Yogurt Dreams

The day was warm and we were thirsty. Our mission complete, we headed back for cool drinks. Watching the ground during our descent to the lower town, we kept our eyes out for interesting rocks; with lumpy pockets, we returned to our room.

While Gino rested, I stepped down to the hotel terrace and sat alone at a tiny round table shaded by an old, gnarled olive tree. The intense blue of the ever-present Aegean sparkled beyond. I ordered a bowl of cool yogurt.

It arrived in a tear drop shaped porcelain bowl, artistically drizzled with amber-colored honey and sprinkled with pebbles of crunchy walnuts. A slender glass of ice-cooled water was placed to its side. Admiring its visual perfection, I let it rest untouched for a moment, a living picture of still art. Then, ceremoniously, I lifted the thin silver spoon and dove in.

That afternoon, our thought was to catch the little jitney that buzzed up and down the road every 15 minutes linking the port town with the town on the rock. The sign at the drop-off point stated it came every 15 minutes. After waiting 30, we decided just to walk it. Halfway down the causeway, we saw the jitney coming up. Laughing, we waved at the driver as he went by.

 

Coming onto a large rock platform jutting into the water, we decided it was the perfect place to drape our towels. An old metal ladder hung off the side from which we flung ourselves into the refreshing cool of the sea.

Visiting the Ancestors

After our swim, as we walked back up the road, we passed a cemetery. Gino does not have the fascination for such places as do I, so he sat just outside while I stepped through the gate.

Three terraced rows of tombstones lined this hauntingly beautiful spot. Some graves were obviously neglected, while others well-tended.

It is a common practice in Europe to embed pictures of the deceased into tombstones. As I walked up and down each row, I peered closely at the faces of the dead, puzzling over the foreign words chiseled into the stone, and wondered at their lives.

Completely giving up on the jitney, we hoofed it back to the old town. Not yet having seen the little archaeological museum just off the main square, we poked inside. Built in the 1500’s, this building has been a Muslim mosque, a Catholic church, a prison, and a coffee shop. Its current duty as home to the museum seems best suited.

Yiannis Ritsos, famous Greek poet. Born in 1909 to one of the most important families of Monemvasia, his life was nontheless tragic. By the age of 12, he had lost his father, mother, and brother to illness. His poetry drew upon his life experiences, not only from childhood, but during his years in the Greek Communist Party and as a partisan fighting the Nazis. He is buried in Monemvasia’s little cemetery.

Our time in Monemvasia was nearly up, but I knew I could not leave without scaling the toothy ridge of stony steps that mark the far end of town just past our hotel. In a race against the sun, I darted up to the final step, stopping only long enough to snap a shot of Gino watching my madness from our balcony.

Gino kicks back on our little balcony while I burn my thighs for a photo and a view.

 

September 19 – Yiasou, Monemvasia!

After an amazing breakfast in the cave room below (yogurt, sausage, bacon, eggs, fresh-squeezed orange juice, bread), we bid our goodbyes (yiasou, in Greek) to this Hobbit town.

Carting our bags back through the town, we paused to watch a string of horses carry buckets of sand back and forth between buildings.

Since much of Monemvasia is being refurbished, we mused how different this town will look in another ten years. It is good that the Greek government requires all building here on the rock to adhere to a strict historical code to preserve the originality of the architecture. We’ll be back in a decade to see.

Gino sadly says goodbye to magical Monemvasia.  Someday, we will return.

Next Stop: Gythio

The Gythion Hotel.  Our room was the one with the little balcony and flags.

Aggie was dusty, but waiting to go. We tossed our bags in the back seat and took off, map once again in hand. Next stop: Gythio. A few miles later, we coasted into the bustling main street of this quaint fishing village facing the sea. Knowing our next hotel was on this waterfront street, it was simple to find. To reach the hotel required scaling a steep set of stairs between two buildings.

Our room, a couple of stories up, was fairly spacious. Glass doors opened onto a little balcony festooned with a full-size Greek flag that fluttered over the street. Leaning over the railing, we watched the street activity below, boats and sea just beyond.

Although Gythio (also known as Gythion or Yithio) is small and immediately comfortable, it is without the obvious Medieval charm of Naplion or Monemvasia. Its main street is lined with refurbished neoclassic buildings harboring tavernas and hotels, colorful fishing boats rocking in the sea just a few feet away. Later, we discovered the town’s true charm hidden in the high lanes cut into the hill above.

Evidence of Gythio’s previous life as a Mycenaean settlement can be found in nearby tholo tombs, which Germans sacreligiously used as bunkers during World War II. This picturesque little village later became a port for ancient Sparta during the Classical times. But for now, for us, it was a perfect place for making day trips into the mysterious Mani and Byzantine Mystra.