Pióro

It was in some Mediterranean country, Portugal I think, that Martha and I were flipping through a tourist brochure of things to do. On one page, in big bold letters, was the word ‘Tosca.’ I pointed to this listing and said, “Wicked. I can’t believe those guys are playing here. We should totally go and see them.” I was sure Martha would be into it too. After all, we really enjoyed the Kruder & Dorfmeister show at last year’s Montreal Jazz Festival. It would be wicked to catch some of Richard Dorfmeister’s dubby beats once again.

“Um,” started Martha, “It’s opera.”

“Martha,” I said knowingly, using that don’t-mess-with-my-vast-musical-knowledge tone, “I don’t think Dorfmeister has branched into that realm of music. Sure he’s Austrian, where you receive classical training in the womb or something, but he’s stoned all the time and opera is probably too ambitious for a—”

“No Matt,” Martha said with waning patience, “Tosca is an opera.”

“Oh,” but I wasn’t done yet, “I haven’t heard of it. It’s probably by some minor hack, right?”

“Puccini.”

So, eventually we made it to Vienna. It’s the first German-speaking country I’ve ever been in. I needed to get used to the German tip. Every time I saw the word neu on a billboard or a sign, I thought of the sweeping guitars of “Hallogallo.”

Walking around Vienna, Martha and I came across a poster that had ‘Tosca’ in big bold letters.

“Wicked,” I said, “We should totally go see them… Wait a minute… Is that—”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

So I went off about how this time it was an honest mistake. After all, Dorfmeister is Austrian and he probably lives around the corner and this Puccini guy is like Italian or something so what are the odds that he’d be on tour in Austria after we saw his poster in Portugal. Oh. Right. Puccini’s dead. Well, then for sure my money’s on the Tosca guy who’s alive…

So we took my uncultured ass to see Dutch and Flemish masters right from the art collections of the Hapsbourgs. We then chilled in the Museums Quarter to the music of two DJ’s/performance artists. They started their set playing tennis with electric guitars. Most of their music was made by blowing into latex gloves and rubbing fingers and rocks on a board. All of this was framed by arrhythmic beats and bleeps. It’s just what you’d expect from a Germanic duo with electronic gear—oh so three-in-the-morning Brave New Waves. Then we went to a modern dance performance. Xavier Le Roy “wants to dissect trite and cliché body movements conveyed through and by our mass media.”

I now call that day, “Die auf Kulture.”

Turkey quickly became one of our favourite countries to explore. Rhodes to Marmaris and then off to Dalyan. Pension right on the river, below Lycian tombs cut in the rock Last Crusade style. Went on a boat trip with Jan, a Kiwi, and Jim, a Londoner born in Maricious (sp?). Back flips off the bow of our boat into a fresh-water lake. Visited the ruined Canus, older than Heroditus. On the old Acropolis, the call to prayer came up from the valley below. Felt like a cross between Indiana Jones, Sir Edmund Hillary and a mountain hermit. Finally, Turtle Beach and a steeple case through the waves. Off to Istanbul with Jan and Jim. Spoke with a Turk on the bus. Served on a naval boat bought from Canada. Told me to be careful in Istanbul. Big city. In Istanbul 20 min. Jim and Jan friends with the populace. Speaking phrasebook with young guys on the bus. You know a club?

Reggae.

No, we don’t like reggae. House. House music.

House? Ah, underground.

And then he made the universal four-to-the-floor rhythm with his mouth.

Uhn-ser, uhn-ser, uhn-ser, uhn-ser.

Yeah! House music!

As far as we could tell, we were to meet the guys at midnight at the Burger King in Taxim.

That night, all of us driven to Taxim in a red Mustang belonging to Jan’s carpet salesman. Couldn’t find the guys at BK. Went to a club and got down. On the way home, to the backpacker ghetto, Jim tried to find out from our Kurdish cabbie where the good gay bars were. No transvestites like the other one we went to. The cabbie gave us his number said he’d take us out. Taxim’s for children. We’ll go to real clubs. Didn’t get any names though. Didn’t call the cabbie either.

Re-occurring conversation with carpet salesmen.

Yes, please. Hello. Yes, please. You want a carpet?

No.

Come inside for some tea.

No. I don’t want a carpet.

Why not?

I don’t have a floor.

You have a wall.

No I don’t have one of those either.

But you will someday.

I can’t carry a carpet in my backpack.

Send it to your mother, your brother, sister, ex-girlfriend. There’s always someone.

Felt like I met all of Istanbul.

Mar’s a natural haggler.

Jim got a backgammon lesson from Ebon, the crass waiter at our local bar. They played for dinner. Ebon held the dice up and asked, “Do you trust your ass? Do you?”

Ride in a horse-drawn carriage around one of Princes Islands. Martha and I were way too addicted to backgammon. Get the sites out of the way so we can play some more. Surprise, Martha always wins. On our last night got kissed good-bye by Ebon. The count now is a Greek and a Turk. I am world peace.

Rhodes—the biggest tourist trap since Cinque Terre with half the charm. Sure, there are ancient edifices. The old town looks pretty cool with its narrow streets and small squares, all within the old city walls. The place is rammed with shops. The ones selling stylish chess sets or carpets or pillows add to the flavour of the place, while the racks and racks of leather ball caps with BMW or Audi logos or Pokemon beach towels don’t. Every third store is identical to the one before. I guess business is good.. At least the towns-people had the good sense to locate the McDonalds, the Casino and the tourist condos in the new town.

Faliraki, a beach town on the island of Rhodes, is worse. A bus from the town of Rhodes deposits you by the side of the highway among a sea of plastic store-front signs. The road to the beach is lined with restaurants. Many of them exhibit an obsession for English breakfasts. There are postcards for sale that show the sites of the island or big titted women. The cards also have messages that expresses the sender’s earnest wishes, like “Greece is great” or the Pink Floydian desire “Wish you were here.” The bars are called Mambo Bar, Vibe Music Bar, Pozen, KGB and Jimmy’s Pub. One bar has a painting of a topless woman with a caption that read, “We’ve got the biggest jugs.”

The beach itself is paved with umbrellas. The population consists mostly of vacationing Greeks and sunburned Germans. The Brits are in the bars or at the mini-put course. All around the bathing area are boats: boats for para-sailors, boats for inflatable doughnuts and these giant air-mattress thingys that would flop around like poorly flown kites. For the meek, there are long inflatable tubes that twenty can straddle at a time. To the south are water-front condos and to the north is a small amusement park.

When I have to pee, I pee in the sea. I’m sure everyone else is doing it.

From Athens it was just a hop, skip and a jump, and we were on yet another night ferry, this time for the Cyclades. Naxos was our destination, an island that the Lonely Planet describes as the biggest, greenest and perhaps most beautiful of the whole archipelago. I have no idea if they are right, as it was the only one we went to, but I’m inclined to believe them. Damn, it was fiiiiiine! Swimming—cool. Island souvlaki, yoghurt with honey for dessert—yum. But the best, the creme de la creme, was when I rented a scooter, and Matt a motorcycle, and we spent the whole day touring the island at break neck speed. Ok, maybe not quite what most would consider break neck, but for me, a non driver with inhibitions to lose, it seemed f$*%´n fast, and I’m sure I could have managed to break my neck somehow if I was say to fall off the scooter or something … anyway, it was amazing! I was euphorically happy. You would better understand if you could have seen the view, we will try to get the pictures up soon. We went from tiny little town, to tiny little town. At first we would stop and look around, but then we realised that we would much rather just keep scooting… fuck the towns!

Matt was having a good time too, but it was a serious good time. He had to concentrate on what he was doing more that I did. There was a bit more to his bike than just: gas and break, gas and break. And he did very well, only fell off the bike a few times. Parents, please don’t fret, all of the falls were from a standstill, and did way more damage to the bike than to his person (and yes, we were wearing helmets). When he was in motion, he was in total control, king of the road. Motorcycles take practice, but you don’t even really need an opposable thumb to master the scooter.

Yup, I’m all about the scooter. I hear they make great Christmas gifts.

I left Athens full of retsina and having been kissed by a man. The hostel we were staying at had a bar and the bartender was George.

“I’m George. George Bartender.”

I doubt his last name was actually Bartender, unless he shortened it from “Bartenderopolous.” This guy was all about the party and he’s been at if for over twenty years. He played some guitar.

“George, were you in a band?”

“Before Christ.”

I never found out if that was the date or the name of the band.

There were six women from Spain staying in a room. One evening was starting slowly so George called the Spanish women on the hostel phone.

“Hello ladies. It’s George Bartender. We are having party. When will you come?”

He threw up his hands when he found out that they wouldn’t be down for another hour.

“What do they have to do to get ready?! I don’t know.”

I was telling him about a great drink I had in Spain, tinta de verrana (sp?). It’s wine and Fanta, not a combination that I thought would work, but it’s really good. George said he could make me something like that, but better.

“George, what’s this called?”

“My Cold Blood”

At any given time, George usually had someone else working the bar for him, usually a pretty patron. Martha worked the bar for a bit. She learned to work the cash and make some kind of green drink. In fact, George got pretty flirty with Martha. He said that if we ever broke up, he’d be right there. I told him to stop making me jealous.

In Athens we saw most of the sites that we wanted to. We didn’t want to spend more than two nights in the city. It’s nice, but grimy and there’s not as much old broken stuff as Rome. On our last day, we had hours to kill before our night ferry left for Naxos, so we headed back to the hostel. George had just gotten up (it was around 6 or 7pm), and the bar was pretty slow. Martha got behind the counter, I took a stool and so did George. We chatted. He told us about his kids, who asked him if he’d ever grow up. He said he didn’t fear anything, just God, but he’d see Him in heaven. He poured us his special wine, which was retsina from a plastic bottle.

“This wine is only for bartender. I don’t sell this. Only for me. But I want you to have some.”

He showed us the letters other patrons had written him and said we should write him one. Both Martha and I scribbled something. In my letter I said that George would make a great bartender for God. When he read this I got kissed on both checks. What else could I do, I kissed him back!

Something brushed against my foot.

I woke to see a guy in the door of our train compartment.

He apologised. My first thought was that he was just checking to see if there was a seat free, and when he saw us sleeping he apologised for disturbing us. But when I looked on the floor and saw our day packs missing, I immediately put the pieces together. It was our day packs in the hands of that thief that had brushed against me!

I jumped up, ran out of the compartment, at the same time yelling to Matt “Our bags, where are our bags!”

I ran down the train in the direction that I was pretty sure the thief had gone. When I reached the doors connecting the train cars, I realised that I was in bare feet. Pretty fucking frantic at this point, I ran back to our compartment to find a very dazed and confused Matthew looking under the seats for our bags.

I yelled at Matt to run, to find the guy.

“What guy?”

“The train guy, quick, we’re pulling into a station!”

Matt ran, and I put my shoes on.

I followed. When I got to the section between the cars, there were two guys there having a smoke. They must have been there when the thief ran by.

“Did you see somebody take our bags?”

No response.

“Our bags! Some guy took our bags did you see him run by!”

Shakes of the head. Not very convincing. I was quite suspicious. I began to imagine a brilliant sting, and that every one on board was involved. Like I said, I was frantic. If this was a sting, then maybe the day-bag thefts where just a diversion to get us out of the compartment so they could really work on our big packs! I ran back to the compartment, stood there for a second, and realised that I was being completely paranoid. Matt’s jacket, which he had been using as a pillow, was the only stray object, so I put it on. At this point the train came to a stop. I got off the train and ran to the next open door, where a train guy was standing.

“Someone stole our bags!”

He ignored me completely. I guess he was doing his job or something, but I felt totally invisible. Or maybe he was in on the sting too!

I ran back into the train, back to our compartment, and just stood there. Ok, so I’ve lost my digital camera, and all the books, and it will suck not having our day packs, but really we will survive. That’s when Matt came back, the gallant hero, gasping for breath, clutching our day packs. It was like a dream. For a second I thought, well maybe the thief dropped them in another compartment or something, but when Matt told me he chased him down, I was literally dumbfounded. I kissed him over and over and told him that he was the most amazing person ever! Which he is.

A little while later, while we were hanging out in Brindisi, waiting for our ferry that would take us to Greece, I laughingly said to matt, “Sure we may loose our bags every now and then, but we always get them back!” (referring to a canoe trip we took a little over a year ago). “I can’t believe you said that!” yelled Matt, who I’ve noticed has become more and more superstitious of late, as he jumped up to look for some wood to knock.

So we’ve been pretty silent so far. Since Barcelona anyway. After that amazing town we left the Iberian Peninsula for the Italian one. We stayed in the tourist trap of Cinque Terre, five small villages in a national park. Although touristy, the place is gorgeous: pebble beaches and hiking trails through green mountains.

Then it was onto Rome, a great rummage sale of mind-blowing antiques. On the way to the St. Peter’s Basilica, Martha said, “So this must be pretty big for you, eh? Kinda like Mecca?” Really, it didn’t hit me until I got in, the overwhelming religiosity of the place. I had to bless myself at least once. I had to. After five days, we barely scratched the surface of what Rome had to offer.

While in Rome, we took a day-trip to Cassino. Both of my grandfathers fought in a nasty battle there in 1944. The Second Polish Corps was assigned the task of fighting their way up a mountain to the Abby of Monte Cassino. This was the fourth Allied attempt to take this spot from the Germans over four months. It was a very key place as its capture led to the capture of Rome a week later. One of my grandfathers either loaded or fired artillery (I can’t remember which). The other grandfather drove a truck. After seeing Italian drivers and taking a bus up the crazy mountain road, I think the truck driving was the more dangerous job. At the top of Monte Cassino was the lovely Abbey, completely restored, and a large monument/cemetery for the Polish soldiers. It was a nice way to spend my birthday.

Then we decided it was time to put some hustle in our bustle. It was well into July and we had places to go. We motored over the eastern coast to Italy (see drama outlined below and above). We took a 18 hour ferry from Brindisi, Italy to Patras, Greece. I thought of all those adventure tales about running away to sea. I was very into it for a while. We slept on the deck of the ferry, under the stars with exhaust from the stacks washing over us. I’m not sure if it was the rocking of the boat or the carbon monoxide that lulled me to sleep.

We are in Athens now. Like Rome, there is lots of cool, old, broken stuff. Tonight, it’s off to the Island of Naxos, then Rhodes and then Turkey.

9 July 2002, 6:10 am

Mar woke up.

“Where are our bags?”

Our day-packs were not on the floor where we had left them. We were on a train somewhere between Foggia and Bari, coming up to the eastern coast of Italy. The train was minutes away from pulling into some small town.

We had a booth to ourselves, one of those six-person jobs where three of you stare at another three. Since we had the place to ourselves, we crashed out on the two benches. Our big packs were locked to the luggage racks above. On the floor, our day packs were locked to each other, but not to anything solid.

When Mar noticed that the day bags were gone, I spent a few seconds wandering in and out of the booth. Since I’m never one to believe that someone would steal my stuff, I checked under the benches. Surprise, nothing was there.

Mar had actually seen the guy walk out of the booth. While I was in a daze, she walked down the car to see if she could see him. She was in bear feet. I slept with my shoes on.

Martha has a beautiful and very quick mind.

“Go that way and talk to one of the guys. Hurry, we are pulling into a station.”

I do not have a beautiful quick-thinking mind.

“What guy?”

“The train guy.”

“Right.”

By this time, I put it together: find the train guy/find the bags before the train takes off from the station. If not, the bags are really gone.

I walked down the train glancing in open booths as I went. I found the train guy two cars down.

“Our bags have been stolen,” I said in my best any-other-language-but-Italian.

He said, “Train?”

“No! Bags. Stolen.”

“Train?”

“No”

Charades time. I pointed to his bag.

“Bags…”

Then I made a grabbing gesture with both hands and finished the move off with my best tip-toe-the-football-into-the-endzone impression.

Train guy got the picture. We craned our necks out of the car, up and down the platform. There were only a few people getting off at this one meatball town, all of whom looked very law abiding. I was feeling desperate.

Then, the train guys made the universal noise for “There he is!” It seems the train exit for bag-snatching fuckers is not the platform but the tracks on the opposite side. The wise Italian train system makes both sides available at the station.

I yelled, “Those are our bags!” Can you tell I’ve studied too much Shakespeare? (Now thou hast slain me!) Thankfully the track-side door was open, so I lept from the train and ran across the train tracks without first looking both ways (sorry Mom). Shithead bolted. I sprinted after him out of the station. I shouted, “Stop that fuckerrrrrrrrr!” I think I’ve seen too many cop shows. Obviously that lady with the stroller hasn’t; she didn’t help out in the least as dickhead ran by. I followed him across some street without looking both ways (again, sorry) and up another. All I could think was, “ Stay on him.”

I don’t know what asshole was thinking when he lifted our bags. He was very good to place my glasses, which were on my bag, on the window sill. But for all his care, I don’t think he had a clues as what was in those bags. Now, I’m not a good packer and I like books—bad news for a travel-bag. Martha’s bag was reasonable: it had a digital camera and some odds and ends. But” to this bite-sized bag of booty was my nasty ballast: a journal, a notebook, a can of tuna, a jar of olives, a phrase book covering twelve languages, the mediaeval classic Gargantual and Pantegruel, the Lonely Planet travel-guide that covers every country in Europe, including Luxembourg and the latest copies of NME and The Ecomonist. So I was gaining on him.

Thankfully, numb-nuts fell hard on the road. I think he scraped his face. I gave him a good shove to the side. The shove was effective. I was surprised, as I’m sure those of you who know my level of pumptitude are also surprised. He gave some whiny protest. I think there was a cop walking (!) towards him. Maybe I should have left him my phrase book. It has “Do I have the right to a phone call?” and “Can I speak with my lawyer?” in twelve languages.

In my daydreams, I always imagine that I kick the crap out of the bad-guys. But I’ve never been in a fight. I don’t think I know how the kicking out of crap is done. I was dazed. I picked up the bags. There were people watching. The train guy was waving me back. Another train guy made me stop and look both ways before crossing the track. I gushed many breathless “grazie’s.”

There’s a moral here somewhere. I think it’s, “Read lots.”

At long last, you can see a small fraction of specially selected pictures from our trip. These were cooked up and prepared for the Web in Granada. Many thanks to Jean-Claude for the use of his laptop. Just click on the Pics link to the right and enjoy.

There’s nothing like driving from Granada to Barcelona in a Citroen C5. You feel like a rock-star with the Hives blaring on the CD player. To keep up with traffic you hold an effortless 150 km/h. The highway is much nicer than the town. It’s much better than getting lost in the Albayzin, Granada’s old Arab quarter, going down the wrong way on a one-way street, reversing downhill to try and correct your mistake, blocking off an intersection as you try to do a 31-point turn under the direction of two Castilian-speaking construction workers as the locals shake their heads in disbelief. With no scratches and a smoking clutch later, you get to the hostel swearing that you’d never rent such a big car in Europe ever again. And this is the beginning. There’s still nine hours until Barcelona. The rock-star feeling goes away after Marcia. Martha comes down with a bout of food poisoning. There are little bags of gastro-intestinal goodness that you leave in gas-stations along the way. You share the car with a Texan who lives in New York and a Belgian anarchist would has to be in his home country in two days to stay on the dole. The ride is so fun. The Texan gets off the toll roads and sneaks into Barcelona. He parks the car for the night. The next day your “that car” as you blare Miss Kittin and the Hacker going around and around a Barcelona traffic-circle. You miss your turn-off five times. Somehow you weave through the chaos and the car is returned. You’ll worry about the bill later.