A
NIGHT TO REMEMBER
After I had decided to go to
Ikaria, I found that the father of the Papamichael brothers who own the fitness
center in Boca Raton to which I belong, MICHAEL’S BODY SCENES (bodyscenes.com),
is actually from Ikaria, and spends every summer in residence on the island.
Small world.
I was introduced to their father, Steve while still in the States via
Skype. Soon after I arrived, one morning off I went on an adventure to the
village of Kampos to find Mr. Papamichael. I walked to Armenistis, a village
about 20 minutes from Nas, hitched a ride with some young tourists (Hitching
rides is safe for women in Ikaria.) to the middle beach and then caught a taxi
the rest of the way.
After a brief
search around the village, I not only found Fotis and Michael’s father but also
their aunts, uncles, and cousins who all converge on the island every summer
from different parts of the world from May to November.
I also experienced my first island
fete, the Festival of St. Sophia with the Papamichael family at their small
village church high above the sea. We ate, we drank, we talked, and had a
splendid time.
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| St Sophia |
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| Papamichael family |
As I explained in my last post,
Ikaria is 3500 feet high and because of the terrain, traversing the island is
circuitous, to say the least, by car or by any other means. I am not a weenie, but I found after a
ride across the island to the thermal baths and back that my inners were
decidedly uncomfortable and whatever I ate after the ride home refused to
settle in my stomach. Vomaford (a
little pill I found in India to combat this sort of situation) - where are you
now that I need you????
Around two in the afternoon on the
day of the festival of St Stathis, Thea piled, Neal, Catherine and me, into her
four-wheel drive. Pamela and
Ludimula were in a small white rental, and Ilias chose not to ride with us
although there was lots of room, and rode his motorcycle instead. Odd, I thought at the time but said
nothing. If I thought the ride across the island and back from the thermal
baths was a tough slog, I was about to be whipped to my knees with what the
future had in store.
Ikaria is riddled with miniature
churches, many the size of tiny Hobbit holes, only big enough for two or three
supplicants at a time.
Situated in
what would be considered desolate places throughout the Island, scores are old
and crumbly, obviously left over from by gone days of minimal transportation
during a more insular time.
They
are named for saints, and St. Stathis was no different from the rest.
Except that it was in good repair.
However, unknown to Neil, Catherine and me upon our departure, St. Stathis
church was located on the top of a mountain near no other edifice other than a
long stone wall that meandered along the mountain crest.
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| A view from a road above |
So off we went, a merry band of
travel mates. We drove along the
island road through a number of small villages and soon veered off the main
road and began ascending a coiled snake-like road. Then at a circuitous switch back, we headed on to a narrow
gravel byroad winding further up the mountain. Twisting and turning as we went,
with Ilias in the lead. Eventually Pamela, driving her little rental, rushed on
ahead. I had eaten almost nothing so my stomach was good – thank heavens.
“I have been to where we are going once before,
but it’s been a long time.”
Thea
explained, as I peered across the edge of the cliff on my rider's side, down the steep valley below. The
rough, road narrowed to a single lane and continued to spiral higher and higher
into the upper reaches toward the sparsely clouded sky above.
As we rode, I watched swirling bits of
gravel slide from beneath the car’s tires and tumble down the mountain edge
into the precipice below.
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| The upper road |
After a nerve-wracking forty-five minute ride, we
rounded a peak and the road changed again to a wide mountain knoll. We had finally
reached the pinnacle, the wind swept roof of the island. It was at this
juncture that Ilias parked his motorcycle and waved for us to stop.
“Get out,” he called in his thick Greek
accented English, “I want to show you something.”
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| Neil standing behind the wall |
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| Down island view to the west |
Next to our parked car, we spied an
ancient hand-hewned stone wall that meandered for miles along the mountain
ridge.
It was of the same
construction but higher in height than Hadrian’s Wall in Northern England.
There was an opening, where Ilias
explained once had a gate to separate one farmer’s goats from another’s. But
now there was just a somewhat wide space between the two sections of wall.
Although there was a knoll on the side
on which we were parked, the other side descended down a sharp hillside.
Spectacular island views were beginning
to be hampered by a teasing ethereal mist that was rolling in from the island’s
western tip.
This rather mystical
setting seemed to fill us all with a sense of merriment.
Ilias walked on the wall, accentuating
its height, and we all took pictures of each other with the beginnings of a
misty veil falling over our backdrop.
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| Ilias and Thea |
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| Pam and Ludimula |
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| Athena watching Ilias walk on the wall |
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| Misty fog rolling in |
Soon it was time to move on. Thea
drove slowly just a few feet, and then down a moderate incline, where we again
rounded a curve to converge on an area filled with cars scrunched together. We
could see just the tip of the miniature church spire from where we stood. On an
opposite hill we saw more parked cars and horses resting from what had probably
been a rigorous ride up an opposite mountainside road.
Down a modestly steep path, we arrived
at our destination St. Stathis, a charming well cared for whitewashed little
chapel surrounded by a balcony filled with a massive number of tables, people,
food and Greek music blasting out of a sound system mounted on the back of a
truck at the end of the cement slap that surrounded the little church.
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| Neil and Catherine |
After finding a space to sit, we
all contributed to the purchase of an immense fare: goat’s meat, Greek salad,
French fries, veggies, and large bottles of water to wash down the strong
homemade Ikarian wine. We ate; we
drank; we danced. We drank; we danced; we ate. We drank and we danced. We ate sumptuous desserts. Then we
danced and drank some more. It was
only the water chasers that kept us sober. Inside the little chapel, a small child made it her job to
pass out candles for us to light and fill with our prayers. An aura of familiarity among the crowd
created a brief moment when the magic spirit of one small island in the world
came together in heartfelt celebration. A celebration of life. A celebration
for its own sake! The music and
energy created an atmosphere of a people in unison in their dance with each
other and the universe. I learned
the steps quickly and danced with Athena, the Thea’s Inn cook. Yet I was amazed at the complexity of
the steps in the Greek circle dance.
In the past, I had done the horah at Jewish fetes, but these steps were
much more complicated. Although the wine was served in very small glasses, my
mind may have been too muddled to quite get the hang of it. (Guess I have to
return to Ikaria just to learn how to dance!)
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| Ilias and Paul |
I often get bored at parties and
generally have a short staying power.
But on this night fun had a way of snaring time, and as if suddenly, it
was time to go. Nine o’clock. Six hours later and it was as if we had just
arrived. As our small group of revelers moved up the hill away from the bright lights, music and party below, we found that the earlier mist had become a mantle of thick fog. It was as if
the blackness of night had coupled with an imprenetrable wall of opaque mist to
block our way. We were enshrouded
in it. Even by using our
flashlights, the fog was so dense we could barely see our feet, or for that
matter, where we were stepping. We
clung to one another. Finally,
after much groping about, we eventually found Pamela’s white rental, Thea’s SUV
and Ilias’ cycle. Our engines
revved in defiance to the wall of Mother Nature’s beastly challenge, to drive
back down these treacherous mountain roads without going over a cliff in this
menacing pitch. A risky
venture.
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A candle for my prayers
|
As we huddled together in the
parking area, we could no longer see the party lights only a short distance
away. Once we were in the car, Thea turned on the SUV’s headlights, but she had
almost no visibility in the blanket of fog. Now I understood why Ilias had
ridden his motorcycle - to lead us safely on what was to be a precarious ride
back down the circuitous mountain lane.
Ilias headed out first, but was out of sight in an
instant. Pamela drove out next, and she and Ludimula in their little car, which
we hoped would be visible because it was white, were also swallowed up
immediately in the fog-strewn night.
Thea headed out in fits and starts,
stopping every few feet to get her bearings. The fog, our menacing enemy, was
so thick we could see neither the cliff edge of this narrow road on our left,
nor the wall like mountain on the rider’s side on our right. Thea drove at a
crawl, and other than an occasional intake of breath or soft gasp, there was
stone silence from Neil and Catherine in the back seat.
The sound of the engine and the crunch
of gravel under the wheels filled the void.
Ocasionally the bouncing sounds of rocks tumbling over the
edge of the mountain penetrated our dreaded silence inside the car. Once Thea
made a sudden stop.
The left front
tire of the SUV seemed to spin. The edge? A foreboding hushed stillness
surrounded us. I felt a spine tingling shiver down my back and dug my nails
into the door rest in fear.
Did I
imagine it or did Thea turn the car wheels slightly inward.
To nick the wall was a better choice
than careening over a cliff.
Twice
Ilias deserted the lead and rode back, placing himself between Pamela’s small
white rental and Thea’s SUV.
He
drove so closely to the SUV that our bumpers nearly touched as his cycle’s
small taillight guided us at a snail’s pace down some of the of loops and
twists of the narrow gravel lane.
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| St. Stathis |
The dasterdly fog continued to wrap
itself around us. And then it happened, a car full of what Neil, Catherine,
Thea and I believed must be full of ‘crazies’ was heading upward and wanted to
pass. As if by St. Stathis’s
guidance their headlights reflected a small indentation in the rock face that
gave Thea just enough space to pull the SUV over and let the car pass. As we descended, the fog slowly
dissipated and we were able to at least make out the confining edges of what we
were about, the cliff edge and mountain’s side. As we headed further down, a sigh of relief passed my lips
as the thinning fog became a misty haze and finally at the sharp turn onto the
paved road, it vanished completely and we only had to deal with the pitch black
of the night.
“How’d you like to stop and have
drinks? I think I would.” Thea
suggested – as if we had not had enough already. I was ready to just give it all up for a warm bed and a long
relaxing rest but that was not to be just yet. Thea, with Ilias on his cycle leading the way, turned onto
another road heading away from our homeward destination and soon we arrived at
another of those Lilliputian sized villages that riddle Ikaria with its cozy
bar terrace packed with customers sitting under the trees that filled its
outside courtyard. And drink
everyone did (except me), one last one or two for the road home. Hard stuff. I didn’t even know what
many were drinking but everyone was happy and convivial. Many of the patrons like us had arrived
from the St. Stathis fête. They too had traversed the mountain road to arrive
before us and looked none the worse for their ordeal. The locals all conversed while I just rested under my
tree-shaded seat and thanked heavens for the everlasting memories I had
garnered from a remarkable evening. It was indeed a night to remember.
What was your night to
remember???
