt Museum was filled with the solemn statuary of the past and loot from Tut’s tomb and mummified remains —skin remarkably well preserved—of Pharaohs and monkeys. Though we are somewhat jaded with museums and the "wonders of the world" (Bea remarks in her hyperbolic style: "All we ever see are tombs, religious buildings and museums filled with things taken from tombs and religious buildings") we can still marvel at the things Man can do...
13 November Wednesday Cairo to Luxor[I could barely decipher my handwritten words in the next passage for reasons which I explained in the text MB 12 June 2002.] If the following entry seems like it was written (a) while in a drunken stupor or (b) by a 5 year old after 1 penmanship lesson or (c) by a palsy victim with the pen between his toes, Guess again.
I am writing, or doing my best to on a moving train between Cairo and Luxor. It has been moving, sometimes forward but just as much, it seems, from side to side. Plaques state the coaches were made in Hungary. Maybe that explains a bit. When the train begins again it will continue its 12 hour trip. It is a night train and we are in a compartment called a sleeper, though my guess is that it will be a "rocker" a "shaker" and anything but a car in which I can sleep.
This will cap a day highlighted by running into Marv Benson, an ex-public defender in the travel agent’s office!! He has been traveling through Europe for 10 months and seems to be very lonely—to the point that he was at first unable to speak very much. But before long, he was talking so much we couldn’t get a word in. We told him our favorite tales: of India, Israel, Thailand, etc. by way of warning about the way he is headed.
We arranged to meet in Luxor and see some sights together, though by the apparent incompetence of the gal in the agency, it is far less likely to meet him by appointment than the odds of meeting a former co-corker from LA by chance in a Cairo travel agency.
Oh, yes, I almost forgot ... we also saw the Pyramids at Giza, went into the tomb of one of them ... rode camels to the Sphinx. 14 November Thursday Luxor
14 November LuxorDear Ron and Laura,
I give you warning that this letter is likely to ramble quite a bit, tending to sound dreamy and disconnected. The explanation is that my mind right now is exactly that way. It is now 7:30 a.m. and we are in our comfortable, though pleasantly seedy hotel room in Luxor, the site of ancient Thebes which is in Upper Egypt—which is really South of Cairo and ancient Memphis, the sites of Lower Egypt. I told you this would be disconnected and about as rational as anything else here.
...I am obtaining an education I never received: in art, architecture, history, religion, politics, philosophy.
We have stood in the place where The Buddha stood; walked the path Christ walked to the Cross; touched the rock upon which Abraham is said to have been ordered by God to sacrifice Isaac and from which Mohamed is said to have risen to heaven.
I’ve stood on the hill where Orestes was tried and acquitted for matricide and Socrates drank his hemlock and where St. Paul preached his first sermon to the Athenians.
I’ve stood on the stage of the theater where the Greek tragedies were first performed. I have hiked in the hills to seek the birthplace of Theseus.
I’ve run the track in the stadium at Olympia and driven through the Pass of Thermopylae and the crossroads where Oedipus gouged his eyes out in despair.
I’ve sought guidance from the Oracle in Delphi.
I‘ve seen the hair of Mohamed, the skull of John the Baptist, touched the "tomb" of Christ. Somehow, doing all that gives me an thrill of vicarious participation in the times and, if not a grasp at least a "feel" for what they must have been like.
In the Egypt Museum we viewed the mummies of Rameses and other pharaohs, their gaunt blackened skin and dusty hair still on their skulls., puny and human, telling more truth than the giant monuments they dedicated to their glory, the pyramids and colossal statues, pretending to be Godly. Yet standing under the pyramids or riding past them as we did on swaying camels, I could sense some of the awe of the achievements people over the ages and even now have felt.
One can be cynical about many of the ancient monuments and much of its art from a modern perspective. Almost all the "wonders" were built by slaves, ordered by the few incredibly wealthy while the many suffered unrecorded deprivation. The Art was created mostly to promote belief and worship of deities and rulers and therefore to encourage the superstition and subjugation of the masses.
One can also be callous to the structures themselves: next to New York’s skyscrapers, the pyramids are mere bungalows. The Temples of to Apollo, or Amun-Ra, the sun-gods of Greek and Egyptian seem silly next to our conquest of the moon.
I have heard other tourists speaking in very blasé terms while looking at the Taj Mahal or Parthenon. I have expressed the cynicism myself in my moments of reflective depression.
You cannot avoid feeling the ironic paradox of the remnants of glorious civilizations amidst the squalor of the present; or viewing the striving for perfection and rationality of the Ancient Greeks while also experiencing the crudeness of contemporary people.
But there is more. Ancient Egypt was one of the earliest attempts to grope for something civilized. Not long before in Man’s history was the stone age—prehistoric Man little more than animal. But something stirred his mind, his imagination, daring that he could try to solve the riddles of the universe.
Reading all that over, I see that I have expressed it very poorly; it sounds like a lot of pretentious drivel, full of hackneyed phrases and muddled ideas. But it is some distance from my first words uttered when seeing these things: "fantastic" "incredible" or merely "wow."
Maybe some day I will be able to communicate more interestingly. I am still too close to the experience to express it any other way and my emotions stand in the way of my ideas. I am sure that my "insights" are far from unique—my intellect inadequate to say something new or "important." All I can say is that it has been a revelation to me and I suppose nothing is known unless you know it yourself.
Of course—and again I doubt that this is an original thought—even if I was totally ignorant of all of history, I would still be its product and participant in its continuum. All the experiences have given me is the awareness of that fact and some tiny inkling of my place in it.
That is only one level my thoughts on this trip. There are two others. There are observations of the ways of life in other places and there is the personal search for my own.
It has been hard to learn how people live in Japan or India or Turkey during our brief visits, as tourists, not speaking the languages, or knowing anybody who lives there. My views must be from scanning the surface, developing an intuition from endless walks on the streets of the cities, talks with merchants and others we contact, riding the ferries, boats, buses, eating in the restaurants, going to the movies.
Other places we have gotten to know better: talking to and living with people who reside there, staying a longer time, seeing more than just the centers of big cities. I feel I got to know Israel and Israelis pretty well—enough to form some judgments—enough to want to come to see Egypt. Today, at the temples of Karnak, we saw a huge wall filled with bas-relief depictions of (what most scholars believe is) the destruction of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem and the submission of the Hebrews—the beginning of my heritage?
After a month in Greece, viewing its physical beauty and variety of life styles, from Athens’ city bustle to Metsovon’s peaceful pace to Idra’s careless community of artists, I have come to imagine what it might be like to live there.
But we have a lot more to see and we have only tickled Europe.
I’ve thought a lot about "work."
I find myself reliving my jury trials and thinking about what I would be doing if I had stayed—I have fits of energy that urge me to write; and some things we see and random thoughts they inspire bring to mind kernels of ideas for stories.
But in reality I don’t know if I can write any better than I can form my ideas in this letter, with any discipline, with coherence, and I even wonder if I would enjoy it, and of course, whether I could possibly succeed. I am aware that my "urges" may be a form of escape from the anxieties of the present. I have that tendency to move on to an easier path when faced with difficulties.
There is another—maybe the most important— aspect to this trip: the wondrous development of my relationship with Bea. Together every moment of every day, coping with one another and the outside world, arguing, looking at things from our individual viewpoints, we have grown together in subtle ways, learned some patience, better consideration of one another.
Despite some trying times of ill temper and occasional sniping that break out into full scale war, we have decided—at least at this point—that we do love each enough, that is completely—and more amazingly, we like and respect each other.
But, as I say, we have eight grueling months to go. ... Love, Mort &Bea.
15 November Friday Luxor to Cairo
15 November: Guess what—we are back on the "sleeper" train again. We have just spent 2 fabulous days in ancient Thebes. After our sleepless sojourn we arrived at 6 A.m. and were met, amazingly, by the agency agent with a donkey cart at the station. We rode under the chilly red-skied dawning skies through the streets of Luxor to our hotel., breakfasted, Bea napped and I wrote a long letter on the back of our Cairo map.
At 10 our tour man came and we went to the temples of Karnak on another horse cart, the streets now blazing with the dry sun. The ruins of the monuments, statues, enormous columns, dramatic bas relief carvings in the red stone, and the hieroglyphic inscriptions marking the centuries of the age of Pharaohs held our interest because of its variety and uniqueness. Luxor Temple was across the street from our hotel. Another monument to the glory of the Pharaohs, the temple not the hotel.
The next morning we were up early for our tour of the west bank site: the Necropolis—the city of the dead; Tut’s tomb and those of others; Rameseum, Temple of Hatshepsut, Colossi of Memnon. The four hours revealed a world of a couple thousand years BC.
16 November Saturday Cairo
I have just read the above 1½ pages about the trip to Luxor and I apologize. They were written on the train returning to Cairo and are a sad jumble of incoherent sentences. They fail completely to give any true impression of the magnificence of what we saw, or the impact they made upon us. Space is now too limited to do a proper job. That will have to wait for a time when it can be put into perspective.
The trip to Cairo, our second jolting night ride in three, after the hectic tours to the east and west bank sites, and the little sleep I could get at the Luxor Hotel, left us both in a stupor. We had been on the move for a week since leaving for Idra and were just about edging toward exhaustion. So we spent this day sleeping in our Cairo hotel rather than going to Memphis and Saqqara to see the step pyramids. I regret missing the trip to those sites, which date back to the earliest Egyptian civilization and therefore close to one of the oldest.
But this day was sorely needed for the energy that will be necessary in the next few days. A week ago, we were climbing a hill in Poros. Yesterday we were descending into a Pharaoh’s tomb in the side of a mountain. A week from today we will be in Paris! It gives me a thrill I did not expect to feel at this point after 3½ months of travel; but I am greatly excited by the prospect of the next few days’ travel, the entry into the next stage of our trip.
Bea and I agree that Egypt has been a high point for many reasons. But we are glad to be going, both for what we are leaving and what we go toward.
17 November Sunday Cairo to Athens
I went to bed last night with yet another burgeoning cold and awoke sniffling to the alarm at 5A.m. for our usual early flight. We dressed groggily and walked down to the pre-dawn city. The streets were empty except for some robed figures picking up paper scraps in a corner. An Arab child, on seeing us, ran across and nagged for "backsheesh." Annoyed and somewhat alarmed, I shooed her and we scurried to the light of the traffic circle a block away.
Some soldiers flagged a taxi down and we got in after he agreed to use his meter. Once out of sight of the soldiers, on a dark street, the driver insisted that we pay a flat rate of 2 £. We refused and we were thrown out on our asses.
After another hike to some light and more soldiers, 3 more taxis and a 1 £. bargain, we were finally on our way, though never sure if on the way to the airport or slavery until we at last arrived.
By afternoon we were at Jon Olin’s. We spent the rest of the day washing and drinking tea, preparing for the next steps and packing our now bulging bags. We had one last dinner with Jon & Dorothea and finally got to bed after midnight so that we could wake up at 5 again for yet another, hopefully the last, dawn flight—this time to Roma.
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