Greece, July 2003

(here and below, click on photos for larger view)

Minneapolis, July 3-7 (Thurs-Mon)

Rita and I drive to Minneapolis in the evening. It is the night before the Convergence Con (the annual Science Fiction convention, held for the fifth consecutive year). We check into the Radisson just before midnight, call Colonel Dave, and settle in for the night.
Three days of convention commence, working the dealers room with Colonel Dave and Beauty. This is a story in itself, and better told by the good Colonel.
Sunday evening the Con is over and Rita and I meet with my Mother for dinner. We partake at Famous Daves and all leave the place with toothpicks in our mouths.

Critic's Aside

Maybe the most impressive thing we see on this trip is the magic of "downtown" Maple Grove which has sprouted out of farmers fields looking like it was assembled from a kit. The funny thing is they've decided to construct a pre-fabricated town, and they've decided to design it in a "turn of the century" motif with old-timey store fronts and gaslight replica street lights.
It is strange enough to see Brooklyn Park "sprawl" all the way to Osseo. But it is really weird to see Maple Grove manufacture an old-timey downtown out of paper and paste.
End Aside

Monday Rita and I check out of the Radisson, arranging to leave the car in their parking lot (for free), and take a (free) shuttle from there, through the Mall of America, and on to the airport. The baggage check-in guy wants Rita to shift five pounds from her luggage to mine, but I mention we're on an International flight, and that makes the problem go away. Then we go across the skyway to pass through security. At the last minute, I have the presence of mind to take my little itty-bitty pen-knife out of my pocket and put it into my shaving kit so it passes through the machinery without causing comment or confiscation.
The flight is full, and we end up sitting with a guy who traded his seat with a couple, wife American, husband from Zud Afrika. I manage to sleep through most of the flight, but Rita simply cannot sleep on planes (or trains, or automobiles).

Amsterdam, July 8 (Tuesday)

Rita and I land in Amsterdam. We're pros at this now, having done it once before. We get a locker (I transfer my little itty-bitty pen knife back to my pocket), change some money (there's 10 minutes of confusion as my $100 bill has an asterisk in its serial number, which turns out to be okay, after calling the Dutch national bank to check), and take the train into town: the Central Station, with the weather vane that looks like a clock. Then we go across to the *I* station to get a cup of coffee and some information. After a long wait in line, I manage to procure a "ticket strip" to use the tram, and tickets to visit the Van Gogh Museum.

Amsterdam, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Right outside the Central Station, we seek the Van Gogh Musuem. Rita, in blue, leans on a sign.
Rita steps out of an Amsterdam tram, very near the Van Gogh Museum. She doesn't look happy, but she is.
Rita at the sidewalk cafe near the tram stop.
Looking down the street from the sidewalk cafe as a fleet of bike riders pedal past.

The tram takes us to the right intersection, we get out, and fail to see the Museum behind us. We walk a few blocks to a tavern where Rita uses the lady's room and I get directions and watch a little bit of the Tour de France on television.
The very nice tavern people direct us back down the same street to the museum, which we visit for an hour. Van Gogh, wall to wall, plus Gaugin, Whistler, Munch, a big Rodin bronze, Monet, and a bunch of other art, some inspiration to Van Gogh, and others inspired by him (like Picasso).
We stop and have a short Heinekken and then make our way back on the tram, then the train, and into the airport, where we need to go through the rigamarole of security within security in the airport. This is where my itty-bitty little pen-knife gets confiscated -- as we go from one concourse to another to fetch our stuff from the lockers. We go to the gate and board the flight to Athens.

Art Critic Aside

Lazy. That's my summary of Van Gogh. I'm sure there are better informed viewpoints, but to me his work looks lazy, slapdash, and first draft. I was particularly struck by one painting, a portrait of an older woman. Her hands looked like a six year old had drawn them, and then moved on without the least attempt to fix the mess. I, with all my vast art appreciation and critical experience, and a raging case of Yale disease in full swing, I say oy-vay to Van Gogh.

Athens, July 8 (Tuesday)

I sleep through a good deal of this flight too (again, Rita does not), and we arrive in Athens without incident. There's a bit of confusion about which carousel to get the bags, and a little bit of consternation about going through customs (the signs make it look like the bags need to be checked), and we're now running on about nineteen hours of travel, including the stop-over in Amsterdam. But it turns out you simply push your bags through to the outside, and nobody looks at you.
We stand in line for a cab, and before long find ourselves at the Holiday Inn. The cab driver is hostile for a bit, but by the time we reach the hotel he is giving us life stories and a ten drachma piece (which are no longer in circulation, with the advent of the Euro). Later we learn the Euro is trading at about 300:1 drachmas for Euros, meaning we have been gifted with about 4 cents worth of obsolete Greek currency. But who knows? It's out of circulation now, and might be worth something, someday.
We get into the room by about 2 AM Athens time. I set the alarm to get up in the morning, eat the (free) breakfast, and take the 20 minute cab ride I believe will be enough to get me to the conference before the 9 AM welcoming speeches. We're here, it's good.

Athens, Hotel and Conference, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Athens from the top of our hotel, Brian blocking the view.
Same shot, better view.
The venue for the IEEE International Conference on Advanced Learning Technology (an hour from central Athens)
Guy Hokanson in front of the conference venue.

Athens, July 9-11 (Wednesday-Friday)

The IEEE International Conference on Advanced Learning Technology (ICALT-03) is a very mixed bag of opportunities and disappointments. The venue is egregious, with a nice auditorium, but with three parallel sessions, a cramped meeting room A (room B is okay), and 260 people attending with space for about 100 to sit and eat at lunch, with days that run too long (the conference dinner is scheduled 8-11 PM), and it's located in the fens, taking nearly two hours to get there using Metro and bus -- as I find out when my twenty minute cab ride turns into nearly an hour.
All this, as I say in my anonymous conference evaluation, might explain why virtually nobody showed up for the third day.
Some of the full papers, many of the short papers, and almost all of the posters, are simply silly and useless.
I am faithful in attending the conference, and Rita is either catching up on sleep or exploring the neighborhood near the hotel. This goes on for three days.
Guy Hokanson, also from NDSU, is attending the conference too. We split up to attend most of the talks. I'm actively looking forward to grant collaboration and we have an eye out for possible connections that do interesting work that will complement ours.
On the third day I decide to sleep in through the morning panel discussion on setting standards for learning objects (yawn!), and venture to the conference using Metro and bus (the first two days I took a cab out and the Metro/bus back). I'm in no hurry this morning, though.

Athens, the Olympic Village, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

The giant billboard in central Athens declared the countdown to the Olympics. We were there for days 401, 400, and 399.
They have the start of a pavilion and a few tower scaffolds built.
They are apparently building a new train platform too.
These look like offices or athlete dwellings. It will be a miracle if they get it done on time.

Getting to the conference venue means switching trains twice, going almost to the end of the line (past the site of the future Olympic stadium), then a (free) bus that winds around through dusty neighborhoods for twenty minutes. I have gotten off the Metro, and stand waiting for the bus, when it pulls up. There are no bus-sized parking spaces (they are all filled with buses at the moment), so the driver lets everyone off in the middle of the street. I move forward to get on, but he waves me off, and pulls forward to jaw at another bus driver about moving out of his spot. Buses shift, and my guy starts backing into a space directly in front of me. I see his trajectory is going to take him right through my chest if he slips up, so I turn to walk a few paces to my left and out of his way.
There, as I turn, about 12 inches to my left, is a familiar Greek man.
"Nikitas?" I say.
He looks at my face, and looks at my conference name tag, and then back at my face.
"Northwestern University," I add helpfully, "ILS."
It is Nikitas Sigouras, a former graduate student at Northwestern University when I was there, who finished his degree and moved back home in 1993. He was a student of Ken Forbus back then, and I did not know him well. He left ILS and dropped out of sight. Nobody that I know has heard from him in ten years.
We ride the bus together and catch up a bit.
That afternoon, as the conference is coming to its conclusion, I invite Guy to join Rita and me for dinner. Aside from the conference I have hardly set foot from the hotel. The Holiday Inn staff direct us to a traditional Greek restaurant just down the street. It is only 6:30 by this time, early for dinner by Greek standards, and the place is nearly empty.
We try some Mythos beer, which is very fine but a little too sweet for my taste. The table is set with a linen tablecloth and I notice every setting has two glasses, two knives, two forks, and no spoons. I order lamb chops, which come with french fries -- they are greasy, gristly, and delicious. Rita has penne pasta with salmon (which we realize is about two inches away from that Midwestern staple: tuna noodle casserole). Guy wins the "most interesting looking dish" with linguini with seafood which features a pile of pasta, a few gigantic shrimp (4-5 inches long, all body parts still attached), and a few clams on the half-shell tucked around the edges. I'm the only one who cleans his plate.
The next day is Saturday. Guy is planning to visit the Acropolis at some point, as are we -- but we're on vacation, and make no plans together. On Sunday Guy is picking up a rented motorcycle and heading north. Rita and I have no definite plans for Sunday, but Monday we're checking out of the hotel, and we plan to visit a travel agent on Saturday to make some sort of plan.

Athens, the Parthenon, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

It's a hike up the Akropolis but you finally turn the corner and see the Parthenon through the scaffolding.
Action sequence: Brian with the Parthenon behind him.
Action sequence: Rita with the Parthenon behind her.
Action sequence: BOTH Brian and Rita with the Parthenon behind them.

Athens, July 12 (Saturday)

We set the alarm for 8:30, get up and go to the Parthenon on the Akropolis. This entails a short walk up the hill to the Metro station, riding two stops, transferring trains, and riding two more stops. We come out of the underground and step into the oldest section of Athens, which is a cross-hatch of narrow streets filled with little shops. Rita buys a big bag of pistachios from a little man with an open cart. He scoops nuts into a bag. We foray briefly into the market area, but don't buy anything, and then turn back and start marching up the hill towards the ancient temple. As we approach the top, new steps give way to old paving stone. These are worn smooth to the point of slippery. I fall to a knee at one point as I lose my footing.
As we pause on the way up, Guy Hokanson finds us on the way down. It's like they say, Greece really is a small country. We chat for a bit and head our different ways.

Athens, from the Akropolis, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Athens from the Akropolis.
The Roman amphitheatre from the Akropolis.
Athens from the Akropolis.
Athens from the Akropolis.

It's a remarkable site. There are columns standing and laying to the side. There is an amphitheatre down below. The temple itself is roped off, and there are staff members there to make sure nobody crosses the barriers. Here and there we see scaffolding, as they apparently have a perpetual restoration project underway. We see sections of wall on one of the side temples that are nearly half concrete, as they have replaced or augmented the deeply pitted old stone with smooth filler.
There is a museum on the site -- three or four big rooms with statuary. Many are women with an arm missing and a broken-off nose. Some are animals and monsters taken from the temple (a snake with three human heads is particulary striking). A few, like the snake, still have paint on them. None, not a single one, is complete and unbroken. They are all damaged in some, usually major, way.

Athens, on the Akropolis, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Behold! Brian has discovered the Parthenon, lost for all these centuries.
Rita likes to take pictures where flags are growing out of Brian's head.
Rita was very concerned about this picture (somebody reached over and put their thumb in front of the lens just as I was pressing the shutter).
But Rita doesn't fully understand the miracle of digital photo post-processing. Behold!

We work our way back down the hill and again enter the market area. It is pretty crowded and we walk slowly past the t-shirt vendors and trinket sellers. We stop to look at worry beads and the merchant invites us inside to see his full collection: bone, stone, glass, plastic. Rita stops to look at fabric, and I try to explain the concept of "road pegs" to a guy in front of a motorcycle parts shop.

Athens, off the Akropolis, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

We make our way down the hill towards the flea market.
It's a long hot climb.
But they have giant donuts there, to die for.
This is Color Indio, perhaps the most bizarre thing we find in all Athens. A Native American flute and drum band pounding it out in the summer heat.

We descend to the Metro, and I make two mistakes. First, I ask for a ticket to Omonia when I should have said Syntagma, and I fail to get the tickets validated by the little machine (this is the fourth day I've used the Metro, and I have not seen ANYONE use the little validation machines -- in fact, I'm not sure what they're for). The train is coming to a halt when a ticket inspector comes through. I happily show him my ticket, and after a short conversation on the platform (we are holding "train" tickets and not Metro tickets, is part of the problem), I less happily turn over a 56 Euro "penalty". I'm pretty sure HE was HAPPY to make his quota on an American. We paid quietly. Then they took us up to explain the validation machines, which to my surprise are being heavily used as the uniformed guards looked on. Again, this is the first time I've seen these used in the four days I've been here.
These guys are going to make a fortune off foreigners during the Olympics next year.
The reason we're at Syntagma is to visit the Passepourt Travel Agency recommended by the Holiday Inn. It's located on Niki Street, which is lined with agency after agency. We are approached on the street by multiple people, shilling for various agencies. I flash the Holiday Inn business card with the address on the back, and their faces fall, one by one.
We end up at a table dealing with a cross between Tony Curtis and Rod Stewart who works VERY hard at selling us on a trip to Mekanos. This is the most famous Greek island, famous enough that I've actually heard of it. It's reputation is for party central and the gay capital of Greece. Rita pulls out our Lonely Planet guide, and we find a passage in the snorkeling section that steers us towards Pharos instead. In the end, we get a package of taxi to the "fast" ferry, boat tickets to Pharos, taxi from the ferry to a hotel, two nights lodging (private bath and air conditioning, is the claim), taxi back to the ferry, and "slow" ferry back to Athens -- all for 190 Euros apiece. It seems reasonable to me, and we buy in.
After that we make our way to the hotel and order room service. We're exhausted.

On the way to Sounion, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

We take the coastal bus.
Past many beaches.
With boats and such.
Until we see the Temple of Posiedon in the distance.

Sounion, July 13 (Sunday)

We sleep in and then go to Sounion (pronounced soon-yo or soon-yose, depending on who you talk to), to see the Temple of Poseidon, on the tip of the country. This entails finding the bus stop, near Victoria Station, and then, after a bit of confusion, figuring out which bus to take. This turns out to be a spectacular two-and-a-half hour drive along the coast road. We pass through a number of small towns (Glyfada, Voula, Varkiza, scene of a huge traffic jam), and innumerable little beaches with people planted on them.
At the very end of the line we find the Temple of Poseidon, high on a point of land. The guidebook quotes Byron, who wrote about the place, and notes that the bard has carved his name on the ruins. We ask a security guard, and she instantly knows what we mean. There is a spot on a pillar that has been buffed up "by an archaeologist" to highlight the spot. We cannot climb on the ruins to get a close look, and it's pretty difficult to make out from where we are, but Rita suggests looking through her binoculars, and the name just jumps off the stone: Byron (no "Lord" neccesary, he was the Sting of his day).

Sounion, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

A nice German tourist lady takes our picture.
We find the famous column where the poet Lord Byron has carved his name.
Slator family legend: my father could point a Kodak Instamatic camera through the eye-piece of those giant ten cent binoculars you see at scenic overlooks. And the picture would come out every time. We have evidence of this from Niagara Falls. I continue the family tradition by lining up the lens of my Kodak throw-away camera with our binoculars. If you look real close you can see a close-up of the famous carving.

The other advice in the guidebook is to see the Taverna Akrogiali, famous for a visit by Jackie Kennedy in 1961, and the framed letter of thanks from the White House. We sit down to order food, and ask the waiter about Jackie. He hustles off and brings back a framed photocopy of a letter from Mrs. Kennedy's peronal secretary, and a photocopy of a newspaper photo featuring Jackie, the Prime Minister, and this waiter's aunt. Both these photocopies look like they've been through about 500 generations of re-copying, but we are happy, and order supper.

Sounion, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

From the Temple of Posiedon you can see the beach and the taberna we seek.
We cross the beach past the defunct hotel to reach the taberna.
Our waiter brings us the framed documents. A letter from the White House and a newspaper picture with Jackie Kennedy, the Prime Minister of Greece, and our waiter's aunt.

We hope to take the other bus route back, through the Mesogia (inland) region, but it turns out to be impossible on this Sunday. But we are happy enough to take the same route back and see the coast in reverse.
It is after dark before we reach Athens, and it occurs to us that the bus will take us through heavy traffic to a point north of our hotel, from which we'll need to take a train back southward. Just as we're discussing this, we see a Metro station and spontaneously decide to jump off the bus and make our way by train. This turns out to be a good idea, and we're back in the hotel probably an hour sooner. Plus, it makes us feel like we're getting to be veteran Athenians -- like we're from around there.

Athens-Paros, July 14 (Monday)

We get up REAL early (the alarm is set for 5:45 AM for a 6:30 pickup), and head down to the lobby. We pay the bill and try to choke down some cold coffee and stale cake, which stands in for breakfast for early risers like us. There is a moment of delay when the desk clerk asks for a credit card and I realize it's been packed in the taxi. Soon we are in the cab and zooming across Athens to the Pireaus section of the town, where all the boats are.
With the delay, I ask the driver if we are going to be late
"No danger," he says.
We are supposed to take a hydrofoil named "High Speed 1" and arrive in Paros by 10:30. Instead, there has been some sort of mechanical "accident" and we are all directed to "High Speed 4" which will take us through Syrus, Mikanos, Naxos, and finally Paros by 1:00 PM. And this is what happpens.
To board the boat requires an easy ramp and then about twenty steep steps. This looks like a profound obstacle, but Rita charges ahead with her two giant bags, and after enormous struggle makes the top of the stairs. It's a sight to behold, like a Sherpa up Everest, and she hoists her tonnage up the stairs with me right behind, saying "can I help you," all the way up.
It turns out we've been sold VIP tickets and the porters usher us up to the very nice first-class lounge where we both get very nice thick-cushioned chairs. One of the staff chats with us for a bit. She was born in the USA, living in both New Orleans and somewhere else I forget, before moving to Greece at the age of ten.
A fast boat through the Greek Islands is a pageant of sky, sea, and sun. The high speed boat moves through the water at what feels like 30-40 miles an hour. When it gets to port it does a tricky turn-around move and backs into the dock. Then the ramps go down for pedestrians and vehicles.

Sounion, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

The ferry ride to Paros commences.
The island of Syrus.
The island of Naxos, to the left.
The island of Naxos, to the right, note the cool electric blue tower.

We see Syrus from the sea, which is a spectacular seaside vista. Then we see Mikanos, which from the sea looks like nothing much at all. The we are in Naxos, which is another of the sightly sights. Very shortly we arrive in Paros, and after a tricky docking exercise, and the pedestrians routed out the vehicle ramp because the access is so narrow, we are again on dry land.

Athens to Paros Ferry, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

A word of warning to the novice ferry passenger. THIS is where you stand until the Greek flag whips you in the face.
And THIS is where you stand AFTER the Greek flag whips you in the face.

We were told there would be someone on the dock with a sign with our name on it. When we get down we find plenty of people with signs, but they all have hotel names. So I scout the scene and go back to where Rita is watching the bags, to find our receipt and get the hotel name. This reveals our goal, the Galino Hotel, and I scout again until I find the bright blue Galino van.
We need to hump our own luggage through the dock and around the fence, but they are happy to help us load our stuff, and then it's a very short ride to the hotel. There, when we arrive, it is clear to even the non-Greek speakers among us that there's some kind of problem with our room at the inn.

Hotel Galinos, Paros, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

The Hotel Galinos from the front.
The restaurant directly across from the hotel. Our "German" host standing at the alert.
The alley up towards our room, usually teeming with children.

<= Our room. The WHOLE room. You can't see it, but my feet are on my luggage, which completely fill the floor space. But we also had a bathroom.
<= The keen observer will note the "shower" is a hand-held spray nozzle and there is no shower curtain, as is the Greek custom, according to the guide book.

But we've been promised a room with a double bed, a television, and air conditioning, and indeed that's what we get. It's a tiny little room, maybe 10X12, but it has all the accessories as advertised, including a small refrigerator, and we settle in.
It's after 2:00 PM by this time, and all we've had to eat is cold coffee and stale cake in the Holiday Inn at the break of dawn, and some snacks on the boat. We step across the street to the nearest restaurant, no more than twenty feet from the hotel, and have a fine lunch. Rita orders greek salad, which we share, and lemon chicken. I get lamb chops. It's a fine meal, and Rita wants to take a nap, but I prevail on her to walk around Parikias (the capital of Paros), to see what's what.

Parikios, Paros, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Non-functional windmills on Greek islands. This seems to be a theme.
The entryway to the "Church of One Hundred Doors". Built in the 4th century on top of an older Greek temple.
<= This is the site where Saint Helen (mother of Constantine) came to pray on her way to Palestine in her quest to find the "true cross" in the 4th century. Miraculously she found it, and a church was built on this spot.
<= Motor scooters are another theme in Greece. And this, to draw an obvious contrast, is a working Greek donkey. Note, he has crates roped to his back, and he is not especially friendly, even to friendly tourists.

What's what is a bunch of little shops selling trinkets, an amazing number of eating establishments, considering the smallish area, and what's advertised as a seventeen hundred year old church. We venture a few steps into the church compound, but there's a sign urging appropriate dress before entering the inner sanctum, and we back away with respect. Instead we go back to the room and catch a nap to compensate for the early rising. That evening we watch Kiefer Sutherland and Lou Diamond Phillips in English with Greek subtitles.

Parikios, Paros, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Paros, land of contrasts. Here we see a rusty steel fence in the foreground, then a field-stone fence behind that, and a strange reed fence beyond that.
Weird tree. If you read these accounts you know the status of weird trees.
Weird tree, with leaves that look like red flowers. That's our room's balcony to the left painted blue.
Weird woman. Standing next to a weird tree. Somebody's thumb snuck in front of the lens as the shot was taken (ignore that).

Paros, July 15 (Tuesday)

First, breakfast, which is bread and coffee. Then a stroll to the "Church of 100 Doors" where we go through a 1700 year old church. It's built on the location of the temple that Saint Helen visited to pray as she journeyed to Palestine in search of the "True Cross" in 400s.
Funny moment: we had entered the vestibule of this 4th century church. It was dimly lit, and we were just looking around, getting adjusted. I realized that one window, high above, was shooting a single beam of light onto the floor behind me. I moved back a couple of steps until my face was the single thing illuminated in the gloom. I said, "Rita, Rita," until she turned around, and then I said, "I've seen the light". She laughed despite the solemn surroundings and said, "you're awful."

Parikios, Paros, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

Paros, land of contrasts. Here we see an itty-bitty dump/garbage truck for negotiating the narrow streets.
A line of ferries steaming into Parikios.
Ears of corn on the grill ... you don't understand how good this is.
Sponge-Bob and Square-Pants. You decide which one is which.

The place is filled with old, old paintings in the Greek Orthodox "icon" style. This is a motif where silver foil with holes covers the canvas and holes in the foil expose portions of the canvas underneath. It's an interesting effect. There are a number of rooms, and a number of tombs. In one room I pass to the back and stare at a painting. Then I turn to leave. As I'm going out the door, something moves me to turn around, and I realize I've just walked across somebody's grave (twice), embedded in the floor of the chapel.
After the church we negotiate the public transit system (the number four bus), to the town of Pourous, where we have arranged a snorkeling excursion. We go early, thinking there's a town to explore before we head out to sea. It turns out there's about seven buildings, and we explore it in about three minutes.

Snorkeling, Pountos, Paros, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

The little town of Pountos, home to the Euro-Divers and from where we depart for snorkeling.
They run us out to a secluded, sheltered spot.
This is our boat in our cozy cove, from high above on the path to the church.
Clear, clear water and even a few little fishes.
Click here to see the rest of the Snorkel Shots

The snorkeling is good. We're in a group of about ten mixed-brits (some Aussies, some Kiwis, some Zud Afrikans -- one big chested springbok with a nipple ring), who all know each other from working in London. We are taken out to a small circle of atolls, one featuring a small church on top.
We paddle around. The water is very clear. You can see the bottom in sixty feet of depth. There are a few small fish, and some scattered black spiny sea urchins. As we move out into deeper water I see a number of black bowling-ball sized globules nestled on the bottom. My theory is they're crystalized tar from an oil spill.
Funny moment: we're on the boat with this bunch of Brit snorkelers, and it is bright and hot. I pull out the sun block and hold it up saying to everyone, "SPF 48, anybody want some?".
An Aussie girl says "Blimey, I thought 35 was the highest thing made."
"No," I said, "in America EVERYTHING is bigger."
By the time I finished the sentence, they were saying it with me. Everybody knows that one.
After the snorkelage we go to the nearest eatery. Rita is starving. By nearest I mean the restaurant that's about ten paces from the dock. They are still un-packing the boat and we are already ordering food.
We have greek salad (heavy chunks of meaty tomatoes, cucumbers, other stuff but no lettuce, all drowned in olive oil), pork cutlets and "beef berger" which translates to what we used to call hamburger steak.
After a longish wait we catch the bus back to Parikia, stop to look at an ancient boat selling shells and sponges, and stop at a sidewalk stand grilling corn cobs. Rita stops to buy a cob of roasted corn, paying two Euros for one. I remark, "back in Iowa I could buy a BUSHEL of corn for two Euros!" Rita agrees, but counters, "this is the best corn I've ever tasted...you don't understand how good this is."
Snorkeling makes Rita hungry.
We walk back towards the hotel, but Rita decides we need to visit the corncob vendor again for a second helping, and so we do. Thus ends the day -- perhaps the most tiring so far. Rita lays down to rest and I find the cyber cafe to check email.

Paros, July 16 (Wednesday)

Our last day.
We skip the (free) hotel crust of bread breakfast and walk into town. We find a little sidewalk cafe right across from the 1700 year old Church of 100 Doors and have some not-great breakfast pastry. Then we take another, much closer look at the old church. This time armed with a guide book.
We go back to the hotel and arrange for a late check-out. They are clearly not real pleased with us, but they go along with it (our ferry sails at 6:45 PM and we don't want to hassle with packing right away). Rita takes a nap, and I go find the cyber cafe to do more email.
Finally, it is time to go. We have a late lunch, then pack and get a ride to the docks. We are early and there are only a few people lined up along one side of the cattle chute that leads to the ferry. We are about 3/4 of the way back.
As we wait, people start arriving and crowding up past us to the front of the chute. We hold our ground, and before long there are a couple hundred people ahead of us in line. I'm not worried. I look at our tickets and we are in "OIK" class. Surely this is good for another luxurious padded seat to lounge in.
The big boat arrives, and the crowd piles forward to get on board. We are towards the back of the long line, but somebody points us to the automobile ramp, and we scoot up that, passing all the people who crowded in front of us, and getting on the boat before almost all of them.
There is a luggage dumping spot right inside the boat, but I guess wrong and, figuring this is like the high speed boat, think we will find storage up in the VIP area, so we can keep our bags close to us. We ascend the three stories of escalators, hauling our stuff the whole way.
Wrong, oh so wrong. First, there is no luggage storage up on the boat. It's all back down by the water line. Second, the boat is already quite full of people who boarded on earlier islands, so there is no good place to sit down. Third, I learn from a smirking porter, "OIK" is code for "economy class" and there is to be no plush lounge chairs for us.
After considerable improvising, the bags are stowed back down in the hold, and we end up sitting in a hallway on straight-backed chairs.

Paros, July 2003 (click on photo for larger view)

The last sad sight as you leave Paros on the ferry.

Paros, Athens, Amsterdam, Minneapolis, Fargo, July 16-17 (Wednesday-Thursday)

The long march home.
We leave Paros at 6:45 PM. The ferry takes about five hours, and we dock in Paraeus. We tote the luggage across a wide dock, around a street corner, and over to the bus stop. It takes the bus an hour to get to the airport, and we are there about 1:30 AM. When the KLM counter opens we make arrangements to take the earlier flight at 3:30 AM rather than wait until 5:55 AM. A big curly headed guy blatantly cuts in line ahead of us when I'm not looking, and when he stoops to fasten his luggage we see the crack of his behind quarters. We dub him "the ass-crack budger".
After a short wait we are loaded onto a bus that takes us out onto the tarmac to board the plane. There are two gangways, one in the front of the plane, and one in the back. A couple of stewardesses go up the back entrance, and our tickets are towards the back of the plane. Rita suggests we follow them but I guess wrong again, and say we should follow the herd up the front entrance.
We are towards the front of the plane, heading back to our seats, when a herd of passengers comes in the back door and fills the aisle in front of us. The two columns collide. Rita somehow manages to squeeze through to our seats, but I am carrying hand luggage and there is no room for me to pass through the crowd. A women holding a childs hand ends up tangled in the strap of one of my bags, and the aisle behind her (and in front of me), fills with people. I'm trapped, like a rat.
Just then I see him, the ass-crack budger, in the aisle directly by our seats.
"My friend," I say, loudly, and pointing at his face, "please wait there."
He stops, looking baffled.
"You remember me, of course," I say to him, to keep him frozen.
"Remember you?" he says, clearly suspicious.
I don't care. By now I'm moving through the space he has cleared for me by stopping and blocking the aisle.
"Yes, of course," I say, slipping past him into my seat, "from the line."
I busy myself stowing luggage, ignoring him, and he moves on. People really should learn to not jump queues. It always comes back to haunt you.
We fly to Amsterdam and hang out in the airport. It turns out we need to traverse the entire thing to find our gate. Rita camps out and I go back to catch a little more email in the main concourse. We agree on a meeting time, and I get back early, but there are already a few hundred people ahead of us through the security checkpoint.
We are interogated by a humorous inspector and soon find ourselves on board the giant plane. Where, to my dismay, we find ourselves in bulkhead seats, where you sit facing a wall with no leg room and no place to stow your gear except in the already full overhead bins.
A cheeful stewardess counsels me as to where to put things, and I'm saying to her, "these are the worst seats on the plane, aren't they?" She says, "some people like them." I ask if there's room to switch, and there's not, the plane is full. She disappears and returns, just as I've finished hiding our bags in various places, with a young couple carrying an infant in a bassinette.
They WANT the bulkhead seats and offer to trade. We say "sure" (how could one refuse?), and end up near the very back of the plane in spacious seats nestled in the curve of the fuselage -- the best seats on the plane.
The flight departs at 11 AM and takes nine hours, but due to the mysteries of time zones, gets us to Minneapolis shortly after noon. Then there is the LOOOOONG ordeal of getting through customs (an hour in line, and five minutes to get waved through).
Our car is still at the Radisson South, and we elect to take a cab. Soon we are loaded, and all we have left to do is drive the last four hours to Fargo. At this point we have been on the road for nearly thirty hours (sleepless for Rita). We drop in at Mom's to pick up the shirt we left there on the way out, and hit the highway.

Fargo, July 2003 (click on photos for larger view)

There we are, home again, car safely parked in the garage, thirty-plus hours out of Paros
And the grass sure needs mowing. Home sweet home.

Epilogue, Fargo, July 17-20 (Thursday-Sunday)

Ferry, bus, airport waiting room, airplane, airport waiting room, airplane, customs, taxi, automobile, home -- thirty-three hours end to end.
The girls aren't home when we pull in. The lawn looks to be about eight inches long. Megan's rats look to be about twice the size they were. The dishes are all washed. Home sweet home.
We unload the car, and Rita heads straight for bed. She might have got to sleep, but the girls come home, and we dig out presents and tell them tales. It's after 9 PM before the crowd clears out and Rita gets to sleep -- and dream of grecian temples and clear Agean seas.

Modified: 13-31jul03; Contact: bslator@cableone.net