My vision that all Greeks would be fun-loving, folk dancing, plate-smashing, smiling and happy was dissolved since quickly after our arrival here. Having made this realization, it came as no great surprise that our quest for a morning cup of coffee was so complicated today. After trying a few restaurants we came up with nothing. Even in a place that was marked as a café, using Andy's best Greek and putting on our warmest countenances we were greeted with shock when we asked for a cup. The little trendoid girl with her bleached-blond hair, oh-so-tight jeans and giggly bare midriff was too confused by the idea.
\"Oh, English want coffee, Greek coffee? French coffee?\" she said. \"Yes! French coffee, please!\" we responded. \"We no have French coffee, sorry,\" she declared happily. Sometime later the mother appeared with Turkish coffee in hand. It tasted like dirt and metal but had caffeine in it. Finally having the energy to continue, we rode along the Corinthian coast. It was harvest time in the vineyards. While riding we watched scruffy young country boys harvesting grapes. They brought the crates of freshly picked fruit to horsecarts powered by little tractors that resembled mechanized versions of their organic ancestor. The lasting memory of the day would be that of the sound of autos whizzing by closely at dizzying speeds.
Thankfully the wind that had pestered us throughout the day before had subsided. We traversed the disgusting new city of Corinth before crossing over the dramatic yet useless canal that joins the Bay of Corinth and Saronic gulf. (OK, it is not completely worthless; you could get a dingy through it and it does make a nice photo) Soon there were fewer towns and houses and our climb up the coastal cliffs on the way to Athens afforded us vistas over the Saronic gulf that were pretty, but no match for the Dalmatian coast. The major hindrance to my appreciation of the view was the carpet of trash that extended from the roadside to the sea and the chunks of debris floating in the water.
This may have been the cradle of Western Civilization, but today's Greeks have yet to learn to use a trash can. We had two goals in mind when we hit the town of Megara: souvlaki and a train. Hungry from the challenging ride and not relishing the idea of riding in Athens we looked for both. I waited with the bikes while Andy went in search of the rail schedule. There would be no leaving our cycles to themselves for three hours while we went sightseeing in this burg. While waiting I watched herds of gypsy kids eye our bikes in awe, contemplating what they'd be worth in an Athens pawn shop.
Strike one, no trains until six or so and it was only two. Strike two, no munchies to be had; so we were off to Athens. The one consolation was that Andy crafted a clever route into town. We'd be able to skip much of the suburban traffic and rely on our second favorite form of transportation that begins with a \"B\" (a boat). We whizzed down to the seaside, hopped on a ferry to a little island off the coast, rode the length of the island and ferried into port. The only bummer of the whole affair was when I fell over at the ferry ticket stand in front of the hoards of passengers.
Fortunately it was more embarrassing than painful. No Greek day is complete without a drama, and we saw one getting onto the boat to Athens. A military truck rushed to be the first on the ferry and then would not back up to clear the ramp so other cars could get on. The captain, his crew and the ten soldiers in the truck began to verbally abuse each other for fifteen minutes while all the passengers looked on. Finally the truck was shooed off the boat, the ramp drawn and we were off again. Our general experiences with Athenians would be foreshadowed by the behavior of the drivers exiting the ferry.
Long before we'd docked all cars and trucks had started and began to jockey for position exiting the boat. Before coming to a rest near the ramp many had cut others off driving the few scant feet. Several others were hurling insults at one another most insinuating the professional nature of their mother's sexual exploits. We waited for the dust to clear and the revving traffic to exit before making our retreat. The Brats were now at the peril of being struck by the oncoming traffic trying to board the boat who had waited a millisecond to let the cars clear before boarding.
This scene gives one an idea of warmth and patience of Athenians. The remainder of our trip into central Athens is lost in a gray haze for me. I put myself in a trance so I could forget the automotive atrocities that would no doubt occur. What I do remember was a constant flow of honking traffic, a stop at the tomb of the unknown soldier (really ridiculous uniforms on the sentries!), and settling in at our seedy hotel near Omonia I spent no time in Athens looking for an \"I (heart) Athens\" bumper sticker. Compounding our distaste for the city, its smog, traffic, mean people and rude taxi drivers were the cold temperatures and rainy weather.
Luckily Andy's childhood (and current) friend Peter Demopolous is Greek, so he had been here several times and knew the city well. Even more fortunate, Peter's mom, Popie, was there and was willing to store our bikes while we drove around in Turkey. Mentioning that we were on our way to Turkey never seemed a good idea. The hostilities between the two over Cyprus were at a high point while we were there. I still find their mutual animosities hard to follow. They look the same. They eat nearly the same food. The women in the countryside cover most of their bodies and faces in both countries.
And, their music sounds quite similar to the untrained ear. Still every time we said we were going we heard nearly the same response, \"Why you go to Turkey?\" \"The people are bad, it is dirty, you will be robbed....\" Strangely, when pressed, none of these Greeks had been to Turkey and most had never met or known a Turk. The propaganda machine seems well oiled in Greece. There were a few high points during our stay in the capital of Greece. First, Andy was more than satisfied with the availability of good coffee. Next, we discovered an amazing little restaurant and deli called, imaginatively, \"The Food Company.\"
It was extraordinary for the fact it was a little slice of America in Greece. Barbara Hey of Minneapolis had married a Greek, moved to Athens and opened up simply the best eating establishment around. It was whacky, the help smiled, the food was great and for a moment we felt like we were at home. (Their cheesecake and carrot cake are unrivaled throughout the world!) There were even a few memorable Greek things in Athens. The Archeological Museum is mind blowing. They are only able to display a small percentage of the artifacts they have, but what is on display is truly exceptional.
The treasures from the burial chambers of Mycanae including the golden death masques and jewelry left me awestruck and the galleries of sculpture defy description. The only problem is that you have to go to Athens to see it. When we returned to Athens from Turkey in order to continue our journey three weeks later, the city seemed to take revenge on our distaste for it. The weather was still worse than our first visit. (I'd actually passed through Athens on my way to Mykonos and refused to leave the airport though I had a lengthy stopover.) The storms were so strong that the port was closed and we were unable to get a boat to Rhodes.
Our extra day there seemed like hell. We saw two movies to pass the time, (both worse than Athens itself) \"Men in Black\" and \"Faceoff\". We, of course, made a little detour to our favorite slice of America, the Food Company. The one strategic error made in our exodus from Athens was not taking our bikes from Popie's to the Pireas, Athens' port, when we first learned our boat would not sail. Had we done that we'd have been there waiting for the first boat to leave. We'd been given the maritime schedule by the Greek National Tourist Office which clearly stated that our boat would leave at five in the evening.
Consequently we took our time in the morning, had a leisurely breakfast, only calling the ferry company to find the status of the boat at ten-thirty that morning. The news they relayed was disturbing. Previous days storms had put most boats off schedule, ours to Rhodes would leave at one this afternoon. PANIC! Our bikes were still a half-hour out of town at Popie's and from there an hour-and-a-half ride to the port under the best circumstances. We called Popie and asked her to find out the train schedule to the port while we hopped in a cab for her place.
Our cabby was the only calm one in Greece. He drove us at a nearly comatose pace across town, engaging in the annoying Greek taxi driver habit of stopping for every person hailing a cab and asking where they were going. This way they can double up on fares as well as driving time for time-pressed passengers like us. (I can't wait to see how international tourists from places like New York and Paris react to this practice during the 2004 Olympics....) More distressing news greeted us at Popie's. The train would not leave until three in the afternoon. Left with few options we began to pack our bikes with the intent to ride to Pireas.
I figured if we can't make the boat, at least we'll be there for the next. Athens had not grown on me no matter how good the carrot cake was. Popie's cabinet maker called a friend with a truck and asked him if he'd consider giving us a ride to Pireas. He would but he demanded 25,000 agoutis, or nearly one hundred dollars! We were upset about the price, and bargained him down to 20,000, but only on the condition he could get to us immediately and have us at the dock by our departure time. We packed while waiting for the driver who took his time getting to us.
He finally arrived in a massive Mercedes moving van at noon leaving only an hour to make it to the port. Even the driver seemed nervous about making the boat given the perpetual nature of Athens' traffic. We threw our bikes in the back, hopped in the cab and were off. Our driver had no knowledge of the passenger port and kept quizzing us on the location of the dock in Greek over and over. We took this as a bad sign and thought it would be his excuse for not getting us on time. He got us to Pireas at the expense of our nerves, hurling his truck around corners and through lane changes like Lady Di and Dodi's chauffeur (it must be a Mercedes thing).
Unfortunately he took us to the commercial and container part of the port and stranded us in traffic. We had to get out and ride the last kilometers in order to make it. The driver literally tossed a bike to me, nearly knocking me down and tearing my pants. Too shocked by the action and thankful I wasn't harmed to make a fuss about it. We wove through cars parked in the street and found ourselves at the enormously confusing port. No one seemed to know where the boat to Rhodes was docked, but everyone was willing to give erroneous advice.
We were literally the last on the boat watching the crew hoist the door as we locked our bikes and went to the deck to bid good riddance to fair Athens for now.