Upon landing we could feel it. Though there were trucks and cars before us, and modern buildings beyond,
this was the Land of Homer,
the first great story teller, the giant of letters to whom all subsequent poets and novelists, wanderers too, pay tribute.
Walking down the gangplank, I struck up a conversation with a fellow passenger. I’d seen him from a distance in transit, and prior to, during the boarding process. He appeared to be a photographer, with a particular interest in boats.
I told him I thought as much, and he smiled, introducing himself as Gustavo Alabiso from Germany.
Handing me his card, he informed me that yes, he is indeed a photographer.
I inquired as to whether he’s on assignment. “I am, doing work on a five year project.” I asked if it had to do with boats. “In part,” he said. “I want to make the argument, with photographs, that Africans, those that emigrate to Europe, are the cultural descendants of Ulysses.”
He had me on the hook.
“They are the epic voyagers, whether on foot, by truck or van, or on a boat of course. I believe it’s important to tell their stories through that lens.”
I thought I had a new friend, but he had a ferry to catch and a two hour voyage to a distant island. I told him I’d email. He said he’d appreciate that.
Google maps suggested it was a 5.2 km walk to the Maison Grecque. Easy enough on a pleasant afternoon. But like Italian taxi drivers, even more so, I was besieged upon by no less than three locals, each intent on providing transport.
There was quite a conversation,
but ultimately I made a choice, going with Dimitris,
having talked him down from 12 euros to 8.
He assured me he knew of my ultimate destination, and was willing to accept 8 rather than the going rate. Dimitris came through and I handed him the 8, plus 2 for his bother.
After a nap and a bit of cleaning up, we went out, in search of something simple for dinner. Not much was open, but we found a little place that appeared to serve authentic cuisine.
Handed a menu,
we couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
But with the help of Google translate, I asked the waitress if she would recommend something.
Of course, she said, in a very passable English, soon returning with a platter of delicious chicken, salad, and fries,
with a Coca-Cola to wash it down. All for 9 euros. Quite a find.
On the walk back, we came upon a most interesting site. A large scale rendition of Alice with the rabbit.
Grace Slick came to mind.
One pill makes you larger,
and one pill makes you small,
And the ones that mother gives you,
don't do anything at all,
Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall.
And if you go chasing rabbits,
and you know you're going to fall,
Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar
given you the call,
And call Alice, when she was just small.
When the men on the chessboard
get up and tell you where to go,
And you've just had some kind of mushroom,
and your mind is moving slow,
Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know.
The Oracle of Delphi came to mind as well.
No doubt Lewis Carroll is her cultural descendant.
A ways further was a small park, and a memorial to those who fought in the Greek War of 1821.
The Greeks, rebelling against the Ottoman rule, fought for a decade before gaining independence.
I thought of Pierre and the 300 Spartans and imagined, struggle though it was, that there was little doubt the Greeks would win out.
Having paid homage, we walked a while longer before returning to the Maison Grecque,
our lovely room,
and a pleasant surprise left on the bedside table.
Turning in, I picked up Homer again, having put him down several years back for lack of relevance.
But we’re in his land now, the land of the Homeric epic,
the land of Odysseus.
Sing to me, Muse, of that endlessly cunning man who was blown off course to the ends of the earth, in the years after he plundered Troy. He passed through the cities of many people and learned how they thought, and he suffered many bitter hardships upon the high seas as he tried to save his own life and bring his companions back to their home. But however bravely he struggled, he could not rescue them, fools that they were, their own recklessness brought disaster upon them all . . .
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