Basketball Frenzy

Later that night, the town was jumping with Saturday night revelers. In Athens, Jan had warned us that an important basketball game would be played this night: Greece vs. Spain. If Greece won, they would go on to the play-offs. Every restaurant and bar was filled with people intently staring at big screens. Waiters paid scant attention to the patrons, which didn’t matter since the patrons were equally glued to the action. Intermittent roars erupting throughout the town told us Greece had scored. We sat on a wide cement stairway overlooking the main square, Platia Syntagmatos, and wondered if we would ever find dinner.

From our vantage point, we admired the vast marble-covered Platia Syntagmatos lined with eating establishments, shops, and a mish-mash of historic buildings. On this night, the plaza had been taken over by screaming kids on roller blades, bikes, and skateboards racing madly about. Parents, preoccupied with the game, left them to their unrestrained exuberence. The din was just too much and we left to seek sustenance in quieter parts.

Jan had also told us that Sunday was election day. But if Greece won this basketball game, he claimed, no one would be voting — they would be watching the first day of the play-offs. Everywhere we walked, all eyes were on the game and even we nervously watched the score, caught up in the fervor. In the end, Greece failed to make the winning score. The election would go on as planned and somewhere we would find our dinner.

Deciding to return to the old section, we found another taverna also with musicians. Greeks filled the other tables and enthusiastically joined in with the songs. A young man at the table next to ours had a clear, beautiful voice and the musicians played for him as he sang from his chair. An older woman joined in with her out-of-tune voice, her bravura bringing smiles to the rest of us.

September 16 – Palamidi Fortress

Another heaping bowl of heavenly yogurt started my day. My delirium obvious, one of the English guests told me how back home, when they can’t stand another day without the genuine Greek stuff, make a passable substitute involving hanging the cooked concoction in cheesecloth and letting the liquid slowly drip away, leaving a creamy fluff. Decades ago, a Greek friend of mine from Canada taught me this very same method. I resolved to try my hand at it again, once home.

Overlooking Napion is the Palamidi, an 18th century Venetian fortress roosting on a high promontory. The fortress, purportedly the last built by the Venetians in Greece, can be reached by scaling 999 zig-zagging steps hugging the side of the craggy hill.

With relish we tackled the climb, stopped often to gasp, not from lack of breath, but from the staggering views of the pastel-painted town below and its backdrop of peacock sea.

 The thigh-burning, zig-zaggy 999 steps up to the Palamidi fortress are not for the faint of heart.

Puzzled, we found the entrance into the fortress locked, most likely because of the election.

Gino with our new friends, Margaret and Paul from Manchester, England.

We also found a couple from Manchester, England who had just made the climb. As we all stood there, hoping for the door to be opened, Gino and I chatted with Paul and Margaret. An hour went by as we discussed the state of the world, our lives, past trips and present plans. They were delightful people, and we took pictures of each other and exchanged email addresses.

Had the fortress been open, such a commanding view we would have had from that bell tower.

Finally conceding there was no chance of entry today, Gino and I started back down, content with the views if not the inside of the fortress. Along the way, we spotted a rocky ramp leading upward to a precarious platform. Like goats, we picked our way up it to gawk at the dizzying panorama. As we nervously stood on the unprotected platform accompanied by whipping wind and a three foot wide hole with no visible bottom, we felt it was time to return to the safety of the steps.

My plans to visit the small War Museum were also foiled by the election, but the Folk Art Museum was open and we spent a good hour there, enjoying the varied displays of colorful traditional clothing, furniture, and artifacts from all parts of Greece. I was disappointed that the Archaeological Museum was closed for remodeling, having read that it exhibits a perfectly preserved Mycenaean suit of bronze armor, most likely another one of Gino’s buddies hoping for a hello (see Gino and the Tin Men).

Around the Beach

Following the waterfront, we rounded the point and picked up a wide flagstone trail which hugged the sheer face of the cactus-covered cliff. We vowed to return that evening with two glasses and wine to sit and watch the sunset.

A new Halloween fright: The Headless Beachman!

The Aegean was calm today, no boats to disturb the water, and Gino was anxious for his well-deserved his time at the beach. As we laid out our towels we heard someone yell, “Gino!” It was our new friends, Paul and Margaret. They had returned from the fortress and had also decided to spend the afternoon at the shore.

Even the soothing sea and delicious Hellas sun couldn’t keep me pinned on the beach for too long, so after a few refreshing dips, I left Gino to his dolphin dreams. Heading down the dirt road that curves along the shore in the opposite direction from the town, I was anxious to see where it led — around that corner, over that bump, and around yet another corner I walked, promising myself to turn back after “just one more.” Faster and faster I walked, roaring past a couple and then a lone person. Not wanting Gino to worry if I was gone too long, I was still determined to see where this went.

Eventually I could see that the road ended at another beach down the way; satisfied, I turned back and retraced my steps. On the way back, I took my time, savoring the scent of pines wafting past my nose, the sound of the cicadas singing in the trees, the gentle sun on my face. The gold and gray-green colors of the rocky cliff straight up on my right contrasted with the blue-green of the sea plummeting straight down on my left.

Here and there, little blue and white shrines stood like spiritual sentinels, adorned with pink flowers and candles burning within the little glass windows. The roadsides of Greece are dotted with these shrines, usually appearing in the most unlikely spots.

On the way back from the beach, we stopped at Antica Gelateria, a little shop selling Italian foodstuffs, including authentic homemade gelato. Since I could eat my weight in gelato on a daily basis, I could not resist.

Already missing Italia, it was refreshing to speak Italian to the owner, a wonderful woman who brought to mind a free spirited gypsy. Complimenting me on my Italian, she laughed that I spoke it with an American accent. That left me to ponder what that must sound like to her ear!

With a large chocolate-grappa gelato drowned in espresso for me and a shot of Limoncello for Gino, we were in Italia once again, if only for a little while.

Sunset by the Sea

Gino raises his glass in a toast to Greece.

Later on, we purchased a small bottle of red Greek wine and just when the time was right, grabbed two glasses from our hotel room and walked back to the spot for our sunset by the sea.

As the sun slowly slid behind the distant mountain, the turquoise water now drenched in fiery red, we raised our glasses and toasted Greece.

I should have had what Gino had.  You can never go wrong with a Greek salad topped with tangy Feta cheese.

My final night’s dinner was somewhat disappointing; the food was dry and the waiter distracted. The redeeming event of the meal was the dog that kept wandering near the tables, not too close, but hoping for a crumb to be thrown his way. The owner of the restaurant kept shooing him away in a mean voice while we, along with a couple at another table, surreptitiously threw him scraps. Hiding a substantial leftover chunk of chicken in a napkin as we left, we gave the dog a tasty snack as we greeted him on the corner. We nicknamed the restaurant Doggie Diner.

Although this isn’t the lucky dog who wolfed our leftover dinner scraps, we are always suckers for any dog that prances by, especially the weiners.