Teaching, First Impressions

How do I say this diplomatically?

I've just completed my first week teaching in Istanbul.  I was assigned 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders.  No, they don't speak English.  No, I don't have an aide.  And yes, it is extremely difficult.

It has not been an easy week.  My school itself is great.  The teachers have been all that is kind and friendly and supportive.  In particular, the school's existing native-speaking English teacher has been an utter lifesaver more than I could ever say.  My commute from the Dumpy Apartment sucks rocks -- just under an hour door-to-door.  (Hoping to move closer by at least half, as soon as possible!)  But the school gave me an incredibly awesome perk -- I have Mondays off!  Hello three-day weekends!!!

But when I am at school -- a very full schedule as five days worth of classes has been compacted into four -- it is a nonstop, busy, hectic, confusing whirlwind.  And the same little students that I see sitting like angels for their Turkish teachers erupt into a Ritalin commercial the second I walk into a room.  Seriously, not being able to shout in Turkish has been a massive, gigantic handicap.  Without exaggeration, I have shouted "Sit Down!", "Be Quiet!" and "STOP!"  more times this week than in the rest of my life put together.  I am exhausted.  And was very, very ready for that last bell of the week today.

When you are locked in a battle of wills with a 1st grader, over the matter of him handing over his drawing of an explosion (when he was supposed to be drawing his family), it's difficult to keep perspective, to not take things personally.  It's difficult not to doubt yourself.  I was feeling exceptionally low on Thursday afternoon, after two very draining classes in a row.  But then the school's other female English teacher -- who's been there for years -- came and found me because she was also having a hard day.  Just sitting there and hearing her voice the same exact frustrations I was feeling did wonders for me.  Because you can't take it personally.  These kids don't know you from Adam.  They're just kids, and no teacher is going to be able to undo a young lifetime of behavioral programming over the course of two or three hours a week.

Here's something I learned about myself while in Georgia.  I like teaching.  I'm even good at it, when I'm given the chance.  My MOJ adults and I had a wonderful time together, and I really do think I was able to teach them stuff.  I reminisce about those classes often as a matter of fact, and it's one of the things I genuinely regret not being able to go back to after Georgia pulled out the rug from under me.

But I am not going to force-feed you.  Whether you are six or forty-six, all I can do is present material, as attractively packaged as I can craft it.  If you take all that and throw it back in my face, if you're rude, belligerent, or hinder other students with your selfish immature antics... well, I'm not going to lose any sleep over the fact that you didn't learn any English today.

No matter how good a teacher is, he or she can only meet you almost all of the way.  The student has to make that final toe-shuffle and agree to actually be taught.  And sure, especially if you still have your baby teeth, I'll give you every chance in the world.  I will laugh, I will cajole, I will invent games, and even if I want to throttle you I will heap 47 worlds' worth of praise on your head should you happen to answer a question even halfway correctly.  But even the most talented and dedicated teacher does not know how to physically open up the brain of an unwilling student and shovel the knowledge in.

The fact is, at the end of the day -- there is only so much that I can do.

This job is going to test me.  I knew that going in, but this week has driven it home.

But hey -- some perspective to close:  That Thursday I mentioned when I was hating life?  On the bus ride home a friend texted me to say that her day had started with her breaking up a fight.  And then later, a kid shit himself in her class.

My day... seemed kind of a lot better after that.

Venturing into Sultanahmet

So I've just completed my first week of teaching in Istanbul.

Woof.

It feels like not much has happened since I got here, but that must be untrue because now I am staring at an empty screen with no idea where to start.  Hard to believe that a week and a half has passed already, and that it's only been a week and a half.

I'll get into my first teaching week in the next post or so, but I wanted to start with last Saturday, when I first got myself into the city proper.  I took a metro, a funicular, and a tram (seriously Istanbul??) to get myself into Sultanahmet and check out some sights.  I navigated just fine but once again my body betrayed me and suddenly I felt really sick to my stomach.  Ugh.  Had to duck into a convenient cafe and luckily their bathroom was where I thought it should be.  After that one incident, I didn't have any other emergencies but definitely didn't eat anything all day.  I'd been in Istanbul since Thursday and had yet to actually eat in a restaurant!

I took the tram across the Golden Horn and into Eminönü, where I saw a very big and famous looking mosque and decided to step off and check it out.  Turns out it was just a "normal" mosque but still incredibly beautiful.  I fell in behind the steady stream of worshipers entering the mosque, took off my shoes and whipped a quick scarf around my head.  Must have done okay because at least no one yelled at me.  Inside it was just breathtaking.

In the courtyard

Pretty enough to be a movie star

 I had both a map and a guidebook with me for this afternoon, and was not using either of them.  Consequently I got lost trying to find the Hagia Sophia, which meant I lucked out and stumbled upon this amazingly crazy market district.

I'm dying for one of these lamps!

Finally I did pull out the map and correct myself, and finally got to scratch my waiting-in-line-with-other-tourists itch.  I'd missed this so much from Europe.  (Not really.)

Hagia Sophia

(Confession:  for a long time I thought the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque were the same thing.  They're not.)

Inside the Hagia Sophia, I was surprised at how much of the interior needed some serious restoration.  I mean, of course it was beautiful, but sadly showing its age a little.

Restoration happenings over to the left.

Oh, it costs 25 TL to get into the Hagia Sophia.  Something I absolutely had to do once, but if I get any visitors here I think I just might send them in alone. :)

Across this very pretty park, full of fountains, is the Blue Mosque.  And I have to say, I loved visiting both of these places but the Blue Mosque does edge out on sheer gorgeousness.

The mosque was temporarily closed to visitors for prayer time, but the very kind guards told me about a small seminar that was about to start in one of the adjacent buildings that would talk about the history of Islam and about this particular mosque.  So I went to check that out and it was really quite a cool presentation.  Definitely worth the time, especially since it was free!  And then I finally went in to check out the mosque itself.

These pictures do not do it justice.  It is seriously just so breathtaking inside.  I wandered around for a while taking it all in.  It is exactly moments like these that remind me how very lucky I am to be living this crazy life!

When I came out, it was raining.  And I still didn't want to trust my stomach with food.  So I headed home for yet another quiet night.  I needed to harbor my strength for the trials soon to come -- otherwise known as 1st, 2nd and 3rd graders.

I loved the bustling, colorful, loud Old Town.  I wish I could live there, but cost and commute make that a total pipe dream.  And there is still SO much more to explore.  I'm going to have to do some planning if I want to fit it all in in four short months.

It just so happened that on Tuesday I found myself in Sultanahmet once again, as I met up with three other teachers for dinner.  I met a girl who'd also volunteered in Georgia!  We had a hilarious time recounting our very best stories for the horror and amusement of our dinner companions.  We found an "authentic" Turkish restaurant that was pretty budget-blowing (for us), but the staff were incredibly nice and they had tables where you could sit on cushions on the floor.  We found out that doing this is actually a lot less comfy and more awkward than it might seem at first. :)  But the food and conversation were excellent.

Mallory (former TLGer!), Joshua, Rachel

Verdict:  You'll never lack for sights, fun, or food in Sultanahmet.  Just be prepared to pay for it. :)  So... maybe only on special occasions.  I prefer the back-alley random-find restaurants anyway.

Fieldwork

So.  I have arrived in Istanbul.  Culture shock and jet lag have conspired to make my first 30ish hours here very tame indeed.  I don't have any good stories yet.  I do have a phone, and I'm not entirely sure said phone parted ways with its previous owner by choice.  I do have a temporary apartment with no heat, no hot water in the sinks, barely tepid water in the shower, and a toilet that currently will not flush.  Oh, and a Georgian-sized can of Turkish beer.  Because, well... when you have all those other things, beer just sort of follows as a matter of course.

Amenities or no, I'm still incredibly jazzed to be here, and plan to conquer the metro tomorrow, to see a couple sights before school (yikes) starts on Monday.

But all this Grim Adaptability has brought Georgia once again to the front of my thoughts.  To piggyback on my last post, this apartment would Not Have Been Acceptable two years ago.  Now, I know to pour kettles full of water down into the toilet bowl and to layer up with fleeces and long underwear.  I'm kind of relieved this place is only temporary, though.  It's very possible even my best Grim Adaptability Face would falter if I'd signed a full four-month lease here.

To compensate for a lack of Istanbul stories, here's a treasure from my early Georgia Days that I have been holding on to for quite some time.  I submitted it to a humor contest at the Washington Post, and they didn't want it; then I submitted it to my Program's official blog, and they didn't want it.  (I cannot for the life of me imagine why not.)  So now, you get it here.  Cast your mind back to late spring, 2011.  I'd been in Georgia for little over a month.  And this is the day I had.  I swear on a stack of LOTR first editions that every single word here is true, if in places condensed for maximum humor value.  Name of my officer companion has been changed however.


_______________________

I am sitting in the passenger seat of a battered beige Lada. It is pouring rain on a late spring day in Poti, Georgia.

I came to Georgia to teach English, and that’s what I thought I would be doing this particular morning, as it was supposed to be the first day of my summer work – teaching English to Poti’s police officers. Instead, after being told that the textbooks had not arrived and that “no one is there. They are not ready”, Zaza is driving me back to the house where I currently live with a host family. Zaza is my assistant, the local policeman assigned to be my translator during classes. I’ve met him for the first time this morning, when he arrived to pick me up. For some reason, we had driven halfway to the police station before he informed me that classes would not, in fact, be starting that day.

Only now, instead of driving me all the way home, Zaza has suggested that he take me on a tour of Poti. I have accepted, mainly because of the very good chance that this tour will end inside a local restaurant. My Program’s monthly volunteer stipend does not stretch terribly far, and the possibility of scoring a free meal has become something of a grail quest among the small but tight community of Poti expats.

Except that Zaza is proceeding at a brisk seven miles an hour in the exact opposite direction from the town’s center, straight out of Poti. I swallow, and remind myself that this guy is a policeman and affiliated with my Program. He must be legit, right? Probably. Almost certainly probably.

“Meri. You are married?”
I’m used to these straightforward questions out of nowhere from Georgians by now. “No, Zaza. I’m not married.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
At this news, his grin widens. He is now driving the car by – I assume – purely muscle memory as his head is turned a perfect 90 degrees to the right, eyes fixed on me with delighted determination.

“Meri.” A pause. Now we’re getting to the crux of things. “I want…. so much… to come to America. How I get to America, do you think?” He punctuates this question with a bout of maniacal laughter.
When he subsides, I say in my best cheerfully clueless voice: “Well, I think you should apply for a visa.”
"Oh no. I try, many years ago. They say No.”
Gee. Imagine that.

“Where are we going, Zaza?”
“You want the see the Sea, yes? Very beautiful, the Sea.”

The sea he is referring to is the Black Sea, on the coast of which this industrial shipping town sits.  I suppose the Black Sea could technically be considered part of a Poti tour.

It is a lucky thing that I happened to have recently bought a bicycle, so have done a little exploring on my own and do have some idea now as to where we are probably going – a small wooded park just outside town called Maltaqva, which does indeed have paths out to the coast. It is still possible that I am not being kidnapped.

Zaza pulls off the main road onto one of Maltaqva’s narrow dirt tracks that wind through the woods. But instead of actually proceeding to the sea, he stops the car and executes a smooth 27-point turn until we are facing the way we came. We’re still just in sight of the main road… but from where I sit – literally and figuratively – the Lada is very much in the middle of nowhere.

I turn to him and give the calmest, brightest smile I can manage. “What are we doing, Zaza? Aren’t we going to the Sea?”

“Meri. You like beer, yes?”
“Sure I do, yeah,” I say, thinking ‘Holy hell, please let now be when he starts the car and we go to a restaurant which will also conveniently not be in the middle of the woods.’

Instead, Zaza leaps out of the car, goes around to the back seat, and produces a half-empty 2-litre bottle of Georgian Kazbegi beer that has apparently been rolling around back there, along with one greasy plastic cup. He gets back in the driver’s seat and ceremonially hands me a half-pint of the warm, flat stuff, and proceeds to watch me intently.
“Aren’t you going to have some?” I ask.
“Oh no, is okay. I drink after you.”
My thoughts running a mix of ‘well, this is awkward,’ and ‘man, I really hope I am not being roofied,’ I finish my beer as quick as I can and hand him the cup. He pours himself a glass and downs it. A thought occurs to me.
“Zaza, should you be drinking that if you’re driving?”

He flashes me the biggest grin yet. “Oh no,” he says, obviously intensely proud of himself. “Is okay. Because I am… police.” A dramatic pause, as he suggestively wriggles his eyebrows at me and pats at his hip.
“And I have… gun.”

It is at this moment, when I am staring out the cracked windshield in an unsuccessful search for a reply, that I see, way out where the track meets the main road, a cow streaking past at a full sprint, followed in two beats by a Georgian man in business dress, also at a full sprint. I blink. I wonder what my friends back home in DC and Northern Virginia are doing.

“Meri.” Zaza is still leering at me, perhaps hoping I will ask to see his gun. I do not. “Meri. You are drunk, yes?”
‘On one cup of your warm flat Kazbegi beer?’ “No, Zaza. I am not drunk. Are you drunk?”
He laughs. “Oh, I am SO drunk!”
It is then that I realize where the first half of that 2-litre must have gone.

Zaza flashes me another bright smile. “What we do now?”
I grin back. It is important that I make this next suggestion sound like the best idea in the entire history of time. There comes a moment in every broke expat’s day when even the possibility of a free lunch starts to seem no longer worth it.
“I think you should take me home now, Zaza.”

And by some miracle, he does. Classes, he reminds me, will start on Wednesday.

Learning How to Show Up

I suppose I should write something here.

It's right there on my list:  "Farewell Blog Post".  And I did complete every other thing that needed to get done on that list.  Really, for the sake of parity, if nothing else, I should write something.  Don't I have something pithy and frank and gently self-deprecating to share with you all?

Tomorrow I fly.  And you know what the truly amazing, even ironic, thing is about that statement?  It's kind of just started to seem like just another day.

In the spirit of honesty, I will completely allow that this blase attitude is quite possibly nothing more than self-preservation, as I have certainly been on the edge of tears and/or barfing more than once over the past week.  But what makes me smile is that I know this newest adventure would not have been possible for me two years ago.  I would have been too afraid.  There is a whole bunch of stuff about this current assignment that I still have not the foggiest clue about, and two years ago, back when I was just screw up the courage to email Georgia and ask for a second chance, I'm pretty sure that facing this level of "I have no idea what is going to fucking happen" would have been too much, even with the incentive of mooning Ursula on my way out.

Georgia taught me stuff.  About myself, and about life.  About how your life doesn't need to become a copy of the lives you see all around you.  My experiences in Georgia, and the people I met there, inspired me to backpack around Europe, which is something I never in a million years thought I'd be able to do.  In Europe, I learned about winging it, making the best of it, and most importantly, just kind of having the balls to Show Up.

If I hadn't had my terrible job in DC, I never would have had the courage to go to Georgia.  If not for Georgia, I would not have made the decision to go backpacking.  And if I hadn't backpacked, it is very likely that I would not now be doing this.

Life just plain blows my mind sometimes.

For most of my life, it typically hasn't been in my nature to Show Up.  I like lists.  Planning.  I like to know exactly what is going to happen and I like to have had a significant role in figuring out what those activities will entail.  Tomorrow, I will once more hug my parents at Dulles and step on to a plane into the unknown.  It is only the slightest of exaggerations to say that I have not the slightest fucking idea what is going to happen after that.  I don't know who exactly I am meeting at the airport, or how I will know that person.  I do not know where I am staying that night.  I do not know what grades I will be teaching.  I don't know if I will get to meet the Turkish teachers at my school or any of the other English teacher expats placed in other schools before classes start on Monday.

I'm just going to Show Up, and trust that I'll be able to handle whatever they throw at me.  I know I can take care of myself.  Two years ago, I don't think I'd have been able to say that.  Of course I'm nervous.  And sure, I wish a lot of those things in that last paragraph were taken care of.  But they're not, and there's nothing I can do about that.

The other night, whilst gripped in a sudden bout of terror at what I had gotten myself into, I posted: "You are never prepared.  If you spend your life trying to get prepared, you will never get anywhere.  Just go."

Tonight, I have a popping wood fire and a glass of Fabbioli's cabernet franc.  Sisyphus once again is stuffed full, along with his tubby overweight brother on wheels, Silenus.  (It's kind of a funny marriage upstairs on the guest bed right now.  I'm not bringing nearly as much stuff with me as I did to Georgia, but backpacking this is not.)  Earlier this evening, my Dad went to work and I watched House Hunters International and a documentary about tropical fish with my Mom.  It is... just another night.

And tomorrow I fly.  To just Show Up, and see what the hell is going to happen this time.

Athens: The Big Goodbye

Let me tell you, it was something of a cold shower to come fresh from to solitude and (relative) luxury of Santorini and Villa Manos, straight back to a six-person dorm in Athens Backpackers that had a broken radiator which ran all the time and sounded like a fishtank.  Ah well, whatever.  Anything after Santorini was going to include some degree of initial disappointment shock.

I feel kind of like I got to see the Ravenloft version of  Santorini.  The mists and rain of my ferry ride from Athens brought me to an island that looked very much like Santorini, just a Santorini mysteriously devoid of people, where the sun set curiously early and dogs roamed the deserted streets.  A large part of me is extremely grateful that I got to see it this way, since I truly do hate crowds and had my fill of heat in Spain and Malta.  But I'm aware that I didn't precisely get to have the true Santorini Experience.  It will be fun to come back someday and see it as it's meant to be seen, a flower opened.  And swarming tourists like a hundred thousand tipsy sunburned bees.

I woke up in Athens Backpackers with a sinking heart.  Today was going to be my last day in Europe.  The last day of my crazy, half-cocked, hedonistic adventure, which if I do say to myself, turned into a smashing success.  But what to do for my last hours?

I flipped through the Athens guidebook I'd picked up previously at the tourist office, and lo and behold I found myself staring at one of the most famous portraits of one of my most favorite poets, ranking right up there with Keats and Shelley.

Lord Byron in Albanian Dress

Byron loved Greece, especially Athens.  So much so that he'd said he wanted to die here.  (I immediately checked because holy hell how cool would it have been if I could have visited his grave, but he's buried in England.)  It made complete sense to me that his most famous portrait should be on display at Athens' National Historical Museum.

I found it very fitting, especially after my pilgrimage in Rome, that my last day in Athens, Greece, and Europe should be spent hunting down one of my literary heroes.  In addition to the portrait, I discovered that Athens had erected a memorial statue to Lord Byron just outside of the National Gardens.  I set out to find these treasures.  Byron Day in Athens!

The Byron statue I miraculously managed to find almost at once, it's actually just outside the Gardens along a main road.

Byron being blessed by Greece (in the form of a woman)

On the way up to the museum, I was fortunate enough to catch the Changing of the Guard at the Greek Tomb of the Unknown Solider.  Typical me, no good photos of the actual change though.  Go look it up on youtube, it's kind of remarkable.

I found the National Historical Museum with no trouble, and asked at the front desk where I could find Byron's portrait.  The very nice lady told me Gallery 7.  I tried to take my time and look through each room in the museum with interest and care, but I was just kidding myself.  I'd paid that ticket price for one reason and one reason only.

Found Gallery 7.  It had... some Byron stuff.  Portraits, miniatures, memorabilia.  But not THE portrait.  Not Lord Byron in Albanian Dress.

I went back to the desk.  I showed the lady the picture in the guidebook.  "Oh no," I was told.  "This one is not here."

But it's in the guidebook, I insisted.  I'm afraid I refused to be turned aside.  She went so far to ask the Museum's Director if it could be in storage, then gave me the museum's wifi password (not for visitors), so I could search for this answer once and for all.

Yeah, the thing's in London.  Bummer and Balls.  Stupid guidebook.

I thanked the staff profusely for their help, kindness, and patience, and then went meekly back into the museum to get a look at it for real.  It was quite interesting. :)

Byron stuff they did have on display, and accidental self-portrait

Very neat exhibit showing historical Greek dress from the many different regions all over the country

After the National Historical Museum, I successfully found a post office to mail my very last set of postcards, had some lunch (probably a gyro), and then did yet more shopping in the Plaka.  I was slowly but surely making my way to the Acropolis Museum, which was to be my last Culture Stop.  Gigantic sad face.

The Acropolis Museum was awesome.  It's brand new, and extremely well done.  They don't let you take photographs though, and they mean this almost as much as in the Pope Crypt.

My one photo.  They were not happy with me.

I risked my personal liberty and happiness for this particular shot because it showed the original statue, called  a Kore (dude statues are kouros), alongside a replica of how it would have looked back when it was first displayed, complete with colorful paint job.  I find it so interesting that Ancient Greece is so often portrayed as this pristine alabaster serenity, when in fact the statues, buildings, and temples were full of color.

Oh, and that guy in a suit you see walking toward me here?  That's me about to get yelled at. :)

There's a lot of info and history to take in at the Acropolis Museum, and I tried to do my best, but I was pretty tired and, in complete honesty, also kind of totally Museumed Out.  Thank goodness there were only three floors and it wasn't very big.  I think I did it justice, if only for pride's sake!

I couldn't help it.  I was just so damn bummed.  My last night in Europe.  It was all so very over.  I walked to the Sports Bar near my hostel (where Beth and I had ended our evenings), which I know doesn't sound very authentic but my second stay at Athens Backpackers had awarded me one more free shot of ouzo there.  Plus the owner/bartender was this friendly old Greek guy who I liked a lot.

I hung out for a while at one of the round high tables, writing my head off and just trying to come to terms with it all.  Hard to believe it had all really happened.  I'd done it.  I had not gotten arrested, or critically injured, or pregnant.  I had gotten a few bedbug bites, and they weren't the end of the world.  I'd carried that freaking bright blue bag of suffering across six countries.  (Seven if you count America?)  I crawled through caves and flew in the sky and stood on top of mountains.

I spent the most incredible three weeks traveling through France with my very own sister, making memories that will make us laugh together for the rest of our lives.  And fate is so weird, because it just so happened that this would turn out to be the very last opportunity we sisters would have to do something like that, for a very long time.

This is the amazing, mind-flooring news I'd received way back in Venice.  My beautiful sister and best friend will be bringing a baby boy into the world in early July!  And I cannot wait to be an aunt.  I've already started the buying of ridiculously cute things.

Every single day of the past three months was nothing more or less than an enormous gift.  Life is strange.  But holy crap, it can be a lot of fun if you let it.

I finished up at the Sports Bar and walked down the street to good old God's Restaurant again.  I don't even remember what I ate, because I'd sort of put a closure on my journaling and didn't feel like writing any more.  I do know it was tasty and involved both beer and dessert.  And likely also ouzo.

And then I went back to the hostel.  To pack, set my alarm for 5:00 AM, get on a plane, and leave.  I nodded my farewells to Athena, and told her I'd be seeing her again.

Santorini: Drivin' Fool

Self-discovery:  having a private room, with a private balcony overlooking they sea, may be very awesome in terms of awesomeness, but is not very awesome in terms on getting one's ass out of bed at a reasonable hour.  Especially when one has a slight cold.

Once again on Santorini, I slept late.  I puttered, I uploaded photos onto Facebook, I had breakfast at noonish.  In the early afternoon I decided to get the bus to Oia, a town/village up at the north end of the island that is supposed to be one of the most beautiful places on Santorini.

I went up to the main road, sat at the bus stop and waited.  And waited.  Eventually I decided I must have missed it; that it must have come earlier than expected.  I went back to my room, then sat outside again waiting for the bus, giving myself a giant time window should it be early.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.

And then I went back into Villa Manos and had Poppy order me a car, because this shit was ridiculous.

So that's how I got my rental car on Santorini for 25 hours, and it ranks up there with parasailing in worthwhile extravagances.  All in all, my late start, the bus stupidity, and waiting for my car to arrive on Greek Time cut into a very significant portion of my day.  But what the hell.  I had a car.

I drove north to Oia.  I was a little nervous about pealing off into the wild blue Greek yonder with what has to be the World's Least Useful Map, but Poppy assured me it was impossible to get lost on Santorini.  And true, I did make it to the northern tip in plenty of time to see the sunset which was what I had come for.  I drove all the way down to the teeny-tiny port settlement of Ammoudi, which seemed to be about three houses, two closed restaurants, and one boat.  And a souvenir shop, also closed.  Santorinians must freaking hate winter.

Ammoudi

 

I got a few good sunset shots, then drove back up into Oia to look around, buy more gifts, and hopefully find somewhere to both eat and pee.  Oia made Fira look crowded, but it still was not quite as desolate as Kamari.  I walked around for a while; the entire tourist population of this gorgeously beautiful town seemed to consist of me and a group of about five Chinese couples.  I found a couple shops that were open, but the one or two open restaurants were either too expensive or just didn't look right.  Oia is unquestionably the prettiest town on Santorini though.  When I come back, I will get stay here I think.

As I continued exploring it passed on into full dark.  I began to worry about dogs, and also about my bladder.  I have a feeling that dogs would not even be a tiny problem during high season, when the streets of every Santorini town and village are filled to bursting.  Unfortunately I was visiting a very different, deserted Santorini, where I wouldn't see another human even on the streets of town for long minutes at a stretch.  My heels were hurting, I was hungry, it was dark, and I was about to have a gigantic embarrassing accident if I didn't find a toilet soon.

The tiny cafe I did find, eventually, did most gloriously have a toilet, but it was nothing special.  I decided to just get a small kebab here and go out for my real dinner later in the evening.  I headed back to Villa Manos, where once again I engaged in the indefatigable vacation pastime of The Nap.

After I woke up, I decided to take advantage of the one night I actually had a car, and take it into downtown Fira for dinner.  I found a pretty amazing wine bar there, and had one of my best meals in Greece -- chicken breast stuffed with spinach and feta.  There were grilled veggies on the side, including the famous Santorini white eggplant which I had been told I had to try but hadn't yet.

The next day, I made myself get up early because I was determined to make the most of my rental car before I had to give it back at 5:30 that evening.  I wanted to go to Akrotiri, the excavated remains of a Minoan city buried under ash when Nea Kameni blew all the fuck up 3,000 years ago.  So I set off, only to almost instantly prove that yes, you can indeed get lost on Santorini.  I ended up at the airport, which was rather not where I'd intended, then found myself back at Kamari.

Well, since I was there and all, I decided to try to find Ancient Thera again.  I soon found signs, and confirmed that yeah -- Ancient Thera is way the hell up on top of those aforementioned significant cliffs.  Major props (not really) to my waitress from the other day for failing to mention this somewhat significant fact.

I drove up and around what felt like fifty hairpin turns, and finally found myself on top of the world and at the site of Ancient Thera.  How did those guys ever get up here without the horseless carriage???

I was mostly all alone for my exploring, and that of course was fabulous.  The wind up here was intense and the views were incredible.  But it seemed like (maybe for the off-season), a lot of the site was roped off that should have been open usually.  That was kind of a bummer but I loved that I got to see the things I did.

Back again in the mighty rental, I proceeded to make many U-Turns with accompanying cursing, and eventually found my way over to Akrotiri.

As you can see, the entire site is enclosed within a warehouse-like structure, which no doubt is superb for protecting the priceless ancient ruins but rather made me feel as though I was visiting an archaeological site housed inside a Wal-Mart.

I still had the car for a few more hours, so I followed a sign nearby for a "red beach".  Greeks have apparently kind of a liberal idea as to what constitutes a "beach", but at least it was pretty.

The Red Beach had a sign with an arrow to "Dolphin's Restaurant -- Open Year Round!".  I checked it out, and down some stairs and around a corner was the most amazing little fish restaurant!  It was warm enough to sit outside, so that's what I did.  I ordered a Greek Sampler of hummus, eggplant, feta, olives, tomatoes, and cucumbers -- and decided to try the grilled octopus!  Octopus is a Greek specialty and I knew I had to have it at least once while on Santorini.

My incredible view

Check out this suckers on this guy!!

 The octopus was all right but honestly didn't really have much flavor, and those sucker thingies were very chewy and hard!  I'm happy I got to have octopus in Greece but I don't think it made me into an octopus convert for life.

I drove back to Villa Manos and turned in my car.  I felt like I had gotten my money's worth for sure out of that little extravagance!  Back home, Poppy came to my door with a delicious plate of pasta, but I was so full from my octopus I had to secretly store the place in my room's mini-fridge until later that night.  It was pretty good cold. :)

The next morning, I woke up with a sinking heart.  The time had come to finally say goodbye to this beautiful island.  The ferry wasn't until 3:30, so I checked out at noon, got a late breakfast at reception, and hung out next to the pool with my journal and kindle until it was time for Poppy's husband to drive me to the port.

The ferry ride itself was uneventful and problem free; I arrived back in Athens just in time to take the last metro of the night!  Literally, I was the very last person out of the station; they swung the gate down after me.  Back in Athens for two nights, one day.  My grand European Tour was drawing finally to a close!

Santorini: island-sized ghost town

I had a little bit of a cold throughout my entire stay in Greece.  It didn't bother me much, but it was my excuse every day in Santorini for the obscene amount of sleeping I did.  Naps, late mornings... it was shameful! :)  I was just so damn jazzed that I could sleep whenever I wanted to.  Because, you know, single room and all.  The joy!

First day on Santorini, I slept late, puttered, and eventually made my way over to reception.  Poppy and her husband offered breakfast until the wonderful Greek time of noon.  And they had eggs!  I'd gotten so freaking tired of Europe's idea that sugar and carbs make a proper breakfast.  Back in the room, I sat on my balcony and read through my guidebooks and wikitravel to figure out what to do with the rest of my day.

Eventually I decided to visit Kamari Beach, which required taking a bus.  Said bus arrived right on time and took me exactly where I needed to go, which I would later learn had given me unrealistic expectations of the Santorini off-season bus system.

Walking through Kamari was... eerie.

I felt like I had stumbled into a zombie apocalypse.  Restaurants, bars, and hotels as far as the eye could see, and every one of them shut tight and deserted.  I walked along the beach, finding it even hard to imagine the town as it must have been only two months before, where a beach stroll would become an activity resembling frogger.

Behind me as I took this shot were some very dramatic sheer rocky cliffs.  I poked around these for a while, nosing into a settlement where I possibly did not belong.

I walked back along the strip and finally did find a bar kind of halfway open.  It was just warm enough to sit outside, so that's what I did, sipping an Argo, writing and daydreaming.  As I sat, two stray dogs began to take an interest in me.  I guess the off-season is tough on the strays too, who depend on overflowing trashcans to survive.  I ignored them and they kept their distance, but it made me nervous.

My (crappy) hostel-furnished map of Santorini told me that very near to Kamari was remains of an early Greek city, Ancient Thera.  I wanted to see it, and my waitress assured me it was nearby.  I had to walk back to the cliffs, and apparently it was in there someplace.  I took her at her word, although I didn't see anywhere where an ancient city could be hiding, and feared that maybe it was on top of said cliffs, where I surely was not walking.

Anyway, as I checked it out, I had to walk past a cluster of Greek apartment blocks and houses, and lo and behold the barking started.  There were more strays, including a mother with puppies, and also dogs defending houses, but with no chains that I could see.  Crap.  I started to get nervous.  My two stray friends from the restaurant had stuck with me for some reason, and then as the new dogs started to get closer they actually started to defend me against them.  I couldn't believe it, but apparently I had temporarily become pack.  There was lots of barking and growling and snapping, but thank goodness didn't get any worse.  Meanwhile I was heading back into town as quick as I could hustle without running.  To hell with Ancient Thera.  I didn't want to see it that bad.  My dogs stuck with me until I found another open cafe and went in to wait for the next bus.

...Yeah, that bus?  One rolled by about 20 minutes early, and of course I was in no position to catch it.  My waitress saw my distress and asked to see my schedule.  Of course it was the wrong one.  And the next bus wouldn't be by for an hour and a half at the very least.  So the restaurant owner's wife drove me home.  Just one more Good Samaritan along my journey.  I of course offered to pay but she wouldn't hear of it, and took me right to my door.

Had a blissfully quiet night in.  Villa Manos offered to order out for dinner for you if you wanted, and that's exactly what I did.  Hung out on my balcony.  It occurs to me that I should have kept a list of books I read during this trip, because I know I was reading something good but now for the life of me cannot remember what it was.

The next day, I had to get up early because I was taking a boat ride out to see Santorini's volcano island, Nea Kameni.  To walk from Villa Manos to Fira's Old Port apparently takes about 45 minutes, not exactly the 25 Poppy promised me.  It was first look at Fira proper, not just the outskirts where I'd had dinner two nights ago.  I just could not believe how pretty it was.  It would have been nice to stay in one of the towns, but Villa Manos more than made up for its out-of-the-way location.

To get down the the Old Port, it was quite a walk.  You can't really see it here very well, but said walk was also very liberally sprinkled with donkey poop.  When I got to the bottom, I saw why!

The donkeys weren't the only thing that was arorable.  Just check out my tour boat!

As you can see, I lucked out with the weather!

It took about 25 minutes to motor across to Nea Kameni.  The boat anchored and cut us loose for an hour and a half.  I have never in my life seen a place so utterly barren.  Like walking on a black-red moon.

I'd never walked on top of an active volcano before.  And I was not disappointed.  When I finally got up to the crater, the air started to smell like sulphur.  I was kind of wondering, since the volcano was so old, if the crater itself would even be distinctive.  But yeah, it was.

   You could actually see steam rising from the vents, and see long yellow and white streaks on the rocks from the sulphur.  I loved it!  Right along the path, there was a small rock depression leaking a thread of steam.  I put my hand down and the heat was surprising.  I had a feeling I would have burned my hand if I'd touched the rock itself.

Standing up on the very top of Nea Kameni and looking all around at the surrounding islands and flooded caldera, it suddenly became very clear that a long time ago, something very big had happened to create the way the islands look today.  Some scholars think that what happened to Santorini became the basis for the Atlantis myth.  It was easy to see how that could be.

The second part of our boat trip was supposed to be a trip to some hot springs.  My fellow passengers and I were very surprised when the boat calmly shuddered to a stop in the middle of a sheltered cove, and the captain untied a ladder from the side of the boat and lowered it down into the water.  "Hot springs, there!" he barked, gesturing over to the muddy shallows.  Um, it was November.  And while I was very comfy in my two layers and jeans, even if I had brought my bathing suit (never even considered it), there was no way on God's green earth I would have jumped down into that November ocean.  What blew my mind is how many of my tour companions did.  And yes, they assured me upon returning that yes, it was in fact balls-ass-cold.  No thank you.

On the ride home I sat myself in the bow and had the best seat in the house.

When we got back to the Old Port, options for getting back up into Fira included walking (nope), cable car (okay), or donkey.

My donkey was about the best thing ever.  His huge ears flopped up and down with every step.  I loved him.  And I got to ride a donkey in Greece!  It was a short ride but so completely worth five euros.  

In Fira, I did some dedicated Christmas shopping and had yet another gyro/souvlaki.  (I never could exactly tell those two things apart.)  Fira was practically deserted, and a lot of the shops and restaurants were closed.  Every shop I went into or restaurant I walked past, I was greeted as if I was the answer to their prayers.  Everyone was so gleeful to see me it actually made me feel guilty if I walked out of the shop without buying something.  The upside was that, in their eagerness to sell me something, I was able to score a couple good deals.  My family lucks out on Christmas morning. :)

I finished up shopping and walked through an old part of town that my guidebook said was exceptionally known for its perfect Santorini architecture.

More blue domes than you ever even knew existed.  I had a lot of fun exploring and only got (slightly) menaced by dogs once!  It was a long walk home to Villa Manos from the far edge of Fira, but I took it slow.  Home, I happily had yet another quiet night.  Ordered in yet again, bundled up in my fleece and sat outside under the moon and stars, reading.  Perfect end to an incredible day!