A Short Hike Through India, Greece, and Turkey

             October 7, 1993 to  November 1993

 

 

 

October 7, 1993 Thursday               Los Angeles /  New York   /  Athens

 

At 8:20 a.m. I am airborne heading east.  Next stop, New York.  I awoke at 4:30 a.m., and immediately looked at the time.  After dressing casually, I gathered all travel gear together to inspect it for the last time.   I eliminated items that were not essential to my journey except for some instant coffee and a couple of small magic props that I bring to entertain kids. Since I don’t speak any of the languages of any of these countries I must do something that transcends language.  If kids laugh then their parents are happy too.  I reviewed my basic itinerary, but can't really lay it out since my purpose is to be able to change plans spontaneously.   I will change my plans for the smallest reason, maybe weather, hearing stories from fellow travelers, or just because I felt like it.  Anything could be adequate motivation to entirely restructure my destination and timetables.  I am only limited by money (I've brought $1,500), and time (I can't stay here forever), and weather (if turns really bad). 

 

At six in the morning, I drive to a twenty-four-hour drive-thru restaurant to eat a  cheeseburger with bacon and a cup of coffee.   I may not have this again until I return to the U.S.   I drove to the airport, where I logged on for a seat at TWA, then returned home. Three dollars was paid for parking at the airport for fifteen minutes.  Everything was gathered into my backpack, and then with no time to spare we left for the airport.  Truly no time to spare -- fortunately, I drove at breakneck speeds, dodging cars, speeding up through two yellow lights.  Stop! We're here at the terminal.   Bang -- shut the trunk after getting my bags out.  Ran to Gate 34 and right onto the plane and back to the rear in a light sweat.  Ahh!  I made it in time.

 

 

October 8, 1993 Friday      Athens, Greece

 

  As the airplane was approaching the Athens airport I saw heavy cloud covers, but the air was clear and warm.  I arrived at the International Airport, Athens, Greece.  I was more than tired, but excited with the invigoration that the discovery and exploration of new lands bring.  Immediately, without difficulty, thanks to an inquiring Tourist Policeman, I caught the double-decked bus to the Acropolis area.  For ninety drachmas I rode through busy streets of Athens.   The city was preparing for elections.  I wandered into a small travel agency with lots of English signs on it.  For me, this was a welcomed sight.  I spoke with a young man who spoke English very fluently.

 

He warned me of areas of the city, which I must avoid.   He provided me with a map and directions leading straight through one of the areas he had just told me I was to avoid.  As a friend had mentioned before I left, the Greek women are attractive and resemble, to my eye, the women of Italy, certainly due to geographic factors and probably historical too.

 

After a dizzying hike through the maze of streets, I found my hotel.   I want to use most of my money for the cost of transportation, so hotels were out.   I found, with the travel agent's assistance, my inexpensive hostel.  I had a bed with no sheet, and the mattress had obviously seen better days -- thin, worn, and stained, nonetheless very clean.  The room is shared with five other young men. I showered, shaved, and then slept for two more hours.  I paid the 1,500 drachmas, which is about seven U.S. dollars, for the first night. I left the very plain quarters to explore this neighborhood by foot.     Tomorrow I will spend the first day on a city tour.  I walked by the base of the Acropolis, which juts out of the city like the once-proud monument it is.

 

What a wonderful moment this is to be in Athens, the birthplace of democracy, and witness the excitement of the people on election night.  I only wish Americans reacted similarly, flag waving rallies everywhere. Hardly no one, except the obvious tourist, walked this night without a flag and yelling words of support to those, of their political party, carrying similar messages.  Young men on scooters with girlfriends in tow holding banners in both hands, working the city to frenzy till about eight p.m. Posters littered the streets everywhere. Cars sped through the main thoroughfares heaving twenty flyers at a time, at every fifteen-second intervals. I felt the excitement build.  The loudspeakers and noisemakers added to the moment. 

 

It has been dark since seven; now it is 8:30, and the city is lit with neon as I sit in a coffeehouse on the street and write this.

 

 

October 9, 1993 Friday       Athens, Greece

 

Back at the hostel, even though it's only a few minutes after nine in the early evening, I'm tired and intend to sleep so that I'll be alert for my 8:40 a.m. tour.   While I searched for postcards in this borough of Athens, I see no place to buy any cards except back in the downtown region.   The food is exceptionally flavorful and cheap.  There are affordable eateries on every street with few exceptions. 

 

Because of a variation from English style in letter and number appearance, I am having some difficulty using public transportation.  As I sit here in the hostel, I hear Beavis & Butthead in the background on TV.  I am conserving money as I have spent little on room or food yet.   I bought all film before leaving, so I've been spared the extremely expensive prices that are being charged locally.

 

I hope this tour will generate more enthusiasm in me  than I am feeling now.   I see that this is almost "just another Western European city.” As far as what I see, monuments here are not grander than all other cities of Europe as I had hoped.   While their historical significance is indisputable, the appearance of these ancient artifacts didn’t thrill me.   I must admit that the antiquities of Egypt were cared for and displayed with more dignity and aplomb than what I am witnessing here.  Here, it is almost like they don’t care that they are custodians of great and significant records of our civilization.

 

             Expenditures

 

Greece - Rate of Exchange:  230 Drachmas  = $1.00

TOTAL

Tour of Athens                                                   (Paid U.S.)             $25.00                       

 

Food                                                   800.00 dr.                  $5.00

 

Room                                                  1,500.00 dr.               7.00

 

Misc.: Water, tip                                400.00 dr.                  2.00

 

Taxi ride to fish market                                 4,500.00 dr.               9.00                            $40.00

 

Postcards (4ea)                                150.00 dr.                  1.00

 

Breakfast: Coffee, roll                                   500.00 dr.                  2.00

 

Bus Ticket Home                              100.00 dr.                  .50

 

Ice Cream                                          300.00 dr.                  1.50

 

Water & 2 Gyros                               800.00 dr.                  3.00

 

10 Postcards                                     250.00 dr.                              1.00

 

Room Rent                                         1,500.00 dr.               7.00                           

 

Paper                                                 800.00 dr.                  3.00                Day 39

 

 

Several people are going to sleep in our communal dorm-style room.    I'm not tired, so I came out of the room and sat at the so-called "meeting place" here, which is little more than a wide hallway with two small tables and six, even smaller, chairs.  Late into the night the flavors of political rallies abound, sirens and horns blasting away with no end in sight.  Now at 10:40 p.m., my eyes are tired, but my body is not; I'll close for the night.  It's about 65 F. and high humidity.

 

            Expenses      

 

Paper (280), Pen (400), Cigarette (300)                           980.00

 

Pistachios                                                                  580.00

 

Gyros (3)                                                                    600.00

 

Train tickets (2)                                                                     125.00

 

Boat                                                                            600.00

 

Motorcycle                                                                 8,000.00  +

 

Lunch (lamb cutlet)                                                    1,500.00

 

 

Room 2 x 1,500 (October 13, 1993 - Monday)                   12,350.00 dr.

 

 

October 9, 1993 Friday                     Athens, Greece

 

Today is Election Day, but I have witnessed very little campaigning.  It is now about seven p.m., and I awoke from a short two-hour nap, moments ago. 

 

Because there is no mechanism to adjust my biological clock, I am waking up at the right time IF I was back in L.A.     I awoke at 3:30 a.m. this morning and quickly dressed.   I left the modest but clean bedroom and decided to enjoy the vision of Athens waking up.  Even at this early hour I had little problem I found a taxi supplied with a taxi driver, who claims to have been given medical discharge from the Greek Army after attaining the status of General with three stars.  While he claimed to have a very good pension, he said he enjoyed his job and did it to meet people, not just for the money. Initially I had no reason to question this statement, which ultimately, I learned was said solely as male bravado.

 

I had asked to see the fish market.  My driver made several false starts and misdirected leads, but he had no car radio to get further advice.   Occasionally we became further confounded by well-meant instructions given by a few proprietors who were already at work and visible as we dizzily traversed the maze of Athenian streets at five a.m. Finally we blindly wandered into the adjacent parking lot along the water’s edge. The darkness still held tight until the first moment of daybreak three hours later.

 

The huge two block long warehouse had several gigantic open doors.  Fish guts spattered the outer asphalt and sleepy seagulls swooped in to examine each specimen.  I walked carefully to avoid the slimy cast off organs.  The cavernous innards of this building reeked of dead fish.  The busy marketplace was filled with buyers and sellers alike, many using bullhorns to broadcast their message, whether buying or selling, and what kind of creature they were dealing with.  As I climbed a private stairway to get a clearer view of this area, I was prevented from ascending further by a swarthy man whose rough complexion was further enhanced by the effects of an apparent stroke of sorts.  His mouth was loose as he spoke to my balding taxi driver - guide - interpreter.  My guide stood nearby, almost as if he was shielding me from the harsh tones of our antagonist.  My guide carefully gesticulated as he spoke.  It was easy to see that he said I was American and only here to take touristy-type pictures.  And that's exactly what I did.  The fish market was uniformly filled with a singular gender, but the ages spanned four generations; the hands of some were evidence that they never actually touched fish save with knife and fork.  Other men had their face sculpted by many years of the sea, salt air, and hard work.

 

We left through the ice-strewn wooden slate walkways between the open crates of carefully sorted ex-sea creatures.  None will ever see the sea again.  The fish's pitiful open-eyed gaze struck me as a plaintive call -- as if to say "What are you doing to me?"   Darkness had not begun to lift its heavy cloak as we serenely walked to the yellow taxi.

 

Once surrounded by the protective armor of his cab, we once again began to speak.  He asked, in his halting style, if I was married, how many children, what do I do for a living . . . moment by moment his questions were beginning to dig deeper into my persona.

 

For some mystic reason I felt as though I was being interrogated for more than casual conversation. I became defensive and attacked politely with equally personal questions about his life.  At first he was flattered by the brutal inquisition, but when I asked him about how much he made as a driver, he abruptly skirted the issue by saying "Very little" as he raised his index finger close to his thumb to show me just how little.

 

As we drove back to my hotel, the warm air flowed through the slightly open windows of the air-conditioned car and the smog-stained pollution of Athens was yet to be felt.

 

We arrived amidst an exchange of words about our respective childrens' deeds. The conversation halted abruptly as our mutual thoughts now involved money changing hands.  All the time, except while parked at the marketplace, the meter ran.  Frankly, while the 4,500 dr. exceeded the 2,000 dr. price he estimated the excursion would cost.    I felt the cost was reasonable except that he had me pay for his lack of knowledge about how to find our destination.  He was recalcitrant in accepting a 500 dr. tip (about two dollars).   At first I quietly rejoiced until chagrined by his furtive urban glance as if to say, "What?  That's all?"  And me, I thought, "What?  More?" AHey, am I in New York or what?”  Still, we left as friends of a very businesslike fashion.

 

Upon walking to the doorway, a quick glance back confirmed the absence of his watchful eye.  The cab had disappeared.  Though not as dark as before, the morning sun had not yet become visible; only its outermost rays could be seen by the Athenians..  My back to the door, at seven a.m., stillness reigned in this borough of Athens.  I opened . . . no,  try again, this time I will use a firmer grip, I opened the . . . nope.  I WAS LOCKED OUT!  No chance of getting in yet I could see through a window  that my personal things were where I had put them.

 

Realizing the futility of using my shoulder against the behemoth door, I meekly turned and walked down the steps to evaluate my alternatives.  I quickly decided that since I must make the two-mile journey to the downtown region to meet The Athens Tour #1 Bus, I might as well leave now. And this I did, slowly at first and gradually picking up a zesty pace as I strolled down the sloped streets littered with frail wooden crates filled with the evening gathering of paper trash and rotting vegetable matter.  Surprisingly, it was very little trouble to follow a direct route I saw on a city map. I made one minor attractive detour leading me through a different section of the National Gardens and by the Presidential Palace.  The Palace was guarded by four Greek honor guards dressed with short tunics and heavily tasseled shoes reminiscent of earlier Greek days.  Frankly, the way they were dressed looked silly

 

Moments later I saw a very small sidewalk café, where for 450 dr. I slowly sipped a demitasse of coffee and ate a honeyed chocolate donut bar.

 

By now I could feel a sharp pain in my right small toe.  The precursor to a blister probably, yet, I had visions of a bulbous cancer erupting slowly through the well-pounded skin of my foot concealed from sight by the shoe. Each step brought a shaper and sharper pain, yet I walked on.  Continuing my journey with deliberate steps that belied my painful condition.  Soon the pain disappeared (I wanted to believe).  The pain seems to dissipate somewhat through a conscious effort to concentrate on the fact that I was now lost.

 

With the aid of my compass and the map again, I thought I had placed my coordinate succinctly on the map grid.  I guided myself by street signs at each corner.   Ignored by the mapmakers were some of the smaller ancient twisted streets. I accurately placed myself on the map after finding several geographically significant monuments. Well within the time I had budgeted for it, found my destination in the center of town.   This is where the tourist buses originate and terminate their tours.

 

Since the city tour was to be in English, it was no surprise to me to find the area saturated with other American tourists.  I quickly made the acquaintance of several Americans from a variety of cities and regions. The seatmate I was to get was a physician from the Houston area, but conversation flowed freely in the enclosed environment of the huge bus.  Eventually there were six of us discussing Athen's merits and demerits.  Unfortunately, for all of us, it seemed I had been in Athens the longest.  As the Senior Visitor, with one full day under my belt,  I was asked questions which I blithely dismissed by issuing a sincere shrug to say AI don’t know.”

 

Immediately, all private conversation ceased when our tour guide began issuing facts and information over the public address system within the bus.  Since the PA was set at decibel levels scores above our conversation, it was next to impossible to clearly understand words uttered by our neighbor in the midst of statements emanating from the woofers, tweeters, and mid-range speakers scientifically placed throughout the bus.

 

Quietly, obediently, we disembarked or embarked as ordered.

 

"There on your left is the National Museum -- There on your right is The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier -- Again, on your right is the National Bank."  And so on . . .   At each announced destination we were impatiently anticipated by a small band of hawkers doing what they do best.  At each stop they had the same merchandise consisting of postcards, coins, stamps, tour books, picture books.  All only in the language that appropriated that of the specific group as they disembarked, and marking watches to note when the fifteen-minute visit will expire.

 

The tour concluded three hours later at the Parthenon, probably the best understood monument of Athens.  I walked to Plaka, a very trendy, touristy spot spread out over a square mile, cluttered with small stores, each of which, barely had ten feet of frontage.  Prices seemed reasonable for what appeared to be well-made (by machine) goods.  Actually, having not been here long, I really cannot say with certainty whether high or low prices until I have been able to compare them with prices elsewhere.

 

On the outskirts of this area, gypsies plied their wares, old junk items that seemed to have been recently pilfered from a local resident or two.  One vendor balked as he saw me prepare to photograph his lot.   Each street was bent this way and that; ultimately I found myself without any bearings except to know at three o'clock the sun begins its downward journey to the West.

 

With some assistance extended by some local Samaritans, I found out how and where to buy a bus ticket to the hotel.  The ticket was purchased for 75 dr. from a local newspaper/magazine vendor, and I visually located the red and blue posted bus stop sign.  After an hour's wait the bus arrived, and amid the normal amount of pushing and shoving I managed to step up and grab a handle for the next ten minutes till I arrived nearby.  With great effort I struggle to the crest of the incline, find the hostel, find my bed, and take a cigarette while I massage my reddened feet after slowly, almost luxuriously, peeling back the white socks that are sticking to my feet.  At first glance my feet seem misshapened by the twelve-hour pummeling they were treated to.

 

My cigarette out, I quickly fall asleep on the naked mattress.  Awakened two hours later by the quiet din of honking horns and siren -- after all this is Election Day in Greece, and everybody must travel to their hometowns to vote (for without the casting of a ballot a citizen loses his driving privileges).

 

Within the hostel I have made several friends, one of which is Swen, a German man of about 25-27 years old and very well-traveled since his graduation from college.  We may go to India; he seems to think it is easy to live on $2 a day. Swen cooked a meal and invited me to join him-- some sort of tuna cacciatore . . . very good.

 

 

 

 

  October 10, 1993     Saturday        Athens, Greece

 

I tried to wait for Swen, but he slept deeply even when I stood near him calling his name.  Since it was eight o'clock, I wasn't going to spend more time around the hostel.  I cleaned up my bedding area, put all miscellaneous items handily in a standing locker and left on my own.

 

I began by looking for a place to have breakfast.  Since this was a holiday (both it was the day after elections and Sunday) I found no restaurateur willing to risk the wrath of his cohorts by breaking rank and opening for business.

 

Nothing was open at 10 a.m. -- Nothing!  Museums were also closed.  I headed toward the general area of Plaka.  If any place is open, this has to be it.  As I turned the corner of some unnamed alley-street, I saw it.  Open -- everything; business as usual here.  I treated myself to some pistachios for 500 drachmas from a small umbrella-topped pushcart.  Burnt, uncracked, too small for the effort, and those that didn’t fit into any of the above categories were flavorless. 

 

As soon as I found myself by a soulaki/gyro stand I bought one and discarded the nuts. Gobbling one down only whetted my appetite for another, then another.  Yes -- three in all.  While they were small and very inexpensive -- 50 cents each -- after three, I could feel my stomach expanding to handle these Greek lamb sandwiches.    I had swallowed each sandwich in two bites.  Now I need to find a bottle of water -- there it is in a white metal and glass refrigerator.  I slid the glass back and took a cold liter.  Now in the midst of swaying crowds flowing up that street and this, I was unable to determine the proprietor who owned the contents of the refrigerator.  I imagine such vendors develop a special sense when someone is prepared to pay as I was. He found me.  I paid in drachmae as was the custom, and I turned right to leave and before me stood the railway station -- nothing grand, rather small actually.  Two choices: North and South.  South ends in Pireaus, the port center for most of Greece.  I purchased a reasonably priced ticket for 75 dr. and after a short wait the train halted before the throngs of people who magically appeared just moments before its arrival.  I embarked, following local custom of pushing my way in, albeit I was the last to squeeze within the steamy interior filled with the garlicky breath of fifty people in this car, the middle unit of ten sections.  The weather had heated up to the low nineties, but the humidity intensified the heat.

 

The halting motion of the train and the awkward position I was forced to occupy caused me to inevitably scramble for a foothold or handhold at every jerk of the train. Cautiously, I plotted how I should fall if the train makes another completely unanticipated lurch.   I decided if necessary, I would fall on three large black plastic trash bags placed near the door, the door opened; people pushed out while others pushed in, causing me to pirouette like Wiley Coyote after another failed attempt on the Roadrunner.  During the entire thirty-minute trip I never was able to sit but I was able to lay claim to one of the black plastic straps hanging overhead to support myself at a stop.  The final stop did arrive, and I merely brought myself within the flow of people, consciously kept my balance as the river of souls pushed forward.  I just hoped we were all really going in the right direction. And we were.

 

Finding myself alone (in thought) in the cavernous belly of the Pireaus Termination point, I sought guidance from my two guide books.  As I looked up there was a big sign in English with the words: ALL ISLANDS --  Book your tour here.

 

 

That was enough for me, off I went.  Yes, the rotund middle-aged man spoke a very precise British English.  He willingly offered endless advice on different islands, but said Santori is the most beautiful, one of the furthest, and it is a three-day trip.  No thanks. I'm not certain exactly how seaworthy my sea legs are.

 

Give me the short trip to Aegina for 12 hours each way.  Almost immediately I was enjoying the journey through the dark blue waters. I didn’t see the clear blue waters I anticipated from the guidebooks yet.  And since we put into port at 2:45 p.m., it was too late for seeking the beach, since the day had already begun to cool to a pleasant 80F.

The impression of Catalina struck me as greatly similar.  I rode onshore as the people who were a shipboard with me moved as one great gelatinous mass toward the nearby business entirely built on the tourist trade.  I sat on a nearby bench to reconfirm some facts of the island I neglected to commit to memory on the first reading.  Ruins were here.  Too far to walk and a taxi was too expensive.  The carriage rides offered by about twenty individual horsemen were out of the question. While I sat and ate lunch (a very average lamb steak and risocotti), I noticed that the adjoining establishment rented motorbikes.  I talked to the owner, who took my passport and twenty dollars and rented to me my choice of bikes from his lot.

 

I rode out in a cloud of dust after I asked him for directions to the Temple of Diana.  Easy enough, since I only had to stay on the road, one street over, all the way.  The exhilaration of being free to roam the hills as I pleased.  Eventually I found it, but not before I enjoyed an incredibly beautiful self-guided tour.  I drove among the green olive trees, goats, blue ocean, white buildings, and churches  throughout the hilly island terrain.   Just as an artistic picture is balanced, so was everything I saw.  

 

The Temple of Diana did not seem to belong  in this oceanic parapet.  Instead, it should be in or around Athens.  The ruins were locked behind a crisscross wire fence.  I was not the first to entreat the attendant for a closer look. My plea was futile.   She had been through this all day, and it rather angered her that she had one more interruption to her very unbusy day.  Nonetheless, she mustered the effort to respond in English and deny my request. I saw it from about sixty feet away. I cut over the stony weed-littered lot and could see almost everything.  Even without visitation privileges to the temple, that could not dim the enjoyment of unimpeded travel throughout the island.  The antiquities of Greece don't favorably compare with those of Rome or even Egypt.  Traveling  by motorbike was so enjoyable that not being able to get a really close look did not bother me at all. I stopped often, trying to see everything and miss nothing.

 

 

 

After returning the scooter, slightly damaged in a small spill,  I checked my scratched knee.  The throttle stuck, you know. "No, it really wasn't my fault, mister.   It was kinda like that when I got it."  I tried to explain to the owner about the bent fender. He wasn't buying any of this, but even so, he told me it was necessary to pay for full damages, which were under twenty dollars.  I paid it quickly, and took back my passport which was left as a deposit. The night was coming closer.  The long shadows made eerie streaks of darkness that seemed so very distant end to end, enhanced by the terraced mountainside.

 

Within a score of minutes the ship which would deliver us to the island could be seen on the horizon. As one spied upon other islands, it was as difficult to count them as to count the stars.  And passing through them were several ships, only one of which was significant to me.

 

As the ship approached the docking area, I watched as it grew by the moment.  NO waiting when the boat touched dock -- Bang!  The ferry opened its gaping jaws to disgorge pedestrians, motorcycles, cars, and trucks in a hodgepodge disorder that clearly showed there was no one in charge, at least no one who gave even the smallest damn about any routine to the disembarkation.

Last night I was robbed of three hundred dollars.  Somehow someone broke into my room as I slept in this room alone.

 

I escaped into the darkness through a neon spotted path to the train station.  I sat across from a black-robed Greek Orthodox priest who stared at me with confused blue eyes partially hidden beneath a full pepper-colored beard that was in need of trimming.

 

As he began to speak to me, the tobacco-stained teeth made crooked by age, moved behind rose-colored lips that anyone could see well fit his age-lined face.  "Sorry," I said, "I don't speak Greek." Quickly he turned to the woman next to me and repeated his exclamation.  I followed the six or seven stops on the train till we arrived at Ombus Center.  It was easy to trace the next stop on the map posted on the wall of the train.

 

An accordion player tried to replicate bazuki sounds of his personal adaption of "Zorba the Greek" while he was accompanied by a much younger male companion who kept the rhythm with a tambourine.  I could only assume they were hoping for tips, but they never passed a hat to collect any money.

 

I walked in the pleasant Athenian evening, bypassing a shortcut through the park at the suggestion of my guidebook.  The walk was exhausting.  While fax service is fairly priced and bus service downright cheap, I foolishly plodded onwards, reminding myself of the health value of a walk.  Seeing the hostel was truly a relief.  Within minutes I met Swen. We talked for a while about the day's events.  He presented me with a tasteful dish of brown lentil soup with the consistency of chili.

 

The evening was spent quietly talking and exchanging ideas.  Swen and I will leave tomorrow for the tickets to India.

 

 

October 12, 1993  Monday

 

Last night or during the night somebody violated the trust code that generally exists in hostels. They took some of my money, then put the wallet back in my bag in an outer pocket -- none of the traveler's checks, but three hundred dollars are gone.  Nobody seemed too surprised; I guess I should have somehow locked my door.  I'm not going to let it stop me from having a good trip.

 

I woke Swen so we could go early to get the tickets -- naturally the posted price was 54,000 dr. but since they were no longer flying that route, they have a new price of 62,000.  No direct flights or quickly connecting flights.  Go to Rome, four-hour layover, then out to Bombay.  As the travel agent was about to issue the tickets we asked for visas.  Neither of us was in possession of one, nor did we know of the need to have one.  Okay, put the ticket purchase on hold, and off we went for about three miles to the Indian Consulate.

 

The travel agent had forewarned us that it may take several days.  A reconfirming statement spewed from the English-speaking Nigerian, who greeted us very matter-of-factly.  So at 10 a.m. our plans were already deteriorating.  Again, because we had been forewarned by the travel agent, we had expected this.   We were told should this happen just insist on seeing the ambassador.   The advice was heeded  immediately and I vociferously demanded to see him. The lightly mustachioed Nigerian called him by phone intercom and arranged the meeting as requested.

 

After many words had been exchanged with the Consular.   He kept  repeating that he must continue to follow form and format, which required a wait till at least Thursday, possibly earlier.  But if we were to take a Wednesday flight (the next one), then we must have approval now.  My traveling companion asked if we had a letter from our respective ambassadors which recommended us, would we then be granted the visa?  "Yes, immediately," was the reply.  So with that encouraging statement we left courteously, with thanks to the Indian Ambassador.

 

First, a long hike to the U.S. Embassy, located about a mile from the Hilton.  Closed?  The U.S. Embassy closed?  Why?  No reason could be extracted from the three Greek guards that stood nearby. "Only tomorrow" -- one of the guards said it will open at eight a.m. But we've invested the day to resolve these issues, and tomorrow  I'd like to do something that would add to the trip. The futility of it seemed to rest heavy with me, but I trudged on.  We immediately asked for directions to the German Embassy.  The instructions the sole female guard advised it is not nearby, but on the outskirts of Athens, about ten miles

 

Taxi time!  Athenian taxi drivers seem to be an unusual lot. They often will drive past, anticipatory patrons oblivious to them, staring straight ahead, hoping to have no interruption as they cruise the streets.  Eventually, with some jumping up and down, we were able to get one to stop. We had to stand in a lane of the street holding our open palm down at the end of our outstretched arms, yelling "A" . . . "A.”    Apparently this activity is what attracts their attention because that's how almost everybody uses such body language to get the job done.

 

At the German Embassy the clerk took Swen's papers and saw to it with due haste that the appropriate paper was prepared with typical German efficiency.  I still can't figure out why the U.S. Embassy was closed?  It was no holiday and no one answered the phone when I called from a pay phone. Within forty minutes we were out of there, Sven had his paper-in-hand. 

 

The taxi we hailed was, even among his peers, unusually unfriendly and grumpy.  Mumbling at infrequent moments to himself as we drove back to town.  I asked if we could halt for a moment before the huge glass and marble U.S. Embassy. Posted hours on the heavy green gate should reconfirm hours that had been told to me earlier.  I quickly exited the worn rear seat of the yellow cab and ran back of the sign.  Nine a.m. to noon the sign said.  I turned to recover my seat in the cab, only to find that Swen was holding my bag, standing on the sidewalk awaiting me.   Swen said the driver said that he must leave, too, so Swen refused to pay the full 690 dr., instead gave 680 and exited the cab.

 

We walked back to the Indian Embassy, Swen with his paper and me with the hope of convincing the Ambassador of the necessity of issuing the visa to me. I was granted an audience with him again.  He held to his original statement, but about five minutes into my dialogue he conceded when he said, "Let me see what I can do; leave your passport and statement with me, and you wait downstairs."  I naturally assumed the most optimistic view of this gesture, and thanked him for his consideration -- undaunted by his reminder that "We will try to help!”

 

After a two-hour wait, watching others leave papers and hear them being told, "Not until Friday" for their visa after they had trekked to the Embassy as I did, but were prepared to wait, to me getting the visa today now was a challenge to my abilities. I walked to the clerk's window and asked about my visa and Swen's visa.  The clerk said the man who must sign it has left for lunch twenty minutes ago and should return within an hour and a half from now.  Surprised by this, we left to eat something, and began to search for food, which seemed to be available at every turn, now escaped our view.  We walked about a mile and came by the return route to the hostel. My time was getting thin.  I still had places to go:  Bombay, three days; Island tour, three days; New Delhi, three days. Travel time in between these points was three + three + three+ four = 13 days more. 

 

 

I cannot afford to waste time.  I'll probably see how it will be to go direct to Istanbul from Rome, the "midway point" on the flight. I must conserve my money to transportation, and since I will have little money to do the travel I had hoped for, I will try to stay within budget.  Hopefully, the weather conditions which are supposed to change at this time of year and become rainy.  It is very dry in northern India at this time. 

 

All these thoughts passed through my head as I enjoyed the Italian ice cream Greek-style (with less impact of flavor, but resembling Italian-style closely in texture).  Swen had a large meal. Most of the items he bought were, in large part, unidentifiable to me with the one notable exception being an extremely thick, well-cooked steak.  He ate it all, and left hardly a gravy stain on his plate. 

 

After sitting for a while I finished my pistachio and deep chocolate gelato.  I didn't see what his meal cost, but since neither of us are literate in Greek, he made his selections guided only by the pale photos adhering to backlit sheets of white plastic placed above the ordering counter.

 

With our return to the Embassy, there remained, unbeknownst to us, two more hours of wait.  Quietly at first, followed by a long period of impatience, and concluded with sporadic outbursts of nervous laughter and quiet statements of derision for their ineptness.

 

It was simply needed to obtain a signature now, nothing more, but the one man who could save us by signing the visas was "away."  The moment finally arrived almost unexpectedly.  The relief of the moment was underwhelming.   Since I, now, had the visa I think it would be fun to go, and it may be the most difficult hurdle to overcome.

 

Now armed with the visa we went back to the ticket office Δssouri said he will have the tickets by tomorrow at three p.m. Disappointed though we were, we left. Swen returned to the hostel, and I went on to the marketplace, Plaka.  Souvlaka, the hot spinach pie, and gyros were worth the very minor temptation at the cafe we were at earlier.  I could live on the gyros, especially since they are only about $.60, 200 drachmas.

 

Two things I haven't been able to do yet:  make a call to the U.S., and get Steve his stamps.  The post office offered only  one style of stamp, and I need to go to a special post office for stamp collectors, but I haven't found it.  At Plaka many stamp dealers were there, and several spoke English, but my mission was unaccomplished. Every stamp they sold was already canceled and there were few that had pictures of something to do with the space program.

 

The phone system is especially complex -- not usable without a special encoded card, and according to the woman at the post office, you must go to a special place about three long blocks away to purchase the card.  Then I should return to use the phone here to make an overseas call.<