What is Your Dance?

No one has ever asked me what my dance is.  If they did, I would probably be tempted to say something witty, but would inevitably look at them and say, "my dance"?  The groom at the wedding we attended was faced with this question, and responded politely along those lines.  However, the last post ended, or probably should have ended, on a Greek freeway, late for the first of the wedding festivities, which is where this post begins.

As motorways go, the Greek freeway system has a lot of lights, and a lot of tolls.  I lost track of how much we spent on our drive, but it seemed the highest tolls were on the section of freeway that have yet to be built, presumably to help pay for the planned road upgrades.  The drive went smoothly, and we worked hard to arrive at Avis with no diesel in the tank.  As the kilometers ticked by and the fuel gauge sagged, we found ourselves winding through the confusing Athens streets behind schedule, and concerned that we planned the fuel a little too closely.

There were no left turns at the intersection for our hotel, the next one, or the next several for that matter, but we arrived at the hotel to find the "reserved" street parking for loading and unloading was actually parking in the intersection the hotel sat on the corner of, than a standard parking space.  We hauled our bags inside, took a moment to take in the harsh LED lighting, and the sparkling black and red counter tops. We could not linger though, as even more precious than fuel was time.

Sarah did all the driving in Athens, after boasting, "I don't get stressed about city driving."  I attempted to navigate.  I took out the Avis provided map that had a red line running down the middle of the jumble of one way streets directly to the Avis counter from the two obvious directions one would be approaching from.  We were close to the red line, and followed it to a complicated intersection that could only lead us back the way we came.  We tried again on a parallel road, and found ourselves back at the same complex intersection.  We tried again, and found ourselves at a pedestrian mall that forced back to the complex intersection.  I began to be stressed about my ability to follow a red line on a map.  Sarah looped back, grumbling about running late.  We tried again, and I concluded that Avis must not have updated the map to show the closed roads.  We tried again, and when we were forced back to the complex intersection, I discovered that while city driving may not stress Sarah out, a bad navigator could.

I discarded the map, and winged it with a way I thought would work.  The fuel light was on, as we left the labyrinth of alleys and one-way streets, and returned to the land of the forbidden left turn.  We passed the Avis location, and a subway station.  Then I realized, the red line that led to Avis, was actually the Red Line of the Metro, it made sense in a way that only someone who really hated motorists could come up with, or someone who was not familiar with what Avis customers would be using the free maps for.  Eventually we made the left turn, hooked around, and began backtracking to Avis.  When we parked, we hurried inside, wondering how far we had driven since the fuel range calculator had given up estimating how far we could travel (it actually gave up with a significant range remaining, but somehow when it displayed only two dashes, I felt as empty as the tank).  When the clerk asked if we were returning it empty, we laughed, "yeah, its empty."

"Wow, that is really empty"! She handed us our receipt.

While I would normally enjoy basking in the victory of returning a prepaid refueling rental car with a dry tank, we hadn't the time.  It was ten minutes before we were supposed to meet the Australian contingent (Sarah knows the groom from Tasmania, so while we were the only Americans at the wedding, we were warmly welcomed as Australians).  We hustled back to the hotel, and Sarah sent the groom a $5 text message* to tell him we were running late.

We met the group in Syntagma Square, a sight familiar to the world only because of the Greek Economic Crisis, and then only in the sense that it is where all the protests/riots are/start, and not because it is where the Greek Parliament is.  We headed out for drinks with the crew, but called it a night early, exhausted from starting the day on Mt. Olympus, and finishing in a bar below the Acropolis.

When we got back to the hotel room we could finally stop to appreciate that someone decided to put the harshest LED lighting in a hotel room that had been fitted with sparkling black and red counter tops in the kitchenette.  When I say red, do not think of some rich and tasteful burgundy, but rather a fire engine.  When I say sparkly, think not of the day that fire truck rolled out of the factory, but rather the day it responded to the explosion at the glitter factory.  The decor and lighting was horrific, and every moment spent in that room was spent trying to figure out lighting that did not give one a headache.  As for the counter tops, I just sort of got used to them.

On the day of the wedding, we took a taxi to the church, and were the first of the Australian contingent to arrive.  This made us nervous, as there are close to 100 churches per block in Athens, and every third one seems to be named some derivation of St. Katherine's, but in Greek with a dizzying array of English translations.  Eventually, the groom's side arrived, the baptism that preceded the wedding ended, and the guests shuffled into the church.

Not familiar with Greek Orthodox customs, we lingered at the door, putting us at the back of the church after the ceremony had begun.  The ceremony had a lot of chanting back and forth between the two priests, and some symbolism, that mystified me in a way that showed on my face enough to make Sarah giggle every time she looked at me.  At one point, though I am taking a lot of freedom with the ceremony, as it was all Greek to me, it seemed that the priests went to an especially sacred chamber, chanted to Jesus about the marriage, then came and delivered the holy verdict to the betrothed.  None of it made sense to me, but I, admittedly, do not truly understand what all the kneeling was about in the one Catholic ceremony I have sat through.

While I gained no understanding about Greek Orthodox wedding customs, I did learn quite a bit about the parishioners.  This gave me enough knowledge to make sweeping statements about the religion in general.  For starters, while an entire Greek state is given wholly to monks, nuns must not be all that common, because no one there seemed to have an inherent fear of a yardstick befalling their bottom for talking.  Lutherans generally lack this fear, but I think I remember being threatened with hell and eternal damnation for transgressions that a Catholic child would be caned for.  Whatever you were threatened with to keep quiet in church, to silence your cell phone, and to leave cigarettes outside, the Greek Orthodox church lacks.  Nowhere was this more evident than with the devotional flunkies at the back of the church.

The wedding guests talked to each other, jostling through the crowd when they wanted to talk to someone else (no pews).  Cell phones rang, and guests answered, I imagine the conversation went something like this:
"Hello."
-"What's up"?-
"Oh nothing, I'm in a church at my [relation's] wedding."
-"Good, you have time to talk."-

Other guests pushed to the back, to smoke closer to the door, then would push back in.  Old women wandered in off the street, then wandered back out.  Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over, and guests were shoving into the courtyard, fistfuls of rice in hand.

Rice throwing is not something I had experienced firsthand before.  I know some people now use birdseed, leaving the cleanup to pigeons.  Regardless of the projectile, I pictured it being distributed at the end of the ceremony, and then tossed in celebration adoringly at the newly married couple.  This was not that.  First, the rice was produced from concealed places in the suits, cocktail dresses, and clutches that adorned the guests.  Perhaps, even some of the ladies' hats were actually apparatus for the smuggling of grains.  Once produced, the rice was not gently lofted into the air to softly snow down upon the couple.  Rather, this was ricing at its most competitive and violent.  I hypothesize that rice was chosen long ago because throwing it hard enough to hurt the bride and groom would destroy the thrower's shoulder before it left lasting damage upon impact.  Though physical impossibility of hurting someone with thrown rice did not dissuade the Greeks from trying, and try they did.  So we lined up, in the rain, and I watched the pelting with continued consternation at the customs of this strange and distant land.

We were herded onto a bus by a relation of the bride's (cousin?) who studied economics in London, which had resulted in an adorable mix of accents.  The bus took those representing the southern hemisphere, and the bride's parents to the reception.  The hostess checked each guest against a guest list before admitting them to the elevator.  The bus was slower to the reception than most of the guests with cars, so when the doors opened we walked into the bar area, mimosas (that may have been just spiked Tang) awaited each new arrival, and the air was already thick with cigarette smoke.

We found our way to our table, and pyrotechnics erupted to announce that the bride and groom had arrived. With their arrival, the festivities began.  In many ways, it was a cookie-cutter wedding reception.  The customs seemed less rigid (guests dancing during the first dance?), but all-in-all pretty recognizable. However, when the dancing truly began, the chasm between Greek and Western opened.

The first dance for guests began with some accordion riff spewing from the DJ's speakers.  The Greek guest young and old streamed onto the dance floor, and like the Whos down in Whoville, they joined hands.  The Australians looked at each other with confusion, then were prodded onto the dance floor, joined hands with the Greeks, and embraced a cross-cultural wedding.

Luckily, I was next to the cousin who studied in London, and an enthusiastic Australian.  I caught snippets of cultural information, and had someone to commiserate my inability to follow what seemed like it should be a simple dance. Step right, step right, step right, left knee kick, the entire serpent of hand holding Greeks smoothly slid to their right, dragging along the Australians who were still uncertain of what was happening.  Step left, step left, right leg kick, the cousin collided with me, as Kat and I were still stepping to the right.  Step back, right, forward, right, right, right, left knee kick.  I stopped trying to move my feet correctly, and just tried to move in the right direction.

The coiled serpent of people slithered rhythmically to their right, encircled each other, looped under links in the human chain, and dragged those of us with two left feet to our right.  The cousin shouted something at me, but it was lost in the din of the accordion.
"What"?
"I'm glad I'm not at the front, the person at the front has to decide what to do."
"Oh... So you're all just doing what they do"?
"Yeah, I don't like having to lead everyone."
Two horrifying thoughts rolled through my head.  First, that I might at some point be tricked into taking the ever changing lead position.  Second, that every single Greek person, grandmothers, grandchildren, economists, and professional dancers (there were between 1 and 4 at the wedding, reports vary) alike could innately follow the improvised steps, and I, like some court jester, could only make a fool of myself, lost in a sea of people who seemed to know the steps.

The song ended, and a vaguely new, yet nearly identical accordion solo filled the dance hall.  The cousin grabbed my hand, and I was in a circle dance again.  The steps seemed more familiar, right, right, right-knee kick, left, left, full kick...  I leaned over to the cousin, "how does everyone know the steps," finally convinced that the leader leads the line, like a conga, but not the steps?
"What do you mean"?
"Do you practice this dance"?
"Oh, not really, I've been doing it my whole life."
"Like at every wedding"?
"Yeah."
"Like the Chicken Dance," I thought to myself.  I supposed someone who had never done the Chicken Dance would be totally lost.  I consoled myself with the notion that the Chicken Dance never lasted long.  Nah-nah, Nah-nah, Nah; Nah-nah, Nah-nah, Nah; Na, Na, Na.  I could almost pretend that the accordion was playing the Chicken Dance, or the Quail Dance, or whatever bird the Greeks dance like.

The song changes, yet stays the same, and the cousin sweeps me into another circle.  Soon though she joined my hand to the person in front of her, and with my cultural envoy gone, I was on my own in a long line of Greeks ahead of me.  Which, thankfully, insulated me from ever being at the front.

As song after song droned on with the same accordion melody, and the same crazy circle dance I realized that unlike the Chicken Dance, this was not going to end any time soon.  I distracted myself from my insufferably bad dancing by wondering how an accordion, with what appears to be dozens of keys, can only be used to play one melody.  In Las Vegas, I had heard a youth accordion band play Christmas songs in a shopping mall, and each classic tune was instantly recognizable.  Thus, I concluded, with all 120 keys on one side, the Greeks must prefer to dance to a single melody.

I took a break, then got roped back in.  It seemed to me that the Greeks could hide among their own to take a break now and then, but that the Australians were always being corralled back into a circle dance.  Finally, for the first time ever, I was relieved to hear Lady Gaga.

Sarah and I danced to the "Western" music, and Sarah earned the respect of the Greek dancers when she stole the corner of the floor not occupied by the professionals.  I could compete with her only during LMFAO "Sexy and I Know It," where my shirt became more and more unbuttoned.  Her dancing prowess attracted attention from the Greek dancers, not for her talent, they noted, but for her spirit.  Her dancing spirit earned her a spot at the front of the next circle dance.  My wounded competitiveness assuaged by the relief of being excluded from that honor.

As those who had to work in the morning dwindled, the bar closed, and the servers began to loosen up, telling people they had now been working for 24 hours straight.  Sarah and I started making our goodbyes. Most of these people we would never see again, and somehow, people always seem concerned at these goodbyes.  The groom's uncle Phil, a character who was fascinated with Alaska, made me promise that I would invite him to my wedding in Fairbanks (an event that he was told multiple times, would never happen).  The Australians were headed to Paros, for a week of hanging out on the beach, kite surfing, and other island pursuits.  Each seemed disappointed that we were headed for Rome, rather than Paros.  We got in a taxi to head back to the hotel, we admitted that part of us wanted to be carrying on with that group, but were also looking forward to a whirlwind trip to Italy.

* I do not actually know how much Rogers charged per text message, but my bill was over three times what it normally is, so I assume it was quite a bit.

Greece, The Mainland

After getting off the previously described ferry, we headed to our hotel in Piraeus.  When most people think of Athens they think of the Acropolis, Olympics, Ancient Greeks, and the foundation of European civilization (which, arguably, would be the Middle East, but that is not the point of this post).  What people do not think about is Piraeus.  Piraeus is scummy.  Athens as a city is dirty, but Piraeus is scummy.  Thus began our excursion into Mainland Greece, walking, at midnight, through the main port of Athens.  Which is scummy.

Our baggage was somewhat unusual for this walk, as our luggage could not accommodate the rocks collected during Sarah's field work.  I was carrying a duffle bag as a backpack (the Patagonia Black Hole, which Air France managed to put a hole in) and a messenger bag.  Sarah had a backpack, and a cardboard box without tape (surprisingly difficult to find on Milos) which was quickly degrading in the humidity.  We wound through the streets of Piraeus, hitting every landmark we were supposed to.  Then, we missed the street.  This would not normally be an issue, but both of us were still dizzy, nauseous, tired, hot, and sick of carrying all that junk around at midnight.  We slogged back to the nicest hotel in Pireaus, a welcome reprieve from the world we stumbled out of when we entered the air conditioned lobby.

In the morning, we checked out of the hotel, loaded as we were the night before, the cardboard box worse for wear, still sea sick, and headed for the metro.  Boarding a subway when sea sick from the ferry ride the night before was nothing I was looking forward to, but it meant Sarah could set down the box of samples, which had torn at two corners at that point.  We transferred trains, then walked to where Google Maps said the car rental was.  Should you ever use Google Maps in Greece, and you think, "that doesn't seem right," it probably isn't.  Luckily, we were not too far off of where Sarah and I thought we should be, and we were at the car rental agency shortly.

We loaded our stuff into the Lancia Ypsilon, and Sarah took the wheel.  We headed north out of Athens with no real map, and Rick Steves' limited directions headed for Delphi.  In all honesty, for as crazy as driving looks in Athens, it is actually pretty straight forward.  There was a bit of adjustment to Greek driving.  First, all traffic laws are suggestions, so one must expect that drivers will only occasionally observe one-way roads.  Second, one does not have to get out of the way of emergency vehicles.  We stumbled onto this custom in Athens only blocks from renting the car.  An ambulance with lights and sirens was taking a left turn from oncoming traffic.  When Sarah stopped for it, both paramedics began enthusiastically gesturing for us to come through, and not wait for them.  Lastly, all roads in Greece are passing roads, and Greek drivers find at least one more lane than is painted on the roadway.  To accommodate this craziness, on moves onto the shoulder so cars may pass in the center, even with oncoming traffic.  With these lessons learned, we navigated north with nothing but Rick Steves.

Rick got a few things wrong, like the number of toll booths, but even when we purchased our Greek road maps, Rick's directions were pretty good.  We arrived in Delphi, getting turned around only once, to enjoy the ruins after the museum had closed, presumably indicating that fewer people were there.  Both Rick and The Lonely Planet suggest staying in Delphi town when touring Delphi.  I could not disagree with this recommendation more.  We headed back about 15 kilometers to Arachova.  While in winter this ski town may be pricier, during the summer season this cute mountain town had more character, more facilities, more hotels, and better views than Delphi for the same or a bit less money.  We found some food at a minimart for dinner, and ate on our balcony watching the sun set behind mountains and the Arachova clock tower.

In the morning we ran through the steep streets and stairways of Arachova, touring the alleys and back streets, then climbed the stairs to one of the towns churches, that housed several cannons in the courtyards.  We ran to the top of the town, then back to our hotel.  We showered off, ate breakfast, and climbed back in the Lancia for the drive over the mountains to Meteora, with promises of spectacular rock pinnacles, World Heritage Site history, hermit monks, and endless trails.

Once out of the mountains, the road to Meteora is flat, and as the miles passed, we began to discuss the fact that most sites are overstated by the guides.  Sarah maintained her generally more optimistic outlook that it would be awesome, I felt my own pessimism rising (this should not be confused with Sarah being an optimist and me a pessimist, just a statement about our anticipation of monasteries perched on sandstone pillars).  We arrived in Kalambaka after crossing the Plains of Thessaly.  My expectations, like the plains themselves, had flat lined.  While some might argue that such an outlook dooms any site to fail to impress me.  While they may have a point, it also lowers my expectations.  So I was impressed by the bluffs.  It is not Zion Canyon, but it is impressive none-the-less.  One also has to be in awe of the monks building these structures as well.  It is an impressive place.  Unfortunately, the most impressive thing about Meteora is not the geology or the monasteries.  It is, in fact, the road.

The road at Meteora is not so much impressive as far as roads go.  In fact, it is not much of a road at all.  The grades are not that steep, nor the corners that tight.  The traffic is not dense nor light, and the view points are impressive, but not notable beyond any other road that climbs a hill overlooking a valley.  What is impressive about the road are the vehicles.  The Lonely Planet suggested that Meteora was the most visited site in Greece (presumably outside of Athens).  All of those people have to get to the monasteries, and walking is out of the question.  Thus, the purpose of this road is to allow dozens of tour buses to get to the monasteries that hermit monks built on top of sandstone pillars hundreds of feet above the valley floor so that thousands of tourists can gawk at their way of life.  The endless monk's trails, now essentially a moot point with the road to each monastery, added up to less than 10 kilometers.  Sarah and I decided to head for Mount Olympus, with the hope of finding the solitude that led hermit monks to Meteora centuries before.

We drove east, towards the home of the old gods, and as Mount Olympus loomed into view, we were struck with essentially the same impression, "that's it"?  The southern, western and northern sides of Mt. Olympus are beautiful, but they do not inspire ideas of the home of gods, or stairways to the heavens.  The towns on these flanks are also unremarkable, saving their crazy traffic patterns.  With the disappointment of Meteora fresh on our minds, we headed for the access point for Mt. Olympus, Litochoro.  The Eastern face of Mt. Olympus does not disappoint.  While it is not a Saint Elias towering nearly three and a half miles above the coast, it is an impressive massif, reminding me strongly of the desert mountains of the Basin and Range.  We found a hotel, and wandered around the town, heading for the gear store.

At the gear store, we gawked the impressive mountain running selection, then spoke with two of the employees who run on Mt. Olympus daily.  We came to the realization that we could summit Mt. Olympus.  We wandered around the town a bit more, then headed back to the hotel.  We decided not to summit Mt. Olympus.  Doing so would require a crazy alpine start, and neither of us had been sleeping well.  We did decide to go for a run on Mt. Olympus, so we set an alarm for 05:00, and went to sleep.

Before the alarm rang we both got up, ate, and headed up Mt. Olympus.  At the parking lot at 1100 m, we started jogging, but the trail soon proved too steep for a continuous run.  We walked the steep sections, and ran the more gentle ones.  Between light rain, and cloud gaps, the sun rose on the summit above us, and the Mediterranean below.  We made it to the shelter ahead of schedule, but not enough ahead to summit.  We continued up until we were out of time.  As the trees thinned, then stopped, the cold wind took its toll.  When we decided to push our deadline a little, the wind chill started to tap our strength, and neither of us was disappointed to head back for the trees when the time came to turn around.

As we jogged down the mountain we discussed our trip to that point.  Cliff jumping on Milos was cool, as was swimming into sea caves and hidden coves.  Driving around Milos was unique, and walking up Profitis Ilias was great.  Obviously the ruins are pretty awe inspiring, but the thing that would bring us back to Greece was Mt. Olympus.  The trail map showed miles and miles of trails that seem good for long runs, and of course the summit still awaits.  We dreamed of running tours of Europe, and talked about including this mountain.  We talked about the lovely Macedonian mountain villages, and how lovely they would be to explore.  On the drive back to Litochoro to shower and check-out, we passed people driving, their horses tied to their bumpers to get the animals back into town.  Unlike a dog gleefully chasing after its owner's car, these horses looked stressed, and we were brought out of the mountain euphoria, and back to Greece.

On the drive back to Athens we drove through countless tolls, on a motorway that could be in any poor nation.  We checked into our hotel in Athens, with sparkly red and black counter tops and harsh, blue LED lighting.  We returned the car, and met up with the wedding's Australian Contingent a bit late, and went out for cocktails.  Introducing us to everyone else who would be experiencing a Greek wedding for the very first time.