Tuesday, April 26, 2001

M: Do you actually have a picture of the shower on the site—so people can really appreciate Monkey Style?
M: I'll take one now.

Mark goes so far as to demonstrate a few MS moves, thankfully clothed.

As per Erin's prediction, I go on that evening to score the ninth of eleven stellar Greek salads I'm to get out of Greece. On the way, we also take a farewell shot of us and Santorini. But, soon after, the winds rise up! It's been windy on the side of this cliff, but now cats and small children are being seen again only on Naxos. Of much more concern to us is that the ferry schedules are all buggered due to wind warnings. In theory, we can get a 1pm off of this rock tomorrow, which will connect us in Paros with a boat to Samos (gateway to Turkey). In reality, the 1pm gets cancelled—and the 3:30pm only gets out of the old port of Athinios by the grace of the Gods!

After a breakfast of crepes, we muscle our way onto a ramshackle bus headed down the cliff to the port. This involves approximately 25 hairpin turns on sheer cliffs, exactly none of which it initially appears that the driver is going to successfully execute; conversation onboard drops to zero with each tack. Amazingly, we reach sea-level alive—but only to find the winds, and seas, going mad, kicking waves and spray all over the platform. Yikes!

The Hellas ferry shudders into view, tossed on the seas, and begins the maneuver of lowering its gangplank and showing its ass to the dock. The pilot miscalculates, is blown off to the side, and has to make another pass! Meanwhile, throngs of would-be Santorini refugees huddle out of the spray, awaiting their chance to dash on board. The ferry comes in again, this time making contact, and ejecting its torso-thick docking ropes to the waiting, and wind-whipped, dock crew.

Disembarking passengers stream off the boat like half-drowned rats! In their midst, cars attempt to drive down the platform—as it shifts from side to side, with a horrendous scraping noise, across the concrete pier! Adding to the cacophony are the whistles of the Port Police—and the bellowing of the refugees, as we begin our sprint onboard. All is madness! We get into the spirit, running through the spray and bellowing lines like, "Marines! We are leaving!" and "Get to the LZ! Never mind the mortar fire!" and "We're not leaving anyone behind!" We gain the heaving ship, all agreeing that this sequence is worth the fare alone.

Matt and I bid a fond farewell and adieu to Mark as the ferry hits Paros (the central ferry hub of the Cyclades). Mark will continue on to Athens, to catch a puddle jumper to Rome, and his flight home. Matt and I will continue island-hopping our way to Turkey.

A very nice lady at a port-side travel agency both sells us our tickets off Paros, and calls for a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Matt and I drop our stuff, get a few beers and a nice meal nearby (Greek salad #10!), and crash. Morning, and we set out leisurely toward the center of this desert isle. I presciently note, "This could actually be quite a relaxing day. We'll be spending a pleasing amount of time with absolutely nothing in particular to do." And Paros proved just the island for it.

The water, which we walk beside, is blue, blue, blue. I walk atop the stone seawall, jumping the gaps, Matt alongside.

M: I just had no idea the Greek Islands were this sleepy.
M: Well, probably much less so in August—when all the writers of the guidebooks are here.
M: True, true. Man, it's sure nice to be in the exact opposite of a hurry.

That is to say, our ferry out doesn't leave until 10pm. We also pass three different net cafes—and I feel exactly zero desire to check my mail. Now that's relaxed. Wandering the streets of the old market, I go so far as to buy a couple of gifts—small ceramics painted with Greek Gods, done by a local guy who's been here doing just this for thirty years.

After, Matt suggests that we get drinks and sit by the water—and I get it into my head that we need frozen drinks. With God smiling on us benevolently, we immediately stumble on Captain Norton's—surely the frozen drink capital of the Greek Islands! The proprietor serves us Banana Coladas, Blue Oceans, and something unspeakably great called the Captain Norton Special, all garnished with enough banana, kiwi, and strawberry to flounder on (and also a Greek flag).

We wander back toward hotel alongside boats in dock. Matt takes siesta, while I doff the magic pants and head out for the only true beach experience of the trip. The only other lounger on the sands is a very nice Kiwi, who is travelling to many of our destinations, working around the globe in accounting, and thinking of moving to London. We bake ourselves and chat while the sun makes a nosedive at the water.

I can't really say that Paros is the perfect Greek Island—merely that it's been the perfect spot for our layover. Tonight: the penultimate Greek salad, and a late ferry to Samos.

Cheers,
Michael