The first book I ever took out from the library at my school was D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. The idea of the ancient city fascinated me: a place where ruins, spirits and myths were a part of everyday life. So when the opportunity to go to Greece with my school came up in grade 11, I jumped at the chance.
It took 11 hours to get to Crete from Toronto. We flew to London, then Athens and then took a tiny plane to Heraklion, Crete’s capital. It was dark when we arrived and our teachers ushered our group of 20 tired students to a dingy restaurant. As I ate, I watched a group of teenagers breakdancing with a boom box on the steps of what looked like a medieval Turkish mosque.
The next morning we headed by bus to the ruins of Knossos, an ancient palace built by the Minoans. Little is known about this early Greek civilization because their first form of writing, known to us as Linear A, has never been translated.
The ruins of Knossos are made up of tiny winding corridors. When Knossos was first discovered, archaeologists found paintings of men jumping over a bull. Some historians believe the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur comes from this artwork. The Knossos museum contained at least 20 unreadable tablets on display and a statuette of the Minoans’ snake goddess, who is shown as an angry-faced woman brandishing fistfuls of snakes.
We arrived at our next destination, Hania, at dusk. Hania is a port city in the best sense of the word—everything is built around the harbour. The city’s harbour has a Turkish mosque that was converted into a church after the Greeks reconquered it.
We sat down at a bar looking out over the water, and I ordered a Sprite. We soon discovered that the bar was full of American soldiers stationed at Hania waiting for orders to invade Iraq. The guy sitting next to me was a 24-year-old from Iowa who at some point during our conversation spiked my drink.
As night fell across the harbour, children poured into the streets, feeling our pockets and begging for money while their parents watched from darkened doorways.
We ate in a tiny restaurant near an alley that night. Two elderly brothers who were very free with the house wine ran the restaurant.
There I discovered one of the best things about modern Greece: the borrowed cultures. The restaurant served spaghetti, which I would find across Greece in places that had once been invaded by Venice. The dish was a delightful treat for me, since I had been eating Greek salads pretty much non-stop thanks to my anaphylactic nut allergy and my teacher’s shaky grasp of the Greek language.
The next day we went to a museum to look at the traditional garb of the Greek soldiers who had fought against the Turks. Frankly, I’m not sure I would be afraid of guys in skirts and bloomers even if they did have muskets.
When I think of Greece I think of warm washes of sunshine. On our return to mainland Greece from Athens to Sparta, however, flakes of snow fell furiously from the sky until our teacher had to help the driver put chains on the bus’s tires.
Our group huddled together for warmth until we were out of the mountainous terrain and back to the cool, crisp weather that would be maintained for the rest of the trip.
The Byzantine city of Mystras fascinated me. In Canada or the United States, these ruins would be carefully cordoned off and regulated with someone selling tickets at the entrance, but here we were welcome to clamber over the broken down walls of clay-roofed villas protruding from the cliff side.
The best-preserved building housed a nunnery complete with Sound of Music-style nuns embroidering altar cloths. It was one of roughly 14 religious houses we visited, my favourite being the monastery where they produced olive oil and sheltered 40 cats.
I was grateful when we arrived in Delphi—after a harrowing high-speed bus ride through hilly roads—and I saw the amazing surroundings. Delphi, home of the mythical oracle associated with the god Apollo, is perched on a cliff above a deep valley in the middle of the mountains. I ran a lap around what had once been the track for the ancient Olympics.
A few days later we arrived at Monemvasia, a medieval city built completely on an island. Once you cross a causeway by car, the only way to transport goods from the lower village to the ancient ruins at the top is by donkey.
Monemvasia is home to only two families, both of whom own restaurants. The village is also home to about 600 cats and one dog, which amused itself by periodically charging down the only street and barking hysterically, scattering cats left and right.
But the ruins at the top are the main attractions. An abandoned church is the largest ruin, and a rusting bell still stands stoically in its tower.
Our whole group napped among the stones in the not overly warm sunlight. When darkness fell, we headed back along the dark causeway to our mainland hotel, stopping only to break into mass hysterics when our teacher popped out of a graveyard, lashing at us and howling maniacally.
The final leg of the journey was in Athens, and we explored the Parthenon and all of its brilliance. While it’s as awe-inspiring as one would think, the most amazing sight was from the Parthenon’s perch overlooking the city. In a case of contemporary life clashing with ancient ruins, the urban sprawl in Athens gives the impression that its rickety apartment buildings are fighting for space that simply isn’t there.
So that was my trip to Greece: scary, educational and awe-inspiring. And it taught my parents something too: the price of emotional fortitude is an $800 phone bill.
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