First Travels – Disconnected thoughts

First Travels – Disconnected thoughts
Early Morning
As the Blue Star Ferry Paros rumbles away from Piraias and slips out into open water, I’m struck again by relative anonymity of the landscape around Athens. Low, rolling hills and a crush of urbanism fade into brown, dry mounds and, to the South, the Mediterranean. I don’t know whether it’s the scenery itself, or because I know I’m in Greece, but there’s still a romance to the landscape; a stark, desolate epicness that is only augmented by the images of gods and heroes that dance in front of my eyes.
The sun’s shining hazily through the early morning clouds, illuminating the small sailboats that dot the coastline. Poetry lives thick every where in Greece, in old, crumbled ruins and in the bustling modern ferries. People of all nationalities laugh and chat (and many sleep), and almost uniformly, everyone seems to snap a picture on departure.
*
On the boat
This morning I woke up half an hour later than I intended, resulting in a mad dash to the metro, a realization that I wouldn’t make it to the port in time, and an equally mad dash to a taxi, which I shared with two other Greeks. The driver was very helpful, although I’m fairly certain that I overpaid for the eight minute drive to the docks. Maybe someday I’ll be able to take a cab without getting strung along like a show pony.
All the French are in Greece, enjoying a break from the endless train to sun their faces in the Mediterranean. Their accents are smooth and familiar; a comfortable, mellifluous sound against the slightly harsher Greek. There are plenty of Americans as well, and I swear that every other person I saw last night was speaking German. I suppose everyone needs a little bit of Greek exuberance, which so far has not been hard to come by. Even the dourest of Greeks does something to affirm the Hellenic mythos.
Groups of young American backpackers are already forming; flirtatious young men and women who are happy to find a familiar face and a recognizable accent. They’re all short shorts and muscle shirts, their Oakleys and baseball caps making them easy to spot.
It’s not as if I’m doing the best job blending in myself, however, my large backpack and homemade cloak duffel make sure of that – not to mention my shorts and deck shoes. But everyone on the ferry has a relaxed air about them, everyone’s been bitten by the Yiati Ohi that seems to grab you like a hydra’s head as soon as you set foot on Greek soil. I ought to have brought a book with me; more and more I realize how headphones cut you off from the world. I’m hit by the urge to keep my eyes and ears open, to take in the microcosm of this floating melting-pot.
Still, Santorini lies ahead, somewhere out in the water. Islands loom out of the Mediterranean like sleeping titans, giving the already hazy, thick air a further does of enigmatic romance. It’s hard not to believe in the old gods in the face of such an ancient place. Every cliff-face I see, I think: That is where Aeolus kept his winds; or That must be the island of the Cyclops. It makes me wish we were sailing instead of chugging through the water – my constant love for all things ancient has, quite possibly, reached its epicenter. A part of me wants to put on a pair of Greek sandals, strip down to a tunic, and spend the next five days sleeping on the beaches and the rocks underneath the cypress trees. And then I think: Jasper, you don’t wear sandals. And who would ever want to see your nasty feet?
*
Reflections
Reading over my previous entries, it’s obvious to me that my pilgrimage to Greece is long overdue. For the most part, my anxious Parisian prickliness has already been replaced by a wary smile and what I hope will turn into real relaxation. I’ve got a ways to go, though, before I am home again. I’m hoping that a regimen of sun, ouzo, feta and olives will be a viable cure for what’s been ailing me.
*
A Person, and a short stream-of-consciousness observation:
A couple of real, honest-to-god douchebags are sitting at the tables on the other side of the deck from me, wearing long shorts, a baseball cap, two leather choker necklaces, a silver wrist chain, and a cut-off tee-shirt that says “Football club Barcelona” on the chest; his head replete with buzzed hair, soul-patch and miniature chin-strip. His friend is equally ridiculous, wearing a long-sleeve “Wrestling champion tee” (and I don’t think it’s ironic), board shorts, ear studs and shield sunglasses. Along with a less offensive companion, the two of them are shamelessly chatting up two American girls, who giggle and sip their frappés coquettishly, eating their pastries with pinkies upturned. A part of me wants to make some friends while I’m here (not with these people, of course), but a bigger part of me wants to spend the week in solitary, introspective silence. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of writing, which can only be a good thing.
There’s a Greek woman smoking a pack of Pall-Malls, and I have the desperate urge to roll them up in my t-shirt sleeve. My hair is suitably greased-back, in the best of fifties fashion – my uncontrollable cowlick transforming into a rockabilly-meets-21st- century pompadour.
I’m amazed that my sunglasses are still going. It’s been over a year now, and they’re scratched, bent, broken, falling apart; the frame is cracked and the lenses fall out occasionally, but they’re clinging to life with admirable tenacity. I’ve grown fond of them, despite the fact that they make me look ridiculous (like a drug dealer, said Linzy).
The wind’s picking up now, blowing across the stern with insistence. The islands continue to roll by, obscured by cigarette smoke and the same persistent haze, which is beginning to turn darker and cloudier. I’m three hours into an eight-hour trip, and the sea is stretching out in every direction, not fast and blue but deep and dark, the wake of the ferry leaving a bubbly, bright azure that’s slowly reclaimed by the relentless march of the waves. The sun is hidden now, and I’ve put on a light sweater. I have half a mind to move over to one of the tables closest to the railing, but based on the fact that they’ve all been vacated by jacketed travelers, I would guess that it’s much chillier over there.
As soon as I hit Santorini I’m buying toothpaste – I forgot to bring any, and my mouth feels like an ashtray.
And it is windy now, cold and blowing. All of a sudden I’m glad I brought my raincoat. It’s Monday. Tuesday is coming – did you bring your coat? Chin-Patch is staring at the girls with the hungry eyes of a snake-oil salesman, his biceps on prominent display.
End of the trip
In a way, Greece makes me sad. What place does it have in the modern world? The Greek people are proud, and it’s easy to see why – but Greece is no longer the center of the Western World, and hasn’t been for quite a long time. I’m having trouble reconciling the ancient and the modern, I suppose – thrown off by the predatory tourism, ut also unable to resist the clarion call of ruined marble and the ancient world; the entire basis of the modern tourism industry. I think I wanted Greece to be as I read about it in my old books – deserted, old in every way. I’m finding it to be an unfortunately normal country.
Paros was our first stop. As we pulled back into the sea the sun briefly poked through the clouds before the sky returned to an obscure gray. I would have liked to explore, but there was no time – and even from the boat, it looked less interesting than some of the other islands.
Knossos, our second stop, seemed far more mysterious. Probably because there’s an ancient arch on a hill in the water as you come into the harbor, and the hillsides are sharper and steeper, more mysterious than those on Paros. It’s cold now; I’ve had to put on a second sweater, and the wind is still blowing. I hope I get some nice weather during my visit, but I also wouldn’t mind a violent rain.

Woke up broke free drove a long time, didn’t purge you from my mind