I don’t drink beer. I drink wine. When I go out for dinner or meet up with friends I enjoy a glass or two of red wine. Most of my friends drink wine. I know a lot of people who drink wine. But I don’t know many wine drinkers who have picked the grapes that make the wine. (more…)
Archive for the ‘Greece’ Category
Nineteen women writers tell of their love for this amazingly beautiful country in Greece, A Love Story (Seal Press, 2007) This is Colleen’s story:
I first touched Greek soil in April, 1975, when you could voyage from Haifa to Herakleion by ship (now defunct), camp out in the caves at Matala (now prohibited) and watch drunken Greeks dance and smash plates (now passé). After my flirtation with island life, Greece remained in my memories as a mythic place of sensual pleasure. Years later, one day in New York I fell in love with a Greek god. When he proposed relocation to his homeland, it was an easy decision to return to that pleasure center of my youth. My move to Greece was not official until I brought my bicycle over from the States. I switched gears, as it were, and eventually hauled, one at a time, three of my four bicycles across the Atlantic.
For someone who pledges allegiance to the bicycle, Greece is not the most logical of European destinations to take up residence. Greeks are insanely smitten with motor vehicles. More than a third of Greece’s citizens reside in the capital and all of them seem to covet a car. Continuously inhabited for more than 7,000 years, Athens is a city accustomed to movement. Yet, when Greeks left their rural domains in droves in the latter part of the twentieth century and flooded Athens, paltry provisions were made for mass transport. A bicycle culture never arose in Greece; it is as if the country went straight from the donkey to the car.
I insisted on living in Thissio, a neighborhood at the foot of the Acropolis, in large part because a pedestrian mall now circles the monument’s grounds. In this car-free zone I can move effortlessly on the extended stone walkway while marveling at the surrounding archaic ruins. When I venture outside my provincial precinct, I contend with a city locked in perpetual rush hour mode.
In Manhattan, I gamely wove in and out of traffic, but in Athens cycling is practically a contact sport. Motor vehicles bloat the narrow streets, struggling to occupy alleyways with all the tenacity of a plump matron determined to fit into a size 8 evening gown. Even my svelte Italian-made Colnago often finds no opening to maneuver around the stalled traffic, so tight is the space between car and corridor. Emboldened perhaps by their numbers, Athenian drivers brazenly discount non-motorized traffic, making the concept “right-of-way” a non sequitur.
In such a climate, Athenian cyclists are an uncommon breed, be they commuters, leisure riders or athletes —a strange phenomena, given that Greece is the home of the Olympics. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that in this urban behemoth of some four million residents, my apartment building shares the same block as the meeting space of a group called Friends of the Bicycle. The Friends organize self-contained rides where everyone carries their own gear and we camp out.
Fantasies of Greece usually conjure up beach scenes with blinding blue waters, but four-fifths of Greece is mountainous. I was a committed road cyclist until the Friends introduced me to the poignant treasures awaiting a mountain biker in remote terrain. In the Peloponnese mountains near Kalavrita we came upon a village whose prized feature is a hollow tree so huge that it holds a church inside it. I walked through the carved-out door and sighed when I saw an altar and eight chairs in a circle. Religious icons hung from the inside bark and you could light a candle as you would in any other chapel. I almost genuflected on the spot.
Biking near Mt. Parnassus, we stopped to gorge on wild strawberries clinging to a wall of earth. Sparkling from the morning dew and no bigger than a dime, they had a luscious sweetness out of proportion to their size. In the Greek mountains you’ll never go thirsty owing to bountiful sources of healthy, pure, cold fresh water springs that make store-bought water taste stale. Like Napa Valley connoisseurs hopping amongst wineries, the Friends sampled water from every spigot we passed even if we had just filled our water bottles several kilometers back.
To ride with Friends of the Bicycle is to experience siga siga in full force. Translated as “slowly,” my sense of the phrase is that it even connotes a disdain for all things fast. On a Friends outing, the goal of getting from Point A to the evening’s camp site at Point B is secondary to indulging in ceaseless distractions en route. We linger for twenty minutes to watch a fellow rider chase and catch a fat garter-type snake with his bare hands. Forty-five minutes are spent poking around a deep cave using our detachable bike lights for illumination. A good one to two hour afternoon nap is de rigueur.
Through the Friends I met Giorgos Altyparmakis, an iconoclastic cyclist and consummate bike mechanic whose family has operated a bicycle repair shop for over forty years. Giorgos is in his sixties, looks forty-five, and has the biking energy of a twenty-year-old. He has a peculiar fondness for cycling maniacal hours, starting early in the morning and pedaling until eleven or midnight with one or two twenty minute breaks. Few Friends cycle with him when he sets the itinerary, but I regularly ride with Giorgos. As if hypnotized, I somehow keep pace with him.
On my first outing with Giorgos before I knew his style, I grew concerned when we continued to cycle in the lykofos (translated as dusk, lykofos literally means “wolf light”). I became alarmed when darkness arrived. Soon enough, however, I recognized that with a full moon and no cars for miles on a navigable dirt road, this outrageous activity was not only do-able but wildly fun. Giorgos and most Friends are committed night riders and I readily joined their ranks. We take note when the moon is full and plan our rides around the panselinos (Greek for “full moon¨). What better place for lunar gazing than in the land where this practice was cultivated as a science millennia ago by our pagan ancestors?
About six months before the 17th annual Spartakiada in October, 2005, Giorgos described this bike event to me and I gasped, “You mean you guys cycle from Athens to Sparta in one day?”
“Yep,” he replied in his typical laconic manner.
“That’s about 200 kilometers!”
Gulp. I did a quick math conversion in my head and concluded that to bicycle 150 miles in one day across a succession of mountains, you’d have to be super fit or slightly foolhardy. I felt I didn’t fall into either category. Nonetheless, Giorgos commenced his campaign for me to register for the ride. “You’re out of your mind,” were my exact words to him. It sounded preposterous, but I secretly contemplated his suggestion. Giorgos had ample opportunity to assess my cycling abilities, and if he declared me Spartakiada material, how could I doubt the master? I let the thought simmer for several months.
Although I cherish excursions with Giorgos and my Greek friends, I also get itchy to cycle solo. Among a smorgasbord of more than 250 inhabited islands, each one an exceptional honeymoon choice, I have visited some thirty-five Greek islands, more than half by bicycle. In Lesvos, Greece’s third largest island, I paid homage to the oldest known female poet in history, Sappho, born in 628 BC in Erassos. There is no official plaque to honor her that I know of, but her legacy survives through the tidal influx to nearby Skala Erassos of female tourists, often lesbian, from all parts of the world. Skala Eressos has a sensibility unlike any place in Greece. Here you can find white tourists with dread locks, vegan food, women-only hotels, and aromatherapy reflexologists. Underneath the hip façade, however, a traditional Greek community thrives.
I became intimate with many other islands, too, some of them so tiny—like Pserimos with only forty inhabitants—they are unknown even to mainland Greeks. One of my early favorites was Kos, the Dodecanese homeland of Hippocrates, where I biked to thermal waters in the sea, assuredly frequented by the Father of Medicine. On Paros, after a half-hour climb from the sea I reached the Valley of the Butterflies, an enchanting little forest where hundreds of tiger moths the shape of arrowheads lie fairly camouflaged in the trees, forcing you to play “Where’s Waldo?”
Suddenly, they fluttered their wings and a splash of neon orange pinpointed their presence and put a silly smile on my face. Nearby is a monastery with peacocks perched on tree limbs. On Naxos, I was biking along and came upon a thirty-foot, 7th century B.C. male statue, known as kouros, lying not far from the road; it had been left unfinished in its marble quarry. I had admired many kouros at the National Archaeology Museum in Athens, but to see one in its “raw” state was startling. On Corfu, Kefalonia and Zakynthos in the Ionia Sea, I cycled to their highest paved points.
In August when the figs are ripe, an incomparable delight on any island is to set your bike by the side of the road and gorge on fresh figs right off the trees. You peel off the pastel green skin to get at the pastel pink meat which is juicy and delicious and tastes nothing like dried figs.
On Amorgos in the Cyclades, while resting in a village café and being the only patron resplendent in Lycra, a woman began chatting with me, offering that her brother from Athens bikes a lot, too. Yeah, right, I thought skeptically, Greek cyclists are as rare as drachmas after the euro took effect.
I interrogated her: “Where does he bike?”
“What kind of bike does he ride?”
“He made his own bike!”
Hmm. There’s only one person I know in Athens who builds bicycles. “What’s his name?” “Giorgos Altyparmakis!” What a hoot to run into my buddy’s sister who lives on the island of Milos and, like me, just happened to be visiting Amorgos. When she told me her brother has cycled from Athens to Sparta, I said to myself, “Yeah, and that crazy Greek wants me to do it, too!”
I am not and never have been an athlete. What I do possess is a pound of endurance and a dash of discipline. With those minor attributes, I resolved to tackle the Spartakiada.
The Spartakiada is not exactly a race, although those coming in first are recognized with an award and the event is organized under the aegis of the competitively-inclined Hellenic Cycling Federation. Male participants must be at least 30 years old, while females must be at least 25. Riders start at 7:00 a.m. from the Olympic Stadium built in 1896 and must reach the Sparta finish line by 6:30 p.m. or be disqualified.
It was still dark when I biked over to the Stadium starting point, arriving sharply at 6:45 a.m. Of 122 participants, I spotted three other females in the crowd each about twenty years younger than me, several elderly riders (the oldest was 69), and—courageously I’d say—a number of overweight guys. We were all riding thoroughbreds, which is to say, expensive bikes.
As this was Greece, we set off at 7:30 a.m., a respectable half-hour late. The noisy clanging and clacking of 122 riders clicking into their pedals was a cyclist’s version of “Gentlemen, start your engines.” Accompanied by a police escort, we thrillingly rode through downtown Athens without having to battle traffic. This segment of the Spartakiada felt like a fantasy for those of us who commute and cycle daily in “carmegeddon” Athens. Another memorable highlight was pedaling across the majestic Corinth Canal.
For the entire ride there was only one official rest stop: an obligatory ten minutes at the eightieth kilometer in ancient Korinthos where snacks were distributed. For the first 150 kilometers we were required to ride together as a pack and then you could break away and do the remaining 107 kilometers at your own pace. Since the first 150 K were practically all flat, I managed to keep up, but when we reached the mountains the guys left me in the dust. I didn’t mind; my goal was simply to finish.
The route went from sea level to 2,300 feet over a mountain affectionately nicknamed Kolosourtes (“drags your butt”) and then 2,600 more feet past Tripoli. I coasted the final 25 kilometers downhill to Sparta, finishing the ride in ten hours with no pit stops except for the required break in Korinthos. I was among the last to finish, but, cheerfully, not the last.
There was a ceremony that evening in the Sparta town square with awards given to everyone who completed the Spartakiada within the time limits, and I proudly stepped up to the stage to accept mine. A half dozen or so cyclists received a special award for completing ten Spartakiadas. Greeks have a knack for drollery, evident on this occasion by a hilarious award called Most Fertile Cyclist. “How many?” the emcee called out, and one biker yelled, “I have three kids,” while another screamed, “I have four.” I believe a father of five won out. The Fertility Award was presented by Sparta’s head priest, looking quintessentially Byzantine in a long black robe, tall oblong headgear and gray beard stretching to his chest.
Giorgos rode the 17th Spartakiada, too, and when we caught up with each other at the end we exchanged hearty high fives. I felt indebted to him for intuiting my cycling abilities when I myself could not. Some guys questioned my presence at this event, doubting my endurance, but in the end they congratulated me for finishing. I gave all credit to Giorgos, facetiously calling him my trainer. In truth, he trained me mentally more than anything by giving me the confidence to overcome my initial intimidation of the Spartakiada and bike 257 kilometers in one miraculous day across the Peloponnese peninsula.
My cycling adventures provide an unconventional lens through which to view the Greek people and culture. They also dramatize my love affair with this sacred land whose illustrious history and stupendous natural beauty humble me. Were it possible to designate an entire country a World Heritage Site, I hereby nominate Greece.
(Seal Press, San Francisco, 2007)
An Historic First: Greeks and Turks cycle together for peace, friendship and against global warming.
Izmir, Turkey to Thessaloniki, Greece. June 16-27, 2007.
I’m an American traveling on an Italian passport riding with the Greek team. Read my daily reports posted from internet cafes en route!
Day 1 : Report from İzmir
We arrıved in Chios on a boat from Piraeus landıng at 4:30 in the morning and waited until 8:00 to meet Vangelis Kastamoulas to join me for the boat to Turkey. Vangelis is a competıtıve racing cyclist, coming in second in Greece’s national cycling games. He arrived wıth an olive tree sapling in his hand for us to plant ın Izmir. We presented our documents at Chıos’ little port and passed through customs on to the boat that took us across the waters to Cesme, Turkey, a ride that only lasted an hour. At customs in Turkey the line was long and only one person manning the passport control booth. İt wasn’t really a line but rather people crowded around the entry to the window — Vangelis and I trying to manage wıth our bicycles whıch made it awkward to push forward without offending anyone wıth our tires.
Finally, I announced to those around me ın English to the European tourists and more shakily in Greek to the Greeks, that we are the Greek team arrivıng to Turkey for a peace ride wıth the Turkish team and to combat global warmıng — and İ held up the olive plant and told them this is what we will plant on Turkish soil as a gesture for peace and that our Turkish friends are waiting outside for us. The crowd enthusiastically stepped aside to let the Greek team (Vangelis and me) and our bicycles pass to the head of the ‘line’.
İ had produced flyers with the Turkish and Greek flags and a dove on them. One side was written in Greek and the other side in Turkish. It announced the event and specified how individuals in both countries could help reduce global warming by just walking biking or taking mass transit 10% more often— and that Turks and Greeks can achieve peace and friendship when they cooperate on this global mission — something like that. I handed a flyer, Turkısh side up, to the customs official and he gave me a warm smile and stamped my passport without hesitation.
Mustafa of the Turkish team pıcked us up and took us to a big park along the sea ın İzmir. There we met the other 9 or so cyclists ın their team and members of the local press, They had their Turkish biking jerseys on (wıth Turkish flag) and Vangelis and I put our Greek jerseys on (with Greek flag). A hole was dug and the olive plant placed in it and we gathered around to put soil in the hole: The press interviewed Mustafa ,Vangelis and me and we said words to the effect that we seek peace between the peoples and cooperation to fight pollution in the Aegean regıon and global warming. İ had learned how to say ‘Peace, Frıends’ in Turkish and when İ said them at the tree planting ceremony everyone felt very happy.
Day 2 : Izmir : 9AM
The 12 members of the Turkish team and the 2 members of the Greek team gathered in front of the historic clock tower. (The other Greek members met us at the border on Thursday.) The Greek consul to Izmir was there and seemed quite pleased that the Greek team was making a presence. I gave a Greek flag to Attila, a member of the Turkish team, and he mounted it on his bike alongside the Turkish flag. I was also carrying a huge earth flag on a pole which really announced our message: two peoples, one nature. The media also made an appearance and we were interviewed on television. They asked what Greece is doing about the environment and I put in a pitch for MiaFisi (One Nature).As we set off on the 120 kilometer ride to Dikili we were accompanied by a very strong headwind and a very hot sun. The group stuck together cooperatively. However, before even exiting the city limits of Izmir, our female companion. Timor. had a flat tire, but it was changed in no time.The Turks stared at us in amazement. Even one cyclist is a curiosity in Turkey. Imagine seeing 14 cyclists in one group! As we passed by I handed out our informational flyers to pedestrians who eagerly took them. Unfortunately, one driver was so distracted by this startling sight of 14 cyclists that he rear-ended someone at the traffic light!All in all, our first cycling day was terrific. The Turkish team stops a lot en route – about every 10-15 km – for tsai (tea), lots of eating, resting and of course, water.We arrived in Dikili about 5:30PM and made a splendid entrance with matching bike jerseys and lots of energy. Everyone took notice.
Dikili is a lovely, tree-filled town next to the deep blue Aegean sea. It has an inviting 40 km beach and an attractive town square. Since it is referred to as the “City of Peace”, it’s also an appropriate city for our first overnight! The mayor of Dikili describes his citizens as “pacifists”. Apparently this is due in part to their close and warm relationship with Mythilini (aka Lesvos) only 18 km away. (Needless to say, this is not an ordinary Greek-Turkish relationship.) Each year Dikili organizes a “Peace and Democracy Festival” and many Mythilini residents come. This small Turkish city is so committed to peace that the town’s park has a monument to former Swedish Prime Minister Olaf Palme.
Many past civilizations have left their mark on Dikili…Lydians, Persians, Romans and of course, Greeks. Aristotle lived and wrote some of his most valuable masterpiences 2400 years ago in the nearby town of Atarneus.
From a stage in the town square, Mustafa of the Izmir Bicycle Riders Club presented an impressive power point show and talked about the beauty of the bicycle – for health, for free transport, and to reduce carbon emissions. His presentation showed how peoples around the world – from Africa to New York to Asia – use the bicycle for work, commuting and leisure.
I hope that Mustafa’s illuminating show and our spirited presence have inspired the local people to see the benefits of cycling for their health, the planet and their pocketbook. At the end of the show the municipality presented us with a replica of the Olaf Palme memorial, a fitting emblem of our purpose here.
Day 3 : June 18
Our peace cycling group left little Dikili today and continued to follow the sea to another small town called Kucukkuyu (”little well”). The sun is so intense that by the afternoon the tar on the road starts melting, causing pebbles to stick in our tires. The winds also remain strong, making it difficult to cycle.
We ride single file as best as possible. Three women among 12-14 men have difficulty keeping up. Our Greek athlete Vangelis Kastamoulas began giving the females help by putting his hand on our back and pushing us along. This takes a lot of strength of course and this is why he is Greece’s #2 national cycling champion. Nilgun, Timur and I starting referring to Vangelis as the Holy Hand. “Where is the Holy Hand?” we would cry out. Vangelis is riding a thin tire Fidusa road bike (manufactured in Rhodes), unlike our fat tires. So we have come to expect his assistance.
We have also become used to the applause and horn honking we elicit when we pass the farmers in their fields, construction workers building buildings, town dwellers on the curb —- every where we appear to be a sensation in Turkey! They read the sign on the side of the support vehicle saying “Izmir to Athens” and see the map with the route drawn and then a message about Greeks and Turks together against global warming. We have had NO negative or even indifferent responses. This is historical — it has never been done before so it is natural in this respect for the Turkish people to be profoundly interested.
Upon our arrival to Kucukkuyu, we were again met by the media photographing and interviewing us. The mayor sat with us by the sea where we drank sage tea. That evening the power point slideshow presentation was smaller but more engaging with Mustafa and the audience exchanging opinons, feelings and good will.
Day 4 : June 19
This morning’s ride was fabulous. We hugged the sea to our left and cycled through an aromatic pine forest with very little motor vehicle traffic. Yesterday we cycled 110 km and today we are looking at about 100 km. At one point in the morning we climbed to 290 meters (about 900 feet). A long climb but rewarding with views.
We ate lunch in Ezine at a traditional cafe with excellent “fasoulia” (green beans) which is similar to the word in Greek “fasoulakia.” Vangelis and I notice a number of similar words in both languages, such as tea (tsai & chai) or tires (lastixi & lastichi).
Mustafa speaks good English. The two women cyclists Timur and Nilgud speak enough English to converse. A couple more Turks know some English words and phrases, but then the rest of the team (about half) know no English, so conversation is always mediated. Fortunately, our bus driver Suleiman speaks Greek because he is married to Eleni from Thessaloniki who is along for the ride iwth their adorable daughter Destiny who everyone fawns over.
Neither Vangelis or I spoke a word of Turkish before coming, but both of us are making diligent efforts to learn basic words relevant to our daily needs, such as Stop (dur), Water (sou), Single File (dextera), Car (arava), and Good Morning (unided). Being a handsome Greek man, Vangelis made it a point to learn how to say “I love you.”
The saddest part of today’s ride was cycling past the sign indicating ancient Troy was 5 km off the main road. This meant a 10 km detour which we could not afford time-wise since we had to reach a Kipa store in Canakkale by early afternoon. NIlgud is an employee of Kipa a megastore like Carrefour which has given the Turkish team funds to enable them to participate in this unique event.
Later that evening we were hosted by the Canakkale Rotary Club at the city’s finest restaurant on the harbor. We ate fabulous food, much of it similar to Greek cusine, such as fried eggplant, yogurt, fava beans, stuffed grape leaves and fresh fish. Our Rotary Club hosts listened with sincere attention as we went around the table and each of us said a few words about why we are here or what the ride means to us. It was a meaningful exchange with a different type of Turkish citizen (businessmen). We all had many interesting exchanges.
Day 5 : June 20
In the morning we put our bikes aboard a ferry at Canakkale to cross the Dardanelle Straits and began cycling towards Gallipoli. It was a smooth cycling day, 120 km, and mercifully the sun was not as intense as other days. In fact, by late afternoon we encountered rain but the raindrops actually felt good on our sweaty bodies so no one complained.
Except for one long climb over a mountain, the route was mostly flat and smooth cycling. AT the top of the mountain was a rest stop selling colorful Turkish rugs (kilim) that made for good photo opportunities.
A highlight of the day was reach Kesan’s Kipa store where a 15 piece band welcomed us with great fanfare, television cameras, and media. Since there are only two of us in Turkey on the Greek team, Vangelis and I are always being sought by the press for our opinions.
The local university allowed us to stay in their dorms for the evening since all the students’ exams have finished and school is closed. That evening in Kesan’s Paradise Park, the municipality set up a screen, sound system and forum for us to present the slideshow on the values of cycling to help reduce global warming. We also gave out brochures and t-shirts but truthfully we were all a little too tired to extend the evening.
It is hard work getting up at 6 am to start cycling in the heat all day and then making presentations at 9 pm in the evening —- hard but exceedingly rewarding work and the purpose of our ride, so despite our fatigue our little group always feels invigorated.
Day 6 : June 21
Today was our last day cycling in Turkey. We cycled 30 km until we reached the Greece-Turkey border. There many of us felt so unhappy that the border police in Turkey would not let us bicycle into Greece. We were made to put our bikes inside the support vehicle and drive the roughly 4 km of no man’s land. This effort seemed so counter to our anti-global warming and peace mission — to be stripped of our bicycles while crossing an international border. Apparently it was due to some bureaucratic rule about a coach must have passengers inside it. To me it felt like a law concocted to thwart our ride because it was too unusual or out of the ordinary for customs officials to handle.
The displeasure of enterng the vehicle was soon diminished by our arrival to glorious Greece! The Turks (and Arabs) refer to Greece as Yunanistan, and that was the last road sign was saw leaving Turkey. We left the red flag of Turkey with its white crescent and star and welcomed the sight of the blue and white stripes with a cross in the corner. How interesting that both countries have religious emblems on their flags.
As a side note, on my second or third day, I inquired out of curiousity how many members of the Turkish team were Muslim and learned all them are — although I have not once observed any of them praying or wearing headscarfs or mentioning their religion. There were plenty of minarets en route yet I didn’t hear the muezzin’s call to prayer — a sound so exotically fascinating to my ear — as frequently as one does traveling in the Arab world. When we arrived to Greece, domed churches replaced mosques.
On the Greek side of the border, there was Mixales Antonoglou waiting for us with his spiffy Orbea road bike. It was a relief to see him since he is the only member of our team from northern Greece — coming from Thessaloniki. The minute he heard about the ride he signed up and has been a fearless advocate for its mission despite, unfortunately, a number of negative comments from Greek cyclists about not trusting Turks. Mixales explains that this is the purpose of the ride — to dispel such negative stereotypes of Greece’s neighbors, the common people of Turkey.
We were all thrilled to unite up with the rest of the Greek team — Vassia, Dimitri and Giorgos — who came by train with their bicycles from Athens. They will continue on with us to Thessaloniki.
Our cycling group has now increased in size and hopefully our message of peace, friendship and anti-global wamring will be delivered with greater reach and strength to the Greek people.
Day 7 : June 22
The Greek police were at our hotel on time at 8:00 am as we set off on the Egnatia Highway of northern Greece. Somehow once we arrived to Greece we are no longer biking into headwinds and the climbs have diminished along our particular route. The sun, however, remains fierce.
I asked Atilla who carries the Greece and Turkey flags on the front of his bike — leading our human powered motorcade — if he has received any negative reactions from the people we pass en route and he said No. This news was a relief. Just seeing the Turkish flag on Greek territory is rather rare and no wonder, given the 400 plus years of Turkish occupation of Greece when the Ottoman domination prevailed. The Greek people could not speak Greek, go to Greek schools or practice their customs — let alone wave any kind of national flag.
Eventually, in the War of Independence in the 1820s the Turks were defeated and kicked out of the country during a long bitter strugle. In the 1920s there were the “population exchanges” which is a euphemism for the period when Greeks made refugees from what is now Western Turkey where they had lived for centuries and Turks were expelled from northern Greece where they had lived for many, many years. Yet and still, some peoples remained on both sides. In northern Greece, the Turks are known as the “minority communities.”
Our first significant exchange with the Turkish minority community came in Komotini where we stopped for lunch. The Turkish section is very vibrant with a mosque that seems to form the center of the community. Outside the mosque is an old cemetery with white stone tombstones similar to barbershop poles bent and swaying in different directions. In the brickstone streets of this neighborhood were luscious sweet shops, cafes with Turkish coffee, fountains with Arabic writing, men with skullcaps, women in scarves. I pass out information flyers with Turkish on one side, Greek on the other and many of the members in this community can read by sides.
That evening we arrived to Xanthi, another city with a significant Turkish minority. The old section of town has classic Turkish homes — the architecture featuring the second story jutting out with a large covered window area and pink, blue, green colored houses. During a free period, I cycled around this area with two members of the Greek team, Dimitri and Vassia, on the brick cobblestone like streets. It is a lovely area next to the Nestos River.
The Turkish community in Komotini put our Turkish cyclists in contact with a Turkish school in Xanthi and that is where the Turkish team stayed. It seems that the minority Turks have their own schools. Burchin and other Turkish cyclists remarked to me that they do not feel as if they have left Turkey. And indeed, the neighborhood looks remarkaly similar to those we stayed at inside Turkey itself. The women dressed the same, the men had skullcaps, people greeted us in the Turkish language — and yet we are in Greece!
We were in Komotini and Xanthi on Friday, the Moslim holy day, but we never once heard the entracing call to prayer that is typically heard where ever there are Moslims and minarets.
Day 8 : June 23
The Turkish team was very keen on seeing Thessaloniki, Greece’s second largest city, since it had a large Turkish presence and has many historic remnants of the Turkish era. But to do so meant that we had to skip an overnight in Kavala and instead cycle 140 km in one day. Many of us gasped and said we could not do it. But the group’s leader Mustafa encouraged us and we triumphed and succeeded in riding the most mileage ever on this trip. Our eldest cyclist, Halit, is 64 and he did spend some of the hottest portions of the afternoon inside the support vehicle.
We were only to spend about 2 hours in Kavala, which was a pity, since it is a charming city with a very old section with a towering castle that dominates the town’s sea front. It is a thrill to bicycle into Kavala because you pass directly through one of the portals of the aquaducts built in 1520 which ring a part of the city. Were one to fly into Kavala, you would arrive at “Alexander the Great Airport.”
Several of us headed for the old town for lunch and we lucked out finding a very traditional taverna near the “kastro” (castle) with musical instruments on the walls and colorful characters seated inside. When I told the waiter that the fava (beans) were the best I have ever had in Greece, he smiled an said his mother did all the cooking. Of course!
En route we continuously saw signs for ancient ruins, 5 km to the left or 10 km to the right, but unfortunately we had zero time to visit them. The one exception was a huge stone lion that was just sitting there beside the road. It was about 2-3 stories high and centuries ago. At this point I could not understand the Greek policeman’s explanation — and not fully trusting it since a policeman normally is not a historian or archaeologist — but it begs researching because the lion is so aweome and is all but identical to another statue of a lion, equally as mammoth, that lies also just off the side of the road in Cheronia northeast of Delphi. That lion has something to do with a battle regarding Phillip of Macedonia, so this one probably relates to a similar war of the epoch.
We arrived to Asprovalta, a large seaside town, that happened to be hosting Greece’s former prime minister George Papandreas who continues to be a very formidable and powerful figure in contemporary Greek politics. Interestingly enough, I had just seen him 2 days before I left for this Greece Turkey bike trip. Al Gore was in Athens presenting his famous and incomparable “An Inconvenient Truth” slideshow — and at this event he introduced Mr. Papandreas to the audience. A big noisy rally took place on Asprovalta’s seaside pedestrian walkway honoring him and so naturally there was an extraordianry amount of revelry and excitement in little Asprovalta. The town’s carnival-like atmosphere coincided with our own joyous mood. At a fish taverna whose owner presented us a feast of food, we celebrated our 140 km victory with toast after toast of ouzo — that milky white liquor that reminded our Turkish friends of Turkish raki.
Day 9-10 : June 24-25
We had “only” 88 km to ride our last day to reach Thessaloniki — a distance that seemed puny compared to the 141 km we completed the previous day. And yet, by 9:00 am it was hotter than any mid-day cycling we had done the entire trip. A powerful heat wave debilitated the region, in fact killing two persons. So our intent to cruise into Thessaloniki early was foiled by constant water stops, primarily at gas stations where cyclists took turns at the water hose pouring cold water over their heads, bike clothes and all. They ate ice cream too, which sounds inviting in the heat but I avoided it for fear it would cause me to be sluggish on the bike. .
The Turkish team — all of whom are Muslim — were quite interested in our first pit stop. It was at a centuries old Byzantine church in a park-like area and mass was in session, today being Sunday. Most likely the priest’s eccleisiastical singing is as foreign to them as an imam’s prayer calls are to Christian ears. Politely remaining outside in their biking clothes, Nilgud, Mehmet and Ali peered inside to watch the service. I put a coin in the candle box and gave Nilgud a tall thin candle to light which she placed in the sand with other lit candles. I joined her and made my wish for global peace. From the corner of my eye, I caught Giorgos making the sign of the cross three times, the standard reaction of Orthodox Greeks when passing a Greek Orthodox church.
The group leader, Mustafa, pushed us hard to get within 12 km of the city. Here was the beginning of our highest ascent in Greece. It truly was not so high, only 245 meters (about 800 feet) and only lasting 2 km while we had already conquered heights of 298 meters in Turkey lasting a good 5 km. Yet and still, it took our focus and concentration as it came on the home stretch of the ride and in punishing heat. Soon enough, each at our own speed, we were at the top from where we trespassed on any available shade. Once we were all together, as one, we began the descent into Thessaloniki.
We had skipped Kavala to arrive to Thessaloniki early, which meant we arrived on Sunday at about 2:30 pm. Had we entered the city a day later on Monday at this time we would have been in the midst of rush hour traffic on a major highway with cars weaving in and out exit ramps. Lucky for us, the roads into Greece’s second largest city were quite tame today, allowing us to cruise effortlessly into town. hug the sea front and culminate in front of the White Tower, the city’s famous landmark which used to be a prison during the Ottoman occupation and today is a cultural exhibit site. We were all high as could be — hugs, high fives, photos, lots of glee — we felt glorious.
In the evening we had our victory dinner at a traditional taverna on a side street whose tables occupied the entire street. We were joined by two of the event’s three Greece organizers — Philip Dragoumis of Mia Fisi (”one nature”) and Evi Rousenelli of Symposium Communications, both of whom had come from Athens. (CycleGreece is the third organizer). A representative of the Nomarkos (prefecture) sat with us as well. Needless to say there were many toasts and pats on the back. Atilla accidentally broke a wine glass which prompted the Greeks to cry on cue “Good Luck!”
The next morning the Turks visited the Turkish Embassy which is located in the home of Kamal Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey who was actually born in Thessaloniki.
At 2 pm we rendezvoused in front of the White Tower to ride through the city to the residence of the Nomarkos Mr. Psomiadis. The media were all present to capture the presentation of plaques to two members of the Greek team, Vangelis Kastamoulas and Mixalis Antonoglou, and to Mustafa Karakus for the Turkish team. Philip of Mia Fisi made a presentation to Mr. Psomiadis and he and Mustafa made speeches stressing the need to fight global warming. Mr. Psomiadis arranged for a lovely banquet with plenty of food for everyone. A number of distinguished guests were present including Richard Jackson, who hails from Boston, and is the President of the American College of Thessaloniki.
The talk on everyone’s tongues is how the ride will be “next year,” with each person expressing their vision of it. It is heartening to hear that the particpants and our supporters favor an annual anti-global warming international bicycle ride in the Aegean and Balkans region.
Tonight we take the support vehicle or trains to Athens, the final destination, where on Wednesday we will ride from the Acropolis to the tip of the Attika peninsula. We anticipate a hearty bunch of Athenian cyclists to join us and experience a touch of the euphoria that has made this event so memorable and groundbreaking.
First published in Neo magazine, New York City, June, 2008
By COLLEEN McGUIRE
Greeks find it strange that someone called Colleen McGuire has adopted Greece as a homeland. My name is Celtic to the core. When I announce that my maternal grandfather’s name was Oreste Spadafora, big smiles break out, “Oh, the namesake of King Agamemnon’s son is surely of Greek heritage.” When I add that the Spadaforas hailed from Sicily, an ancient Greek colony, I am then embraced as a true child of Ellas.
For my part, I feel I must have Greek blood because my attachment to this land runs so deep. I live minutes from the Acropolis and do not take that elegant monument or its surrounding ruins for granted. When I pass it or glimpse a few white marble columns from my terrace I experience a momentary sense of enlightenment. Indeed, even unheralded ruins excite me, like those a bulldozer once uncovered in a construction site behind the building where first I lived in the Thissio neighborhood of Athens. The antiquities authorities immediately issued a stop-work order and for the next year and a half I devotedly monitored the progress of a bona fide archaeological dig right in my backyard.
Rural areas are reservoirs of traditional arts, such as, weaving and wood carving, which also fascinate me. In these tourist-deprived regions I revel speaking my kindergarten Greek with elders who patiently wait for me to formulate my sentences, unlike unruly Athenians who jump in with the correct word or more typically revert to English which thwarts my earnest efforts to conquer this tantalizing language. Locals in rural regions tend to be proud people and they are flattered that you admire their customs and simple living. My preference is to explore the countryside and islands by bicycle.
I am somewhat of an anomaly in Greece because I cycle for transport, for pleasure, for exercise, a way of life. Although Greece is the home of the Olympics, paradoxically, cycling and physical activity in general are uncommon pursuits for the average Greek. This is a pity because a bicycle allows an intimacy unattainable from the seclusion of a car or the altitudes of a bus. Even a motorcycle shatters the serenity of village life. On numerous occasions villagers have told me that I was the first person in memory to arrive by bicycle. Through slow motion travel I have seen so many endearing sights in remote and untrafficked areas.
In the Peloponnese peninsula near Kalavrita I pedaled to a hamlet whose prized feature is a hollow tree so huge that it holds a church inside it. Honest to God. I walked through the carved-out door and sighed when I saw an altar and eight chairs in a circle. Religious icons hung from the inside bark and you could light a candle as you would in any other chapel. I almost genuflected on the spot.
One late May while mountain biking near Mt. Parnassus, I discovered wild strawberries clinging to a wall of earth. Sparkling from the morning dew and no bigger than a dime, they had a luscious sweetness way out of proportion to their size. The biggest treat in rural Greece is the abundance of fresh water springs that make store-bought water taste stale. Some sources are nothing more than rigged-up pipe spigots while others are more elaborate — fountains embellished with a lion’s head, the cold alpine water gushing from its roaring mouth.
Lesvos (a/k/a Mytilini) is Greece’s third largest island with an extensive road network of over 400 kilometers. On my first visit, I spent two weeks cycling on my own to just about every town and settlement accessible by asphalt. Despite its size, Lesvos is not a major tourist destination. This means there are plenty of beaches that render bikinis as useless as a parka in July. I have fond memories of my first evening when I pitched my tent near the adorable fishing village of Skala Sikaminias and walked into town for dinner at a seaside taverna. The highlight was watching the sun, plump and red as a fire engine, linger to the point of loitering on the horizon as if debating whether to set. The next morning I zipped open my tent, took three or four paces and—splash!—I was swimming in the sea, perky as a seal. More than half my camp sites on Lesvos were within spitting distance of the Aegean.
Greece has so many precious places that it is regrettable tourists predominantly flock to Santorini and Mykonos. These are gorgeous islands but I can name a dozen venues that vie in charm and allure, starting with romantic Hania in Crete, the indestructible mastica villages of Chios, car-free Skyros and the World Heritage Site of Meteora — all virtually unknown destinations to American vacationers. I once had the privilege to escort the publisher of National Geographic Adventure magazine and his family on their first visit to Greece and select their itinerary. They had never heard of Nafplio, but, like me, they instantly fell in love with this graceful and quintessentially Greek city.
Colleen McGuire formerly had her own housing rights law firm for sixteen years in New York City until Greece seized her attention. She now divides her time between Athens, Greece and New York City operating a bicycle tour company called CycleGreece www.cyclegreece.gr and a specialty tour company called Aegean Adventures www.aegeanadventures.com She is a contributor to Greece A Love Story (Seal Press, 2007), essays from 19 American women, with a story called “Siga Siga: Cycling in Greece.” Colleen bicycled solo from New York City to San Francisco with all her gear.