Oneness Awareness: To, in, and near Volos, Greece
Travel from Barcelona to Volos featured airports—four of them--
in Barcelona, Dusseldorf, Nuremberg, and Volos.
Volos, a recreational port on the Aegean Sea, was the starting point for the Historic Seas Tall Ships Regatta. Our shore time there consisted of readying our ship, Sail Training Vessel (STV) Kaliakra, for competition and sightseeing in two villages on the mountains that overlook Volos.
in Barcelona, Dusseldorf, Nuremberg, and Volos.
Volos, a recreational port on the Aegean Sea, was the starting point for the Historic Seas Tall Ships Regatta. Our shore time there consisted of readying our ship, Sail Training Vessel (STV) Kaliakra, for competition and sightseeing in two villages on the mountains that overlook Volos.
Barcelona and Dusseldorf: Privileged service—Sunday, 9 May 2010, 18:00
About 15 to 20 people stand in casually formed lines between me and the Air Berlin check-in counter. But am I in the right place? The information screens display only a generic blue-and-white Barcelona Airport logo, so I ask the man behind me if he knows. Mi pregunta (my question) is in Spanish. He replies in Deutsch. Then we settle into English, which he speaks fluently. He says we are, according to the message on the directional signboard a few meters away, but he’s not sure either.
He asks my reason for being in Barcelona, and I say my friends’ wedding. He says he came at the request of a friend to watch the Grand Prix race the day before. “But you don’t see the race,” he says. “You see only 150 meters in either direction. They zoom by and that’s it. Next time, I’ll stay home and watch it on TV.” He quickly adds that his favorite sport is windsurfing, which he has done in Hawaii. He loves tall ships, having been to regattas in Kiel, and has been on Mir twice.
He speaks of the current election in Germany in which a coalition of the Communist Party and the Socialist Party won. “Interesting,” he says, “that 20 years after the Berlin Wall came down, the Communists have taken control of the German government.”
He tells me that he runs his own business and disagrees with German government policy that people who don’t work get paid not to work. “They get the same amount whether it comes from an employer or from the government. There’s no incentive,” he says.
When the check-in monitors came to life and confirm that we are in one of three lines for the flight to Dusseldorf, he mentions that his wife works for Air Berlin. Then, when one of the overhead monitors indicates the line to our left is for privileged passengers, he moves forward. Without thinking, I blurt, “May I join you?” He shrugs and tilts his head in the direction of his quick steps, and I follow.
Standing next to him, I lean my backpack against the side of the counter and hurriedly encase it in the protective nylon shell that keeps shoulder and waist straps from getting caught in airline conveyor belts. From my position close to the floor, I look up. He gives me a knowing nod from which I know not to say too much or look like I didn’t belong there.
When he finishes checking his luggage, he says to the clerk, “My friend is from the United States and this is his first time flying to Germany. Can you help him?” She says yes. “I’ll see you at the gate,” he tells me, and is gone. A few minutes later, my bags are checked, I have my boarding pass, and am on my way too. But before I go, I look over at the long lines to my right. Seven of the nine people who had been ahead of us in line are still waiting for service. Privilege has its rewards. Striking up conversations reaps dividends.
Dusseldorf: Stephan—Sunday, 9 May 2010, 19:00
Sitting in the gate area, the man who had helped me tells me his name is Stephan and he has four children, one of whom, age 16, flew to see his girlfriend in Sweden for the weekend.
Stephan is an orthopedic surgeon and chiropractor. “In Germany, you can be both,” he says. “That’s different than in the United States.” We talk of other differences between medicine in the two countries. Mostly, he comments on the greater amount of pressure put on physicians in the U.S. He says he looked into obtaining a license to practice in Hawaii—so he could windsurf there—but decided against it.
In his practice in Dusseldorf, he and the 15 employees in his clinic work a normal business day, seeing customers in the daytime hours with an occasional stint on-call after hours. Yet, he also talks of the first seven years of his medical career when “you make your fists in your pockets.” He asks, “You have that saying in the United States, don’t you?” I ask him to repeat so that I can better understand his question. “When you are angry at your supervisors or something at your work, you …” He balls his fingers into a fist and shoves them toward his pocket. “Oh,” I say. “We have the phrase ‘grin and bear it.’” “Yes,” he says, “You don’t show your anger.”
He goes on to explain that the first seven years of a German doctor’s career is served in the clinic of an established physician. After seven years, the physician is supposed to write a letter of recommendation, indicating that the new young doctor has completed his internship. “But sometimes the physician doesn’t write the letter and you have to work longer,” he says. “So, to avoid that, no matter what happens, you make your fist in your pocket.”
Dusseldorf: The security guard—Sunday, 9 May 2010, midnight
I stand with Stephan by the baggage claim conveyor while he waits for his luggage and I make sure mine, which is supposed to be checked through to Volos, Greece, isn’t there. When we accomplish those minor feats, he says he will show me how to get to the upper level from where flights will depart in the morning. I follow, then realize I have exited the secure area. Stephan introduces me to his son who has come to pick him up, and I promptly excuse myself. “I didn’t intend to go past that point,” I say, pointing in the direction of the swinging metal gate marked with two red do-not-enter symbols. Stephan says, “You better hurry back.” I leave and walk the 10 feet or so back through the gate, going in the forbidden direction, like a salmon swimming upstream against a current of travelers exiting with their luggage in tow. I look for security guards. There are none, and I walk through. I couldn’t do this in the United States.
Back inside the baggage claim, I roam, looking for another way to the upper level. I find none. I look for what might be a good place to sleep. There are plenty, for there is no one around. As Stephan had said, the airport is closed for the night. Yet, camping there doesn’t feel right. Surely, as soon as I make myself comfortable, a night security guard will come patrolling, perhaps with a large German shepherd, and ask me what the heck I think I’m doing—in Deutsch, of course. And I, who ich spreche kein Deutsch, won’t know how to answer.
Then someone does come along. He is some sort of airport official, yes, but definitely not a burly officer. Rather, he’s rather short and portly with a smile that fills his wide face—and he speaks excellent English. I ask about a hotel in the airport, anticipating that as my only option. He tells me of the Marriott for about 120 euros and another for a bit more.
He asks the time of my flight. I tell him. “Oh, that’s early,” he says. “Go upstairs and sleep there. You’ll find others sleeping there, too.” He gives me directions—to take the lift beyond the security area up one flight to the departure area. And that’s what I do.
About 15 to 20 people stand in casually formed lines between me and the Air Berlin check-in counter. But am I in the right place? The information screens display only a generic blue-and-white Barcelona Airport logo, so I ask the man behind me if he knows. Mi pregunta (my question) is in Spanish. He replies in Deutsch. Then we settle into English, which he speaks fluently. He says we are, according to the message on the directional signboard a few meters away, but he’s not sure either.
He asks my reason for being in Barcelona, and I say my friends’ wedding. He says he came at the request of a friend to watch the Grand Prix race the day before. “But you don’t see the race,” he says. “You see only 150 meters in either direction. They zoom by and that’s it. Next time, I’ll stay home and watch it on TV.” He quickly adds that his favorite sport is windsurfing, which he has done in Hawaii. He loves tall ships, having been to regattas in Kiel, and has been on Mir twice.
He speaks of the current election in Germany in which a coalition of the Communist Party and the Socialist Party won. “Interesting,” he says, “that 20 years after the Berlin Wall came down, the Communists have taken control of the German government.”
He tells me that he runs his own business and disagrees with German government policy that people who don’t work get paid not to work. “They get the same amount whether it comes from an employer or from the government. There’s no incentive,” he says.
When the check-in monitors came to life and confirm that we are in one of three lines for the flight to Dusseldorf, he mentions that his wife works for Air Berlin. Then, when one of the overhead monitors indicates the line to our left is for privileged passengers, he moves forward. Without thinking, I blurt, “May I join you?” He shrugs and tilts his head in the direction of his quick steps, and I follow.
Standing next to him, I lean my backpack against the side of the counter and hurriedly encase it in the protective nylon shell that keeps shoulder and waist straps from getting caught in airline conveyor belts. From my position close to the floor, I look up. He gives me a knowing nod from which I know not to say too much or look like I didn’t belong there.
When he finishes checking his luggage, he says to the clerk, “My friend is from the United States and this is his first time flying to Germany. Can you help him?” She says yes. “I’ll see you at the gate,” he tells me, and is gone. A few minutes later, my bags are checked, I have my boarding pass, and am on my way too. But before I go, I look over at the long lines to my right. Seven of the nine people who had been ahead of us in line are still waiting for service. Privilege has its rewards. Striking up conversations reaps dividends.
Dusseldorf: Stephan—Sunday, 9 May 2010, 19:00
Sitting in the gate area, the man who had helped me tells me his name is Stephan and he has four children, one of whom, age 16, flew to see his girlfriend in Sweden for the weekend.
Stephan is an orthopedic surgeon and chiropractor. “In Germany, you can be both,” he says. “That’s different than in the United States.” We talk of other differences between medicine in the two countries. Mostly, he comments on the greater amount of pressure put on physicians in the U.S. He says he looked into obtaining a license to practice in Hawaii—so he could windsurf there—but decided against it.
In his practice in Dusseldorf, he and the 15 employees in his clinic work a normal business day, seeing customers in the daytime hours with an occasional stint on-call after hours. Yet, he also talks of the first seven years of his medical career when “you make your fists in your pockets.” He asks, “You have that saying in the United States, don’t you?” I ask him to repeat so that I can better understand his question. “When you are angry at your supervisors or something at your work, you …” He balls his fingers into a fist and shoves them toward his pocket. “Oh,” I say. “We have the phrase ‘grin and bear it.’” “Yes,” he says, “You don’t show your anger.”
He goes on to explain that the first seven years of a German doctor’s career is served in the clinic of an established physician. After seven years, the physician is supposed to write a letter of recommendation, indicating that the new young doctor has completed his internship. “But sometimes the physician doesn’t write the letter and you have to work longer,” he says. “So, to avoid that, no matter what happens, you make your fist in your pocket.”
Dusseldorf: The security guard—Sunday, 9 May 2010, midnight
I stand with Stephan by the baggage claim conveyor while he waits for his luggage and I make sure mine, which is supposed to be checked through to Volos, Greece, isn’t there. When we accomplish those minor feats, he says he will show me how to get to the upper level from where flights will depart in the morning. I follow, then realize I have exited the secure area. Stephan introduces me to his son who has come to pick him up, and I promptly excuse myself. “I didn’t intend to go past that point,” I say, pointing in the direction of the swinging metal gate marked with two red do-not-enter symbols. Stephan says, “You better hurry back.” I leave and walk the 10 feet or so back through the gate, going in the forbidden direction, like a salmon swimming upstream against a current of travelers exiting with their luggage in tow. I look for security guards. There are none, and I walk through. I couldn’t do this in the United States.
Back inside the baggage claim, I roam, looking for another way to the upper level. I find none. I look for what might be a good place to sleep. There are plenty, for there is no one around. As Stephan had said, the airport is closed for the night. Yet, camping there doesn’t feel right. Surely, as soon as I make myself comfortable, a night security guard will come patrolling, perhaps with a large German shepherd, and ask me what the heck I think I’m doing—in Deutsch, of course. And I, who ich spreche kein Deutsch, won’t know how to answer.
Then someone does come along. He is some sort of airport official, yes, but definitely not a burly officer. Rather, he’s rather short and portly with a smile that fills his wide face—and he speaks excellent English. I ask about a hotel in the airport, anticipating that as my only option. He tells me of the Marriott for about 120 euros and another for a bit more.
He asks the time of my flight. I tell him. “Oh, that’s early,” he says. “Go upstairs and sleep there. You’ll find others sleeping there, too.” He gives me directions—to take the lift beyond the security area up one flight to the departure area. And that’s what I do.
Stories within this chapter:
- Privileged service
- Stephan
- The security guard
- Camping in Dusseldorf Airport
- Alexander von Humboldt crew
- Ya gotta regatta
- Regatta party
- Mount Pelion villages
Dusseldorf: Camping in Dusseldorf Airport—Monday, 10 May 2010, middle of the night
The airport in Dusseldorf awakens around 02:00 in the morning, ready or not. The first indicator is a shrill mechanical sound that probably originates a cold rush of air across the floor and gradually brightening illumination from overhead floodlights. Sleeping on my Therm-a-Rest atop the marble tile floor in the check-in area, I hear the sound first, then feel the air, then remove my bandanna from my eyes and experience the brightness. I look left and right at the three people who had been asleep on nearby bench seats; they are sitting upright. My watch reads 02:10. I protest inwardly, re-cover my eyes, and try to go back to sleep.
I succeed. But the next sound is that of a chortling child and the occasional sound of a plastic toy dropped on the marble floor. I uncover my eyes. The child belongs to a woman who is apparently traveling alone. A second child is cached in a stroller. They are on the same set of bench seats as the two sleepers to my right, a man and woman who appear to be in their 50s or 60s. This couple has lain back down, feet to feet; from my position, I can’t tell if they are sleeping or not—I would guess the latter. The man on my left, also probably in his 50s, is lying on his side, his arms serving as his pillows. The time is 03:00.
Somewhere around 04:00 the volume of foot traffic increases. Most prominent are the clacketa-clack, clacketa-clack of women’s high-heel shoes. They stop, then walk on. Lying on my side, I raise my bandanna a smidgeon and see some of them are standing a few meters away from my makeshift bed. They are facing in my direction and looking up—I have a good view of the bottom of their chins and nostrils. Apparently, I have camped under an electronic board that displays flight departure and arrival times.
Okay. It must be time to get up. Ready or not. I unpack my computer and devote the next three hours to writing.
The airport in Dusseldorf awakens around 02:00 in the morning, ready or not. The first indicator is a shrill mechanical sound that probably originates a cold rush of air across the floor and gradually brightening illumination from overhead floodlights. Sleeping on my Therm-a-Rest atop the marble tile floor in the check-in area, I hear the sound first, then feel the air, then remove my bandanna from my eyes and experience the brightness. I look left and right at the three people who had been asleep on nearby bench seats; they are sitting upright. My watch reads 02:10. I protest inwardly, re-cover my eyes, and try to go back to sleep.
I succeed. But the next sound is that of a chortling child and the occasional sound of a plastic toy dropped on the marble floor. I uncover my eyes. The child belongs to a woman who is apparently traveling alone. A second child is cached in a stroller. They are on the same set of bench seats as the two sleepers to my right, a man and woman who appear to be in their 50s or 60s. This couple has lain back down, feet to feet; from my position, I can’t tell if they are sleeping or not—I would guess the latter. The man on my left, also probably in his 50s, is lying on his side, his arms serving as his pillows. The time is 03:00.
Somewhere around 04:00 the volume of foot traffic increases. Most prominent are the clacketa-clack, clacketa-clack of women’s high-heel shoes. They stop, then walk on. Lying on my side, I raise my bandanna a smidgeon and see some of them are standing a few meters away from my makeshift bed. They are facing in my direction and looking up—I have a good view of the bottom of their chins and nostrils. Apparently, I have camped under an electronic board that displays flight departure and arrival times.
Okay. It must be time to get up. Ready or not. I unpack my computer and devote the next three hours to writing.
Dusseldorf and Nuremburg: Alexander von Humboldt crew—Monday, 10 May 2010
I am standing in line ready to show my boarding pass to gate personnel when a woman taps me on the shoulder and points at the plastic bag in my hand. “Royal Clipper,” she says in reference to the image of that great tall ship imprinted on the bag. “Talk to them,” she adds, directing my attention to two men a short distance ahead of me in line.
In the gangway, I pass those between us and address them. “A woman at the gate said I should speak to you,” I tell them.
They are Klaus and Tim, a father and son; Klaus, the father, is about my age. They are also going to Volos to be crew aboard the German tall ship Alexander von Humboldt.
In Nuremburg, they are joined by more crew, 13 in all, including two women one of which is the same person who tapped me on the shoulder in Dusseldorf. They accept me into their fold while we wait for our flight to Volos.
I am standing in line ready to show my boarding pass to gate personnel when a woman taps me on the shoulder and points at the plastic bag in my hand. “Royal Clipper,” she says in reference to the image of that great tall ship imprinted on the bag. “Talk to them,” she adds, directing my attention to two men a short distance ahead of me in line.
In the gangway, I pass those between us and address them. “A woman at the gate said I should speak to you,” I tell them.
They are Klaus and Tim, a father and son; Klaus, the father, is about my age. They are also going to Volos to be crew aboard the German tall ship Alexander von Humboldt.
In Nuremburg, they are joined by more crew, 13 in all, including two women one of which is the same person who tapped me on the shoulder in Dusseldorf. They accept me into their fold while we wait for our flight to Volos.
The airport in Volos is smaller and more primitive than any I have ever seen. We are transported by bus to the terminal, which is a single Quonset building. Our luggage arrives on a traditional airport luggage truck, pulled by an aging airport tractor. The driver gets the truck close to the baggage claim conveyor then pulls the lynch pin and disconnects the truck from the tractor’s drawbar. He and another person push the truck, by hand, to a more desirable location close to the conveyor.
I observe this while standing outside, waiting my turn for a government person to examine my passport. The examination is cursory.
The space inside the terminal is almost totally consumed by the conveyor. The path beside the conveyor is about four meters wide; the distance from our entry door to the exit door and the rest of Greece is no more than 20 meters. And that, plus one male and one female water closet with one toilet, is the entire terminal.
I and others who have arrived on this flight fill the space, and cooperation is required to move about. Only about eight people can access the conveyor at one time, so those of us in the back wait. Some watch their luggage go around and around, unable to get through those who are closer.
Eventually enough people move out of the way, and I slither through small openings to join the second tier of people. Looking between the arms and shoulders of two other passengers, I can see one small section of the conveyor. After several minutes, I determine that my backpack has not yet been unloaded. I and Klaus are among the last to spot our luggage.
I observe this while standing outside, waiting my turn for a government person to examine my passport. The examination is cursory.
The space inside the terminal is almost totally consumed by the conveyor. The path beside the conveyor is about four meters wide; the distance from our entry door to the exit door and the rest of Greece is no more than 20 meters. And that, plus one male and one female water closet with one toilet, is the entire terminal.
I and others who have arrived on this flight fill the space, and cooperation is required to move about. Only about eight people can access the conveyor at one time, so those of us in the back wait. Some watch their luggage go around and around, unable to get through those who are closer.
Eventually enough people move out of the way, and I slither through small openings to join the second tier of people. Looking between the arms and shoulders of two other passengers, I can see one small section of the conveyor. After several minutes, I determine that my backpack has not yet been unloaded. I and Klaus are among the last to spot our luggage.
Another of the Alexander von Humboldt crew has magically acquired a luggage cart and offers part of it for my backpack. I accept his offer and together we wheel the cart to a bus that is waiting for us. It is the only bus at the terminal.
Fortunately, we all fit and begin a 40-minute ride through dry, dusty looking land to the seafront city of Volos. But first, before we leave the airport, the bus stops and waits while three F-16 fighter jets approach from our right, cross ahead of us, still slightly airborne, and land a couple hundred meters to our left.
The bus deposits us in Volos at 16:00. My vessel, Kaliakra, is nearby. Alexander von Humboldt is several hundred meters deeper into the harbor. But we all depart the bus at the same location. We wish each other a safe voyage and part company, knowing we will likely see each other on the water if not before we sail.
Fortunately, we all fit and begin a 40-minute ride through dry, dusty looking land to the seafront city of Volos. But first, before we leave the airport, the bus stops and waits while three F-16 fighter jets approach from our right, cross ahead of us, still slightly airborne, and land a couple hundred meters to our left.
The bus deposits us in Volos at 16:00. My vessel, Kaliakra, is nearby. Alexander von Humboldt is several hundred meters deeper into the harbor. But we all depart the bus at the same location. We wish each other a safe voyage and part company, knowing we will likely see each other on the water if not before we sail.
Volos, Greece: Ya gotta regatta—Monday, 10 May 2010, evening
First come smartly uniformed officers in black with gold buttons and braids and brimmed, white-topped square rig caps. Following are sailors with blue-and-white patterned keffiyeh, a traditional headgear of Arabians whether at sea or ashore. Then two bagpipers, their drone and melodies working: one in white with a blue-and-white plaid tartan, blue tam, and blue bag; the other in contrasting reds and greens with a comparable plaid tartan, red tam, and green bag. And more sailors dressed with the same keffiyeh but also wearing long white kaftans and sandals. They are the crew of Shabob Oman from the Sultanate of Oman on the southeast coast of the Arabian Peninsula.
Then come a drum and glockenspiel corps—playing Jingle Bells? in May?—some wearing white uniforms and some jet black; both with black-and-gold fringed epaulettes. Their snares are adorned with braids of gold and red. These musicians are some of the crew of the Indonesian vessel Dewaruci, and they are joined by more crew who wear flowing black pants, unbuttoned black shirts with colorful sashes, and fake black beards—costumes in which they reenact pageants of their Polynesian island nation.
Mir , the famed tall ship from Russia, is there also. Its cadets march by, dressed in creased black pants, crisp white-with-blue-trim uniform shirts, and black-brimmed, white square rig caps.
The crews of the remaining vessels are less formal. Aboard Kaliakra, the ship I’ll be sailing on, for example, a young, tall, slender man hands me a t-shirt with the Historical Seas Tall Ships Regatta emblem silkscreened on the front. Then, we are off at a fast pace to catch up with the rest of the sailors from our vessel and those of others who have passed our dock.
Our destination is the staging area for the parade along the waterfront street in Volos, Greece, that will highlight the regatta’s opening event. When we arrive there, I learn the man at my side is the captain of our vessel. Even though his appearance seems too young for the command of a ship, he will demonstrate over the next twelve days at sea that he is a man who teaches by example and is, indeed, a very capable leader and trainer of the cadets assigned to his charge.
We take our position in the parade column behind the crew from the French ship Aquarelle and ahead of Dewaruci. In all, twenty-two ships and crews are here, representing fifteen nations.
Starting yesterday and for most of the next month, the regatta—its shore time and racing time—will be run in three legs on the Aegean Sea and Black Sea: from Volos to Varna, Bulgaria (by way of the Bosporus Strait through Istanbul, Turkey); from Varna to Istanbul; and from Istanbul to Lavrion, Greece.
Wearing my newly acquired t-shirt, I step in rank with the cadets at the back of the Kaliakra column. They are all in their late teens or early twenties. The oldest officer might be forty-something. But age doesn’t matter when ya gotta regatta.
First come smartly uniformed officers in black with gold buttons and braids and brimmed, white-topped square rig caps. Following are sailors with blue-and-white patterned keffiyeh, a traditional headgear of Arabians whether at sea or ashore. Then two bagpipers, their drone and melodies working: one in white with a blue-and-white plaid tartan, blue tam, and blue bag; the other in contrasting reds and greens with a comparable plaid tartan, red tam, and green bag. And more sailors dressed with the same keffiyeh but also wearing long white kaftans and sandals. They are the crew of Shabob Oman from the Sultanate of Oman on the southeast coast of the Arabian Peninsula.
Then come a drum and glockenspiel corps—playing Jingle Bells? in May?—some wearing white uniforms and some jet black; both with black-and-gold fringed epaulettes. Their snares are adorned with braids of gold and red. These musicians are some of the crew of the Indonesian vessel Dewaruci, and they are joined by more crew who wear flowing black pants, unbuttoned black shirts with colorful sashes, and fake black beards—costumes in which they reenact pageants of their Polynesian island nation.
Mir , the famed tall ship from Russia, is there also. Its cadets march by, dressed in creased black pants, crisp white-with-blue-trim uniform shirts, and black-brimmed, white square rig caps.
The crews of the remaining vessels are less formal. Aboard Kaliakra, the ship I’ll be sailing on, for example, a young, tall, slender man hands me a t-shirt with the Historical Seas Tall Ships Regatta emblem silkscreened on the front. Then, we are off at a fast pace to catch up with the rest of the sailors from our vessel and those of others who have passed our dock.
Our destination is the staging area for the parade along the waterfront street in Volos, Greece, that will highlight the regatta’s opening event. When we arrive there, I learn the man at my side is the captain of our vessel. Even though his appearance seems too young for the command of a ship, he will demonstrate over the next twelve days at sea that he is a man who teaches by example and is, indeed, a very capable leader and trainer of the cadets assigned to his charge.
We take our position in the parade column behind the crew from the French ship Aquarelle and ahead of Dewaruci. In all, twenty-two ships and crews are here, representing fifteen nations.
Starting yesterday and for most of the next month, the regatta—its shore time and racing time—will be run in three legs on the Aegean Sea and Black Sea: from Volos to Varna, Bulgaria (by way of the Bosporus Strait through Istanbul, Turkey); from Varna to Istanbul; and from Istanbul to Lavrion, Greece.
Wearing my newly acquired t-shirt, I step in rank with the cadets at the back of the Kaliakra column. They are all in their late teens or early twenties. The oldest officer might be forty-something. But age doesn’t matter when ya gotta regatta.
Volos: Regatta party—Monday, May 10, 2010, night
The band is loud. The food line is long, but the food is worth the wait. The grassy dance area is rockin’ with sailors—mostly male. And the lyrics are all in English.
Entire crews are here: officers, cadets, cooks. Some wear uniforms, some casual sailing attire, some wear costumes and makeup of their native lands.
Alexander, the second mate aboard Kaliakra, says, “These are sailors from all over the world. This is freedom.”
The band is loud. The food line is long, but the food is worth the wait. The grassy dance area is rockin’ with sailors—mostly male. And the lyrics are all in English.
Entire crews are here: officers, cadets, cooks. Some wear uniforms, some casual sailing attire, some wear costumes and makeup of their native lands.
Alexander, the second mate aboard Kaliakra, says, “These are sailors from all over the world. This is freedom.”
Volos: Mount Pelion villages—Tuesday, May 11, 2010, daytime
The buses, six of them, negotiate hairpin turns as we ascend more than a kilometer up the side of Mount Pelion inland from Volos. Near the top, we look down on that coastal city, which is far more expansive than it had appeared from the narrow perspective of the waterfront.
Our destinations are the villages of Portoria and Makrynitsa where winter snowfall and skiing, combined with summer sailing on the Pagasetic Gulf, makes the area a popular place for visitors and residences the year round.
People build with what they have available; here it is long-lasting gray stone—for walkways and rooftops. People also sell what they have to sell; some of that here are ingredients for the Mediterranean diet: vatamoura (wild berries), firiki (small, oblong apples), tsitsiravia (wild pistachio shoots), olives, and herbs that local merchants package in clear jars to augment nature’s artistic palette.
Accommodations are reasonable at about forty euros per night in hotels that offer a spectacular view of the mountainside and Pagasetic below. A decent meal can be had for ten euros. The drinking establishments are pleasant and the owners conversant. And a small ancient chapel in the center of Makrynitsa, part of a stone park and near an outdoor dining patio, provides a cozy place to view religious icons, light a votive candle, and offer a prayer of gratitude.
On this day, sailors from many nations are here, mingling with local guides and crew from other ships, experiencing a peaceful global exchange between these mountain villages and their various nautical parts of the world.
The buses, six of them, negotiate hairpin turns as we ascend more than a kilometer up the side of Mount Pelion inland from Volos. Near the top, we look down on that coastal city, which is far more expansive than it had appeared from the narrow perspective of the waterfront.
Our destinations are the villages of Portoria and Makrynitsa where winter snowfall and skiing, combined with summer sailing on the Pagasetic Gulf, makes the area a popular place for visitors and residences the year round.
People build with what they have available; here it is long-lasting gray stone—for walkways and rooftops. People also sell what they have to sell; some of that here are ingredients for the Mediterranean diet: vatamoura (wild berries), firiki (small, oblong apples), tsitsiravia (wild pistachio shoots), olives, and herbs that local merchants package in clear jars to augment nature’s artistic palette.
Accommodations are reasonable at about forty euros per night in hotels that offer a spectacular view of the mountainside and Pagasetic below. A decent meal can be had for ten euros. The drinking establishments are pleasant and the owners conversant. And a small ancient chapel in the center of Makrynitsa, part of a stone park and near an outdoor dining patio, provides a cozy place to view religious icons, light a votive candle, and offer a prayer of gratitude.
On this day, sailors from many nations are here, mingling with local guides and crew from other ships, experiencing a peaceful global exchange between these mountain villages and their various nautical parts of the world.
