Turkey and Greece (2001 or 2002)

Hello everyone. This is a description of our trip to Turkey and Greece, the latter half in good part a search for Marianne’s roots. It is part travelogue, part letter from abroad, written ex post, an occasional political or personal comment and a bit of old-fashioned Mermelino.

Before we left, on April 19, two events occurred, one trivial, one enormously important. The trivial event is that I somehow hurt my back which made it hard for me to walk for more than an hour, without a great deal of pain, and though reassured by a chiropractor, I was concerned.

Ten days before we are to leave, my sister, Norma, calls to say she is having brain surgery in a week, to remove a tumor, which had just been discovered. I spend Monday and Tuesday (the 16th and 17th ) in Baltimore, leaving after it is clear she is going to be all right, both in the short run sense and in the long run sense–the tumor was not malignant. (The ordeal of waiting, especially when you’re told the operation is going to be 4 hours and it takes 7 hours, is a story for another day.)

We ended up purchasing in advance round trip tickets from JFK to Istanbul (stopping in Amsterdam both ways, returning on May 14), round trip tickets from Istanbul to Antalya (a coastal Turkish city on the Mediterranean and round trip tickets from Istanbul to Athens, costing just over $1000 per person. [One-ways cost nearly as much as round trips, and occasionally more, a pricing policy I simply can’t understand.]

In general, we both loved Turkey, felt it was safe and fascinating and enjoyed both our big city experience (Istanbul) and our small city experience (Antalya). The food was sensational–delicious and low (or non) fat. If I was sentenced to choose between eating either US food, whatever that means, or Turkish food, for the rest of my life, it would be hard to resist choosing Turkish food. Of course, prices were considerably less than in the US. We felt free to eat fruits and vegetables, which we didn’t dare risk in India, and Turkish tomatoes and other fruits and vegetables were like it used to be in the US decades ago, when our food had taste.

We stayed in Istanbul within walking distance of the Blue Mosque, the Aya Sofya (Hagia Sofia) and Topkapi palace, three big Istanbul sights. [Postcard recipients, please forgive the mistake in my joke about the Topkapi movie being better than the actual palace, where I alluded to Sophia Loren as starring in the movie–it was Melina Mercouri.] Our tourist hotel area was filled with young Aussies, of all people. Once in a restaurant, I said cheers to Pat Rafter and 8 Aussies in their 20's, sitting in a nearby table, asked us old foggies to join them, treating us to drinks and yukking it up with us. And why were the Aussies there? Of course, it was to commemorate the battle of Gallipoli, a Churchillian mistake during World War I, when vast numbers of Aussies were killed (although one of them said it was historically the coming together of the Australian nation). Gallipoli was, I believe, a few hundred miles away and our neighborhood emptied after the Aussies went on their pilgrimage. Well maybe not emptied, but the raucousness declined.

A highlight of our Istanbul phase was our venture, using public transportation, including their subway–nicer than ours–to the Chora church, just outside the old city walls. In it were breathtaking mosaics, even for one whose breath is not likely or easy to take away at seeing mosaics–meaning me. We also boated up the Bosporus, ending at an old interesting fort. And we walked. One of my back exercises, and the one that brought the most relief, was one that had me on the ground looking like a devout Muslim praying to Allah. Whenever I did this, I was fearful I would be sentenced to life imprisonment for mocking their religion. I took great care to do this in out of the way naves and apses and their outdoor equivalents. The weather, by the way, in both Greece and Turkey, at this time of year was delightful–70's during the day, maybe lower 80's in Antalya, 50's or 60's at night (a little lower on Skopelos–more on this). It rained lightly maybe twice.

The only other thing I’ll mention is that it was hard to walk by a restaurant, jewelry or rug store without the proprietor hustling us, in a friendly way, to be sure. One is perplexed at how the jewelry and rug stores can all survive, if they do, since there are more of them than you can ever imagine. In general, I thought of Istanbul as 1/3 New York City, with tourists from all over, 1/3 Paris with few big buildings and roofs similar to what you see in Paris and 1/3 Istanbul, with its mosques and Euro-Asian Islamic caste.

Antalya has an old city where we stayed, with streets (often unnamed) snaking around, maze-like, like a Casbah. Lost once, we asked help of a merchant and he had to call on his cell phone to find out our hotel was one block away. We took one guided tour of Perge, Side and Aspendos, the latter containing an amphitheater still used–Carmen was being presented in about a week. We also rented a car for a day and went to Termessos, where you climb for about an hour to an extinct mountain city able to resist conquest from everyone, being in such a rugged and inaccessible area, though one wonders how they ever brought up all the heavy building equipment. It too had a wonderful theater. I climbed down to the bottom where the stage must have been while Marianne sat on what might have been row Z–way up from where I was. I spoke lines from Twelfth Night (I was Malvolio in a high school presentation) and I spoke them in a normal conversational mode–or a bit higher–and Marianne heard perfectly. Driving in this part of Turkey was easy–the roads were wide enough and with less potholes, traffic or other impediments than here and the drivers were sane.

In general, people were exceedingly helpful. But old ways die slowly. One Turk said the Greeks were OK but lazy. (The Greek who drove us from the airport to the hotel, a delightful and charming young man, more or less believed that much of Turkey and much of Yugoslavia was really Greek territory.) The rug salesmen were often engaging, with a sense of humor. One spoke almost perfect English and during a long conversation I learn he was a Kurd. Later, out of the blue, a hotel proprietor who didn’t look Turkish, spoke to us as we passed by and said very quickly, upon learning we were Americans, that we shouldn’t be deceived. Turks were still Turks, by which I took it to mean they were warlike and not yet up to civilized standards. I mentioned that the Kurd we had just met didn’t say anything about what was happening out east to the Kurds. The man we were talking to said that was because he was afraid to. I had a feeling this man may have been Jewish but didn’t ask, regretfully.

Athens, as many know, is a bit noisy and we didn’t like it as much as Turkey. The food in Greece is good, but smothered in olive oil. We were walking distance from the Acropolis and the Parthenon and it’s hard not to be fascinated by what we saw. We also happened upon the Jewish Museum of Greece and spent an interesting hour or two there.

We arrived on May Day and though it may mean next to nothing here, in Greece it is still big stuff. Our taxi had to take a roundabout route from the new airport–new, may I mention, in preparation for Athens’ hosting of the 2004 Olympic games–since streets were closed off. We leave Athens, incidentally, a few days later on the day the Pope arrives (we leave early enough to avoid the jams caused by streets again being closed). The day before His Holiness arrives we witnessed a demonstration by militant Orthodox who have never forgiven the Catholics for what happened in the 11th century. The Herald Tribune in Greece has a special Greek supplement and was filled with news of the Pope’s visit–one piece I saved because it was so well written.

On the plane to Greece, Marianne is teary. All her life she wanted to go to Greece where her grandfather (her mother’s father), Nick Koleas [or in Greece, Kollias], was born, on the island of Skopelos. Skopelos is way up in the north (east), in the Sporades. I have since found out that it is about 30% larger than Manhattan and 2/3 the size of Staten Island. It is a beautiful island and most Greeks, I think, know of it while few Americans know of it. It is nowhere near Crete or Rhodes or any of the famous and more commercialized islands in the south such as Santorini in the Cyclades. In Marianne’s last conversation with her grandmother, then in her 90's and dying, who though not Greek by birth, had married Nick, she said to Marianne: I guess we didn’t make it to Greece (a trip long talked of). This was why we had come to Greece–to see Skopelos and get in touch with Marianne’s living roots.

So after 4 days of Athens, off we go to Skopelos. We “know” the following: the names of some distant relatives (people several cousins removed–that tenuous) who supposedly still lived on the island, learned of, from an aged distant cousin, living in Florida; that Nina, the daughter of Nick’s sister (and hence the first cousin of Ora, Marianne’s mother, now in her 80's) lived in Volos, a modern city that Frommer’s says you should not spend time in; that Nina had last communicated with Ora (and other relatives) in the early 60's–was she still alive?; and that the Skopelos relatives lived in a village on the island of Skopelos, called Glossa. We find out there are boats to and from Skopelos from Ayios Konstandinos and from Volos.

We get to St Constantine, which is closer to Athens, by bus, only to learn that the schedule we had been given was incorrect and that the next boat was 5 hours away to one of the two ferry stops on Skopelos (one is the town of Skopelos and the other is called Loutraki-Glossa, Loutraki being the port, with hotels and restaurants, but still smaller than Glossa, I believe, which is on a hill and a 20 minute hike away from the port, by a steep path or an hour hike by the winding road (and 5 minutes by car). We have a post card from Nina, mailed in the 50's, with a picture of Glossa–maybe 50 houses on a hill and some old photographs of Nick and a few others.

We enjoy our 5 hours waiting in this lovely town and then board what we thought was a regular ferry boat and learn it was a hydrofoil. The people who run it think they are literally flying us there, with hydrofoil attendants and a movie on safety similar to what you get on an airplane. After stopping at another island, where 50 passengers board heading for Skopelos, we arrive at the town of Skopelos, without a room at 9pm. Marianne, fearful that the 50 had taken all the rooms, believed we would end up sleeping on the beach, with evening temperatures in the upper 40's. But no problem. A man renting hotel rooms meets the boat and we sign up for the night. Then we go out to eat, at 10pm at one of the 10 outdoor, partially protected, restaurants that face the harbor, each having maybe 5 customers each. It’s a beautiful setting, but Marianne is disappointed. Expecting to find a primitive island, she thinks it looks like Fire Island and the way it was laid out, where the cars were behind us out of sight, indeed it did.

In the light of day, we find that the village of Skopelos is charming and primitive enough, its Fire Island restaurants notwithstanding. We are off by bus at about 10:30 to the other end, which takes about an hour. The bus makes its stop at Glossa and we have to decide whether to get off or wait until it gets down the hill to Loutraki, where there are presumably more hotels. The bus driver advises Loutraki, as does an elderly Greek woman on the bus, but there to the other side of where the bus is parked is a hotel–in clear English:Hotel–so I say let’s do it, which is what Marianne wanted to do in any case. And as the bus pulls away, we then notice the sign obscured by the bus, indicating in English the hotel was closed.

The town, such as we can see it–its outskirts maybe 30 yards away--is mostly above us (and its streets would not be big enough to accommodate a vehicle the size of a bus). But nearby, just across the street, next to a church (of which there may be, literally, as many as 50 on this island-- all Greek Orthodox, of course) is a dinky taverna, where a young woman is painting chairs and a handful of people are sitting around drinking. It is obvious that preparations are being made for the coming summer season. So we walk over and order a coffee and a clarifying question, in excellent English, by the young woman, indicates she is someone we can talk to about what to do next. She was born in Australia, lived there until recently, but is married to a Greek. Her mother has a boarding house 10 minutes away and both of her sisters also live in Glossa. Marianne names her names (of her grandfather’s family).. The Australian consults with a few of the people hanging around and her husband. Pictures are looked at. At some point it appears a connection made. And then at a later point, she points to the name of the Taverna, over the door. It is named–in Greek letters, which more or less from my Amherst fraternity experience I can recognize–Kollias (without the sigma, for some reason). Well. Well. Well. The Australian, Elani (Helen in Greek, but pronounced to rhyme with Melanie) is married to John. John’s father is Costa. Costa is the son of Nick’s brother. Our taverna, the one we almost literally stumble on, is owned by Marianne’s flesh and blood relatives.

Costa and Marianne’s mother, Ora, are first cousins. Soon Costa’s sister, Helen, comes over. And she and Marianne hug and though she knows next to no English (and we, no Greek), Helen is wonderfully simpatico. Before long, we are having lunch at her house. I am forced to eat scrambled eggs for the first time in 15 years! That afternoon, we also meet an uncle. We end up staying at the Aussie’s mom’s boarding house, which is very nice but more appropriate for somewhat warmer weather. It is unheated. I kept putting the burners of the stove on and Marianne, fearing a fire, kept turning them off. Meanwhile, I should mention, I had contracted a minor cold, which plagued me a bit throughout the last week of the trip, but except for two walks I didn’t take, didn’t slow me down. We walk out of our quarters the next day–it is Sunday–and meet a couple, apparently walking back from another church than the one I mentioned, who ask Americana? We say yes. It is Costa and his wife.

We were later told that the uncle, who is about 70, would have invited us to stay with him, but being unmarried, his place was in no shape for guests. We invited the Australian and her husband, Marianne’s 2nd cousin, or whatever the relationship is between the children of cousins, to have dinner with us, but in the end, the timing was wrong. They had to leave the island for two days to print menus and were too tired to go out at 9pm when they returned. I was grateful.

The next day we left but we had hiked all around where we were staying and had revisited the town of Skopelos. I can’t emphasize enough how beautiful the island was. Every time you turned, you saw another view of mountains and the Aegean Sea. And if you looked down, exotic plants and butterflies. If you walked in the town, it was just as Marianne had hoped it would be, apart from TV antennae and dishes, which didn’t bother her, of course. Also, before we left, helped by the Australian, we made contact with Nina. Nina had to be wooed a bit, since years ago someone from America was coming from America to visit, but didn’t show up. Volos, where she lived, is a little off the beaten track, but not if you are already up north, in Skopelos. Marianne spoke to the granddaughter whose English was good enough to set a time for our visit.

We take the boat from Glossa (or Glossa’s port, so to speak) to Volos, this time by regular ferry, disembark, find a hotel and then taxi ourselves to Nina’s. We had a last name, so we rang at the name we had. A young woman, maybe 21, answers. She has a towel wrapped around her body and another around her head. She was getting ready and we had pushed the wrong bell. The grandmother lives on one floor and her son’s family on another. The toweled one–can I say the following?–is a sexpot. She is the older sister of the granddaughter Marianne has spoke to. She is obviously extremely attractive, but later we learn she also has an infectious laugh, a refreshing sense of humor and along with her younger sister, who was maybe 15, a sense of responsibility that made the two girls want very much to help her grandmother and mother understand what was going on, since they spoke no English, while the two girls knew some. We soon meet the other daughter and their mother. And then–tata–Nina. Near 80, she is as spunky as they come. Her husband had died about a year ago and she was asking us if we had anyone in America she could hook up with. There is another relative (and where she fits, I’m not sure), but before long we are having a lovely lunch with the family. Then Nina is showering gifts on us, including a tapestry she herself has made. She brings out pictures she has saved, of Marianne and her brothers, when Marianne was maybe 13. We see pictures of her son and Marianne’s first impression (and mine too) is that he very much looks like one of her two brothers, the older one who lives in Memphis. And soon Nina’s son arrives. He is an air traffic controller for the military and knows some English, on a level with the granddaughters.

After a few hours of talk, we are invited to dinner. They drive us to our hotel and then pick us up again a few hours later at 9pm and take us to a wonderful neighborhood restaurant, where obviously they go often and which I learn, since I ask, you needed to make a reservation for. It was packed. And Dad keeps ordering the ouzo’s. Marianne tells mom that her ring is beautiful. Mom takes it off her finger and gives it Marianne, who in the end accepts it because to do otherwise would seem to be insulting. The cell phone of the sexpot rings–apparently clients for her hair cutting business. Not boyfriends I ask? No. Do you have boyfriends. Oh, yes, 5 of them. I go out with one at 2pm, another at 3pm, etc. She likes to play basketball. I throw one boyfriend in the basket, then another, still another. Who knows what her love life is really like? She does, after all, live at home, with a father who appears to be very smart and engaging, but also on the conservative side. I asked her why she doesn’t have a nose ring? She uses international sign language–her finger across the neck, indicating her father would kill her if she had a nose ring. The younger one was taking some English tests soon. Apparently, she practices by watching American movies. Had she heard of You’ve Got Mail? I say it’s about our neighborhood, the Upper west side, which indeed it is, to some extent. She not only knew the movie but knew who starred in it–Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. We finish at midnight, get driven to the hotel and say our goodbyes. We had found her roots and what a delightful experience. Postscript: they’ve invited us back in summer time when we could stay at their summer house on Glossa and I know Marianne would love to do this. And maybe, soon, we will.

We brought small gifts, not knowing who we would find or even if we would find anyone–New York City T-shirts and coffee cups. I’d like to send the younger daughter a video of You’ve Got Mail, but Louis tells me we have to transform it for European VCR use. And for the older daughter, I thought of sending her a subscription to some chic hairdressing magazine.

We left Volos and got convinced by a cab driver to take a cab to Delphi and in the end, though it cost a little, it was probably a wise choice since we were exhausted and we saved many, many hours, especially since the cabbie often went over 150 kilometers an hour (over 100mph!) . Delphi isn’t very big. You can walk from one end to the other in about 10-15 minutes. It has a wonderful Museum and ruins I didn’t see, since this is one of the walks I didn’t take. I think, however, that almost everything you would want to see of importance was at the museum, next to the ruins. The view from our hotel room, or from the restaurants we went to, was breathtaking. In these places, we were at the edge of the town, which then dropped into a deep valley and there, maybe half a mile away, mountains rose. It was spectacular. One more night in Athens. Then up at 5am for a 8am flight to Istanbul, a five hour wait in Istanbul, a two hour wait in Amsterdam and then arrival in JFK–a 23 hour day, by the time we got home. Somewhere en route I picked up conjunctivitis, which I hope has been cured. Marianne picked up a bad case of jet lag, which took almost a week to get rid of. Our pictures came out, and along with postcards I had bought, are all assembled in an album.

After we get home, I call my sister, learn all is well and also learn that both my postcards from Turkey had arrived. This was of concern since at the first Turkish post office I went to, they told me a certain amount of stamps were needed and off goes this batch. When I go to another post office with batch two, they say I need a larger amount of stamps. And in post office three, for batch 3, still a larger amount. Go figure.

[I hope I can figure out how to send this. It’s being typed in Corel WordPerfect 8. I want to send it as an attachment. I’d like to avoid having it arrive all choppy, which I think is what happens when I move it to its email location.]

Love to one and all, David