Author Archives: Greg Holt

About Greg Holt

This journal from the summer of 1984 documents my ambitious leap into international travel, simply for the curiosity and love of history, culture and whatever is over the next hill. This 14 week trip through Europe served as the springboard to more time exploring the world, living and working abroad.

054- Finding a friggin’ ferry from France

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The ripple effects of the British Coal Miners strike  resulted in French ports that closed and opened in ways that seemed random to this ignorant traveller trying to catch a ferry to Ireland.   Like any good story of a quest, the pursuit for an open port added a new cast of characters along the way that enriched my summer adventure.  And while the situation maybe caused more stress than I was used to, I still loved France. 

Saturday, 21 July 1984, 9:15AM, still en route to Ireland aboard the St. Killian II ferry

Arriving in Cherbourg for the ferry, not knowing what to do first, I was quite lucky to run into Sandra, a California girl.  She had tried the ferry the day before when the port was closed. On Friday, Sandra knew right where to go. Best of all, Cherbourg was still open!  Unfortunately, we found out at the station that the Irish Continental ferry doesn’t dock in Cherbourg until Sunday. What rotten luck.

With that news, it was back to the train station for both of us. The last hope for getting to Ireland was getting to Le Havre by 6PM. If all the stars lined up, there was a shot at connecting via a number of stops and making it to Le Havre by 5:17PM. Great!

We hopped the first train from Cherbourg to Caen, where I had been headed originally. Next Caen to Bernay. Then Bernay to Rouen. During all this train travel, I worked furiously on 7 pre-stamped postcards that I wanted to mail before leaving France.

In Rouen, we had a two hour wait that we filled by looking for eats, followed by lunch in the park. Sandra had packed away a jar of Skippy peanut butter sent from home and made me a sandwich. Things were looking up!

Find the Friggin Ferry from France

Limited to the powers of a Eurail Pass, it took quite a few train trips and transfers to get from Cherbourg to Le Havre.

We caught the last connection on this hasty trip to Le Havre, and as we pulled into the station, I finished my last post card. Judging by a map of the port area we picked up, the Irish Continental dock was a short walk from the train station. With 40 minutes before setting sail, we decided to walk.

The map proved to be out of scale and too light on details and landmarks for our navigational needs. Finding the waterfront proved to be time consuming with scarce minutes ticking away. Sandra and I turned up in an area of seedy bars along the wharf, but no sign of our ship.

The time came for decisive action, so I started asking anybody around for directions in my limited French. A truck driver took us to a nearby store where a man and woman teamed up explain to us. The man drew a map, telling us in French where to go while his wife interpreted into English. Very very nice couple.

The time passed as we followed the man’s directions. We still couldn’t see any ship and pessimism began setting in. Fortunately, a number of likely French road signs led us to the Irish Continental gate at 5:58, however the gate was locked and area around it deserted. Now I was hoppin’ mad.

In the distance, over a warehouse roof, we saw a green smokestack puffing up a cloud. We figured that had to be the ship’s smokestack preparing to ship off.  We navigated our way there, breaking into a trot, fully laden with our packs. This was the home stretch— do or die…

Sandra pooped out, but I figured if I could get them to stop for me, they’d wait for Sandra. I continued my jog, holding tight to my pack. When I caught a glimpse of the entire ship pulled up to the wharf, I was relieved to see the nose was still in the upright position while they finished loading cars.  We had time.

St. Killian II Ferry sketch

St. Killian II loading final cars. Artist rendering of what it looked like speeding into the cone of a ferry loading cars.

Sandra caught up and after we paid our 25 franc port tax, we hurried on board, not stopping until we were deep inside the ship.

As it turned out, the ship didn’t depart for another 30 minutes. Safe inside, and sweating like pigs, if pigs do in fact perspire as rumors suggest, we put or packs down where the cruise director instructed us and found some seats next to the huge windows for a rest.

The St. Killian II outclassed all the other ferries I’ve seen so far. The ship is constantly being cleaned and has all sorts of facilities for passenger use, including a cinema.

Once under way, we passed the time by eating, reading and playing rummy. The only thing the ship lacked was a convenient way for non-cabin passengers to catch some sleep. Many people crashed on the carpeted floors, as Sandra and I eventually did. The air conditioning seemed to be at 50 degrees all the time, so I had to pull out my vest. Things were still chilly, so I put on two of the comfy oval chairs together and rolled up into a ball trying to stay warm. Sleep eventually overcame me, but not easily.

1:15PM- still aboard the St. Killian II ferry

Maybe the best part of this trip was breakfast! All of my favorites were there for
£4.70— eggs (over easy and scrambled), sausage, bacon, rolls, coffee, juice, and even terrible oatmeal. It was an all-you-can-eat affair, and as previously demonstrated, I can eat a lot.

The rest of the voyage kind of slid by. I was trying to plan out my next two weeks in Ireland and England before I pick up my tour of the USSR. Even with Let’s Go, I’m at a loss for what to do.

053- Invasion of Normandy or “The Longest Post”

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Just a month before I visited Normandy, world leaders gathered there to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the D-Day invasion.  I missed seeing the dignataries, but they weren’t the real VIPs anyway.  When I arrived, there were plenty of American, British and Canadian veterans still visiting with their spouses, walking the streets in quite different circumstances from their first visit.  It was awesome.  The locals treated them like the rock stars they were.

I was drawn to Normandy by that big piece of modern history and a grab bag of older reasons, many inspired from National Geographic articles I’d seen as a kid.  I was fascinated by the Bayeux Tapestry, that told the story of the Norman invasion of Britain in 1066, a sort of linen newsreel of its day.  (Watch this Animated Bayeux Tapestry video and you’ll see what a block buster it was!)  I was able to fulfill my nerdy impulses with no shortage of quality baked goods to sustain me along the way.   Good thing, because Normandy showed me both the very best and very worst of travel.

Thursday, 19 July 1984, 3:30PM, Omaha Beach, Normandy, France

Yesterday turned out to be rather full, so I best catch up.

First I took in a substandard breakfast comprised of three slices of French bread with a bowl of coffee in the downstairs cafeteria, eating with a college guy from Minnesota.

To get my culture for the day, I set off to see the world famous Bayeux Tapestry.

Friday, 20 July 1984, Aboard St. Killian, docked in Le Harve, France

Before I left, I put on my Mickey Mouse t-shirt, that much to my chagrin had been improperly washed in Segovia and the blue trim on the collar and sleeves turned purple and ran, staining other parts of the shirt. I wore it anyway.

I arrived at the Bayeux Tapestry Museum before opening time, and waited around in the courtyard a while, with an American family. Their little kid commented, “Daddy, what’s so great about this tapestry?”

When we got in the museum, we found out. This was the best exhibit in terms of organization and signage I have seen anywhere. The displays were informative, clear and highly interesting. The tapestry, woven in a length of 80-some meters, portrays the events leading up to the Norman invasion of Britain and the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I must have been impressed by it all, as I bought a fold-out re-creation of the tapestry and a number of postcards in the museum gift store before I left.

william the conqueror

Classic panel of the Bayeux Tapestry with William sailing to Britain. See all the panels at hastings1066.com

Afterwards I went to the tourist information office to find out how to get to Mont Saint Michel, my next destination for the day. I also filled up on goods from a local bakery that offered an incredible selection of untold French baked goodness. Also picked up food for later and dumped it back at the Accueil and took off for Mont St. Michel, after eating numerous sandwiches.

Mont Saint Michel is a monastery located on an island off the coast is isolated at high tide, save for a causeway leading from the mainland, and surrounded by a mud flat at low tide. I was expecting the visit to be quite an experience. After two hours train and bus time, the approach appeared quite impressive.

Mont Saint Michel Summer Vacation 1984

Impressive from a distance, but the warning signs in the foreground screamed “TOURIST TRAP”. I didn’t hear that in time.

As we drew close, the tour buses and cars parked along the causeway made me suspicious. As I walked through the gates of the monastery, the ugly truth reared its head. Mont Saint Michel was clearly one of Europe’s leading tourist traps. Lining the main street, twisting up the mont, tourist shops stood wall to wall selling all the same postcards, caps, headbands and junk associated with tourist traps worldwide. The street was filled shoulder to shoulder with tourists. I’m not exaggerating when I say movement was impossible at times.

At first I thought I’d go along with it, like the guys from Detroit suggested. I remembered their conversation about tourist shopping in Paris metro stations, trying to find the most outrageously tasteless trinkets (Eiffel Tower in seashells?). Well, I didn’t have to look far. Just as I was about to buy some plastic cameras at $1 apiece, that click off a disk of 15 pictures of Mont Saint Michel, common sense stepped in. I aborted this mission and bolted from the island, purchasing only an ice cream to provide sustenance on the way out.

Mont Saint Michel 2 Low Tide

A view from the mudflats. No tourists in sight. Sometimes sinking in mud is the price you pay for peace and quiet.

Mont Saint Michel 1

Another shot from the mud flats, with the tree lines marking the shore in the distance.

The tide was out, so in my new shoes (bad choice on this day) I walked the Mont’s perimeter, searching for an ideal camera angle. It just so happened that place was located in knee deep mud, so I settled for the second most ideal angle and snapped a couple of photos. After that, I killed time back on the mainland before the bus arrived to extract me from this horror of commercial tourism.

On the bus back to the train station, I met Paul and Mary, a middle aged couple from San Diego. They were pretty amusing and we kept on talking right through until the train came, at which point we were separated by class.  They were 1st, I’m 2nd.  I waved goodbye as they pulled out on the train leaving Bayeux.

Back in Bayeux, the sun began to set as I pulled into the Accueil. Back in the room, I feasted on Ritz crackers, Belgian pate, cheese, tomatoes and French bread. Feeling like a stuffed pig, I retired for the evening.

Thursday morning, I decided that sleep was more important than the measly breakfast served downstairs so I skipped it, brunching instead on leftovers from the pervious night. Thursday was going to be “World War II Day” so I left the Accueil and walked across the street to the Bayeux Invasion Museum to start things off.

The museum displayed a range of objects that were interesting in different degrees, but it gave the overall impression that this was a bunch of stuff the guys chipped in to start a museum. The exhibits were very informal. The most interesting part was the display of letters home written by the soldiers who took part in the invasion and aftermath.  Reading firsthand accounts in the authors’ own handwriting has quite an impact.

After the museum, I checked in at a travel agency to see about getting a ferry to cross over to Ireland. The port of Cherbourg was closed due to the spreading effects of a British coal miners strike currently in progress. The travel agent made a reservation on the ferry from Le Havre and referred me to the tourist office for information to get from Bayeux to Le Havre (because to get there on the train was too cumbersome).

Loaded up with all the info I needed for a while, I visited my favorite boulangerie in town for goodies and began my search for the bus to Omaha Beach. In short order, the bus appeared and off we went.

Normandy American Cemetery

It was a beautiful day to visit this historic site.

The driver deposited me at the entrance to the American Military Cemetery and from there I walked in. As cemeteries go, this struck me as quite dignified and beautiful. With over 9,000 men buried here, it was sobering— especially considering how many died right there on the nearby beach. It was a sad place, but overall left you with a positive feeling. The memorial stressed that these soldiers died for a purpose, an ideal which they helped preserve, so they did not die in vain.

While at the site, I also went down on Omaha Beach. The beach was not how I pictured it at all. No steel traps for amphibious landing craft, no barbed wire or any of the other accessories from “The Longest Day” with John Wayne. What I did observe were numerous holiday beach goers (clothing optional) and a number of beach houses. Maybe I’m wrong but I figured this former battleground would be a place for reverence rather than merry making. Life had definitely triumphed over death.

Omaha Beach Summer Vacation 1984

Omaha Beach. No fleet off the coast, no landing craft, no barbed wire, and fortunately no live rounds. Solitude is handy when you really need to ponder, and it worked for me here.

Back at the bus stop, there was quite a wait for the next bus. I took advantage of this time to see some of rural Normandy on foot, and headed off on foot in the direction the bus would eventually come from. I made it 3 km down the road, with French drivers on the narrow road terrorizing me more often than not. Several old farm buildings along the way looked well over 40 years old and were surely around during the invasion. They looked just like the classic whitewashed French farm houses from WWII pics. I can only imagine what this place was like in 1944!

Landing beaches map

Omaha Beach was just one of the landing beaches that Americans, Brits and Canadians stormed on D-Day. Take your pick, here they are, and vets from each country were looking back on those scary days.

It turned out I was such a good walker that I entered the next tariff zone away from Bayeux, making my trip back more expensive . Can I pick directions to randomly walk or what? The bus eventually dropped me back in Bayeux, where I acquired a bus schedule to Le Havre. Dinner in town consisted of pizza and half a liter of wine, which sent me stumbling back to the Accueil. As the evening played out, I washed some clothes out and packed up the rest of my stuff.

The way the train and bus schedules worked out, I had to make it to nearby Caen on the train by 7:40 to catch the only bus from there to Le Havre. So this morning, I was up at 6, and had to forgo breakfast again and zoomed to the station.

12:00 Midnight, headed toward Ireland aboard the St. Killian II

The train to Caen did not arrive on schedule, so I missed the possibility of catching the bus to Le Havre. The man at the train station info desk told me that Cherbourg was now open to ferry traffic, so seeing some chance of catching the fery, I hopped the next train out. I’m tired. More later.

052 – The 1,000 mile train from Spain

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The series of train rides from Segovia to Normandy took less than 24 hours and were easier than the trip down to Spain.  That said, it made for a very long haul.  The days left on my Eurail pass were slipping by and I needed to maneuver myself as best I could while I could freely move about. Good thing I love to look out the window and observe what’s going on outside.

Monday, 16 July 1984, 5:00PM, Charmartin Train Station, Madrid

After another rough night’s sleep, that included a sleepless two hour time-out when I simply listened to the radio (and heard The Surfaris sing “Wipeout”!).  In the morning,  I got up, cleaned up and packed the majority of my stuff, and set out on the town to take care of business. That included changing French francs into pesetas, purchasing stamps for my bundle of postcards, and checking out of my room by noon. I left my bag in the lobby with the ever-vigilant, although lifeless looking, old guy who worked the front desk.

Hunger playing a major influence, and with time to kill before picking up my laundry at 1PM, I went over to the hamburgeseria for breakfast— a double burger, big plate of greasy fries and a beer. I’m really eating crap lately.

As my final pesetas ticked away, I did some modest provisioning for the upcoming train trip back to Paris. I’m not looking forward to this ride.

Segovia to Bayeux Map

The leg of the journey featured a train ride relay of over 1,000 miles from Segovia to Madrid, to Irun, Paris and finally Bayeux. Where was the bullet train when I needed it?

With nothing left to do, I found a shady spot to sit on the steps across from the Plaza de Franco and examined my map of Madrid.

“Americano?” a voice asked out of nowhere. I looked up an saw an American girl.

“Oh, si, yo soy americano,” I replied with a gringo grin. In the conversation that followed, I learned this girl from Georgia had been studying for two months in Segovia. A friendly conversation ensued.  Not too exciting.

When she left, I went to pick up my laundry. The snotty lady who I dealt with when I dropped off my clothes told me that my clothes weren’t ready. Then she began yammering away at me in unintelligible Castilian.  I got the impression this was meant to torture me.  I was thinking of appropriate names to call her, when a little old man broke in, and asked if I spoke English. He interpreted what the laundry lady said and told me my clothes would be ready in 15 minutes.  Hm.

I ended up chatting with the old man, who saw my UCLA t-shirt and noted that many people think the “c” stands for Christian. This started a monlogue, offering few chances for me to interject. With15 minutes to kill, I was happy to keep him talking. The old man let go stream of consciousness story fragments that didn’t quite logically follow, starting with his father, a Tulane University Class of 1898 graduate, his own dislike for Spanish drivers and the Castilian dialect, his experience at the 1932 Olympics, Spanish anthropology, the fact that there were more Jews in Spain than in Israel (a statement he qualified by quoting Confucius who said something about not believing everything you’re told), and then the old man wrapped it up noting that he had been coming to this laundry for 20 years “in this backwards country” and he had given English lessons to the girl behind the counter.  The two had been joking with each other when I walked into the laundry.   This bit of oratory, and my well-timed head nods, lasted well over 15 minutes.

When the girl saw that the old guy had taken a liking to me, she pulled my bag of clothes from under the counter and proclaimed them ready. I paid and bid farewell to the old man. After that I returned to the hotel lobby and stuffed my backpack with freshly laundered clothes. I thanked the lifeless man behind the front desk and then began the death march to the train station, a 25 minute walk in the midday heat. Half way to the station, I realized that I neglected to return my room key.  Under the burning sun, I considered myself well past the point of no return, so I continued to the station, or my next popsicle– whichever came first.

Tuesday, 17 July 1984, 9:30PM, Centre D’Accueil, Bayeux, France

Hot and sweaty, I sat at the train station sucking on a popsickle acquired at one of the many stands located around Segovia that dealt solely in ice cream. A sweaty Japanese tourist sat down next to me and struck up a conversation. His English was very rough, and partially explained why he laughed at whatever I said, whether it was humorous or not. We took the same train back to Madrid, and on it, he started asking me questions based on his understanding of our earlier conversation.

“So when you finish school, are you going back to East Germany?”  Ok, not so good on listening comprehension.

The part of the conversation that he understood best was when he noticed the UCLA logo on my shirt, which he immediately recognized. I explained that there are many Japanese people in Los Angeles, which he didn’t seem ready to believe.

In Madrid, I bought a Coke at the train station bar with my last 100 pesetas. I don’t even drink Coke. Then I found my next train. Madrid was over 90 degrees again, so I didn’t bother boarding the train until the last minute to avoid the stuffy compartment. The train departed 30 minutes late anyway.

The 16 hour journey to Paris wasn’t a total nightmare, nor was it pleasurable (or even eventful) My fellow compartment companions included: an American woman, 40 years old, who spoke fluent Spanish (she was a flake); a young Spanish couple who were nice but not talkative; an old fart Spanish man who had smokers’ cough and an abrasive personality; and finally, a refugee from the cast of Saturday Night Fever, who spent most of his time walking up and down the length of the train to a disco beat that only he could hear.

We pulled into Paris on time.   Feeling extremely scummy after the long, hot and at times very sweaty trip, I headed straight for the station showers in the basement. After getting cleaned up, I hit the information counter to find information on trains to my next destination, the Normandy coastal town of Bayeux.  That train departed from the Gare St. Lazare, so I made my way there. I think I’ve got the hang of Paris now, and all of its train stations. Also picked up a bite to eat before jumping on my next train.

On the train to Bayeux, I sat with two American guys from “around Detroit” who were hilarious.  Also in the compartment was a preppie jerk high school senior from Omaha, Nebraska, dressed in Argyle sweater, blazer and penny loafers (with pennies in them). It was a pleasure to listen to the banter of the two Americans. They were headed to Ireland on tonight’s ferry. It would have been fun trip to join them but I still have more of France to see, so I jumped off the train in Bayeux, the first French town to be liberated after the D-Day invasion of Normandy.

Finding the Bayeux tourist office was a challenge but within an hour of setting off from the station, I had found it, set up accommodations and had settled into my new lodgings at the D’Accueil. I’m not sure what this place’s story is, but $6.11 got me my own room (with a sink) in a dormitory style complex. Down the hall are unlimited showers and toilets (no toilet seats!). I must add that the toilets contribute yet another design to the growing collection. Fortunately my digestive tract is now rock solid due to efforts to stem the flow of my couscous curse. I’m sure I’ll be using these facilities before I go, and will of course be testing out whatever the French excuse for toilet paper is.

C’est la vie!

Bayeux toilet sketch

Time for another detailed drawing of curious Euro-plumbin designs you don’t see at home. And I always wonder why if you invest in an indoor toilet, why not go the whole way and get a seat for it too?

005- Night ferry to Crete

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Now on the road for a couple of days, with my trusty Berlitz phrasebook for reference, I eased into the travelers routine.  It became increasingly obvious that as a 6’4″ redhead, towering above a sea of shorter, dark-haired people on the streets of Greece, I screamed of foreign-ness and was a natural magnet for hawkers.  (Ok, wardrobe choices didn’t help me out in this regard.) Sticking out so much took getting used to, and only gradually did I learn to deal with this.  As I left Athens I also had my first exposure to Romani (gypsies).  That episode may read politically incorrect by today’s standards, but this was 1984 and I wrote it like I heard it.  Heads up! 

Thursday, 17 May 1984, 3:00PM, Clare’s House, Athens

Today is check out day at Clare’s House, provided that the proprietor got my ferry ticket as we discussed this morning.  I should be on the 6:30PM boat to Crete. I’ll tell more of that and some Athens stories later.

8:17PM, en route to Crete, aboard the ferry Kantia

First, I’ll run down what I did before I left Athens and then I’ll start the ferry ride story.

Friday, 18 May 1984, 8:11AM, Iraklion, Crete, courtyard of Hotel Hania

So much to say, but first let’s get me caught up. Spent yesterday in Athens on my own. Went to the Theater of Dionysious, the Agoura, the Plaka and the National Archaeological Museum. I was surprised to find out I could make out the Greek inscriptions on the box seats in the ancient theater– well at least well enough to sound out the words.

First week out, made it to the Acropolis

I finally made it to the Acropolis.

Yesterday, I also came to the realization that I was very spottable as a tourist. It happened before when I was with Michael and Kathy. People always ask me whether I want to buy this, or do I want directions. Later, when I was walking alone through Syntagma Square, a rather pudgy guy saw my UCLA t-shirt and started a conversation that went like this:

“Hey, UCLA Bruins! You from the States?”

“Yes”.

“What part?”

“Los Angeles”.

“Oh, Los Angeles Lakers. How did they do?”

“I don’t know. The playoffs were still going on when I left.”

“How about hockey?” I began to get suspicious when a Greek sounds interested in hockey.

“You in Athens long?” he asked.

“No. I’m leaving tonight for the islands.”

“You need ticket? Come on, let’s go to travel agency right around the corner.”

“I already have a ticket. Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll buy you a beer and we can watch the entertainment.”

Fortunately, Uncle Dale warned me about the old “I”ll buy you a beer” trick where it ends up costing me a fortune.

“No, really, I have to do a lot of things before I leave tonight.”

“When you going?”

“Seven, but I have to go to the bank, the post office, my hotel, and my laundry is dirty too,” I lied.

“Oh, oh well.” So I went into the bank and when I passed through the square again, there was my buddy, searching the crowd for his next sucker. Then he saw me. “Hey, I’m insulted now!” he said.

“Sorry,” jeez I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.

I returned to the hotel, collected my laundry, paid my bills, packed up and caught the bus to the harbor, Piraeus. I didn’t know which stop to get off at and the bus took so many detours that I couldn’t keep up on my map  (and the street names were only sporadically marked). An old man, noticing me fumbling with the map, tried to give me directions as best he could.

After I got off the bus, two boat owners and a policeman directed me to my ship that was to take off in 10 minutes. I hopped in through the car loading deck and walked up a few levels of stairs to the higher decks until I reached the top. All of the rooms were crowded with huge women and children and dirty looking men, with all their belongings scattered about their blankets on the floor of the cabin.

Looking for a crew member to tell me where to go (travelling 3rd class passage) I finally wandered outside and sat on a bench to cool off on deck. I was dripping sweat by this time.

The ship took off at 7:00PM sharp and I sat on deck wondering why I might want to go back inside where it was crowded and stuffy. A few folks came outside to watch us take off.  Among them was an Australian/South African guy who noticed the American flag on my backpack and struck up a conversation.

“Bloody scum of the Earth, them gypsies.” (So that’s who they were!) “Can’t you just smell’m? Throw a bar of soap in there and they’d all jump overboard. Scum of the earth!”

Calvin (or maybe Kelvin, if you adjust for the accent) left his wife inside with them, but after it started getting cold on deck, we moved inside and joined her on a couch in the foyer area. On the floor near us were two stout women on two separate blankets. One woman snoring away, the other slapping away a dirty kid.

Mel, Calvin’s wife, said that some man came by one of the women, checked out the pile of clothes she was sleeping near, picked up a coat, went through the pockets, found nothing, tried it on, found it too large, dropped it and walked away. The menfolk kept coming by and checking us out.  Calvin pointed out how you don’t take your eyes off your things with gypsies around. So I didn’t.

Mel broke out a bottle of wine, I came up with a loaf of bread (long roll actually) and Calvin supplied some salami. When the little gypsy kid saw it, she started calling for a piece. The man with her was telling me to cut off a piece. Calvin said “Oh awlright, but I hope she chokes.” So I gave the kid part of my slice. The man said, “No, cut a piece,” (rough translation). Calvin bleated out a couple of expletives. The kid didn’t get it.

So we sat there for a while, Calvin going on at length about the gypsies, who are about like the “coloreds” in South Africa who for some reason knock out their front teeth (?).

Then Calvin left for a walk while Mel and I watched the bags. Calvin found bunk accommodations in sort of a long corridor, about 14 to a room, so we moved there, where I spent a sleepless night– uncomfortable with by backpacks in my bunk, my shoes off, piled behind me and my watch stuffed in them. Gypsy-paranoid, I opened my eyes a number of times while I was dozing to see them checking us out as they passed by our bunks.

The trip took exactly 12 hours. When I got off the ferry in Iraklion, I took a cab to the tourist office for maps and info. Only 100 drachma and the driver was very nice. I found this place where I am now, and am waiting for it to open up to see if I can get a room.

12:37PM, Palace of Knossos, Crete

It turned out that the Hotel Hania had an irritable proprietor who does in fact get obnoxious with single males guests, just like the “Let’s Go” guidebook warned. All I asked was if I could see the room first. The proprietor threw my passport back at me, so I left.

Went down to the youth hostel and got a place for 180 drachs. It’s in a room of bunk beds for 10. I threw my bags on the mattress and took out my sleeping bag, hit the bathroom and brushed my teeth and went upstairs for breakfast (bread, jam and butter with coffee– a pretty standard meal here).  As I ate, I sat on the balcony, looking around town and listening to the swallows darting around in the fresh morning air.

When I went back to the dorm room, my sleeping bag was gone, assumed stolen. Thank God I took my other backpack to breakfast. It’s got my next 13 weeks wellbeing in it– tickets, travelers checks, etc. So many expensive lessons to learn. I hope this is the last, but I doubt it.

The longer I stay in Greece, the more the negative things outnumber the positive ones. I did get on the wrong bus to Knossos through and the fare taker re-directed me to another bus and didn’t charge me. Nice guy.

Knossos is kind of a letdown, like an old Walt Disney attempted historical re-creation. I myself can point out a number of architectural suspicions I have about the restoration.

It just occurred to me that I’m starving. I must eat something besides bread and pastry and coffee. I bought a 1.5 liter water bottle that fits in my backpack– that will save me.

Knossos is swarming with tourists. Most plump, red-faced, middle-aged German couples. Hardly anyone speaks English– even me!

My first artistic rendering of an interesting place.

My first artistic rendering of an interesting place.

I think it stinks that they take these classical Greek monuments and cage them up and make the world pay to see them. I’m leaving!

004- Athens & The Temple of Poseidon Adventure

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Once settled into suitable accommodations, the sightseeing began in earnest around Athens and with a first bus-ride for a day trip to the Temple of Poseidon.  As happened countless times later I also started striking up friendships with my fellow travelers along the way. 

Wednesday, 16 May 1984, 9:50PM, Athens, Clare’s House

A lot has happened since the last entry. Kathy, Michael and I went to the Acropolis later that day. I think I’ll go back tomorrow, so I’ll withhold comment for now.

When we got back, I met the guy who was sharing my room. Thomas it was, a very tall English fellow. He was my size, but built along the same lines as Marc Gartenberg– and dressed like Marc too, on his more bohemian dress days.

Thomas hadn’t eaten so I asked him if he wanted to go out with us. He also suggested a restaurant to go to. So all four of us (Thomas, Michael, Kathy and I) made the treacherous journey through unmarked, dark, twisting and uneven streets, and then a marathon bus ride across town to our destination. So there we were in a predominantly Greek neighborhood, whizzing by the locals.

Finally we found the place, and assisted by Thomas’s knowledge of basic Greek, we ordered. I got moussaka, which was very good (and I had it again tonight) and beer, which turned out to be Amstel later, which is very good. Thomas also ordered the infamous retsina wine for the table. After such a rough day, I was plastered with two beers (they were pints).  Getting back to Clare’s House was equally exciting. The traffic here never stops– stops being traffic that is.

When I went to bed, I died. Enough to sleep through my watch alarm. I made it to breakfast downstairs just before it ended, and enjoyed my bread, jam and coffee. After breakfast, Kathy and Michael invited me to go down the coast to the Temple of Poseidon. So we hopped across town to catch the bus to Sounion to begin the trip.

When we were on the streetcar, after a sudden jolt, some guy ran into Michael and tried the old “bump and stall” pickpocket trick. Michael had a money belt down his shirt so this guy lost. Oddly enough, this petty felon was later on our bus on the way to Sounion as well. Obviously finished with a day’s worth of pickpocketing, carrying a big handbag (and accoring to the Philadelphia lady sitting next to me) a woman’s gold bracelet on his wrist.

Temple of Poseidon

Temple of Poseidon- Great location

The Temple of Poseidon was heavily touristed and I really didn’t know too much about it to appreciate it. The location was beautiful though, with an incredible view of the Aegean. Turned out good for our picnic lunch. The water was so clear, we decided it was time to climb down to the small rocky beach to have a swim. The water was nice, but cold.

Great place to take a dip, too!

Great place to take a dip, too!

The best part of the day was the trip back to Athens. We were a bit worried when the bus didn’t head back the way we came. Instead, it skirted the other side of the cape. Fortunately, some old codger reassured us, yes, we were going to “Athine”. It turned out that it would just be a matter of time. The area was rural and also quite green for how I pictured Greece– little plots of land, gardens, old houses, chickens, goats and donkeys and small villages. I would swear I was in Mexico.

As we went through the towns, all the old men were sitting outside the tavernas at tables, just drinking, talking and watching things go by. Occasionally people got on and off the bus when the driver saw somebody flagging him down in the middle of nowhere. An old woman dressed in the Greek old woman uniform (black) sat next to me with a bunch of old flowers wrapped in newspaper. I wish I spoke Greek. I would have liked to talk to her. She seemed a very interesting individual.

The other striking thing I surmised today was the reason all the new houses, as well as office buildings in town, are made out of concrete. Not once on my whole trip today did I see one tree straight enough, long enough or thick enough to cut into lumber– so cement and brick it is! The beginnings of these places puzzled me at first. A concrete first and second floor is poured, with a number of supporting pillars. A staircase is included, and many  were cement spiral staircases. I imagine that’s some engineering feat. Then whatever spaces are left between the pillars are bricked up and plastered over. Some put in fancy arches, but most just have doors and windows. Yet another variation was to leave the bottom open on all sides, build an upstairs portion and have a garage below. It was an interesting trip.

Here's my seat of the pants sketch of a Greek home under construction.

Here’s my seat of the pants sketch of a Greek home under construction.

003- First taste of Athens

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Arriving in Athens in the middle of the night, my first impressions were of a dark, concrete megalopolis with a dimly lit airport and potential danger waiting behind every corner.  Full immersion into a Greek-speaking environment and Greek language signage all around added to the mystery.  Fortunately, I was armed with several Berlitz phrasebooks that proved to come in handy in the days and weeks ahead.

Tuesday, 15 May 1984- 8:05AM, Hotel Minoa, Athens

Could this be the nightmare I was warned about? Could be, could be. Landed last night after midnight at the airport, which is quite a piece from town.  So, I doubled up with an Australian couple for a taxi ride into town. We had hotel reservations at the same hotel. It was a good thing I was with somebody else who’d done a bit of traveling because I think I’m too good natured to know when I’m being ripped off by a taxi driver. Anyway, I got into town for about $3.30.

On the way, the driver and his brother (mostly the latter) told us we were going to a flophouse where only “cold women” go. He stressed it was dirty, unsafe, and far from the Acropolis, and “for 200 drachma more” we could stay in a “B” hotel with our own bathrooms. Funny how he could quote a price right there in the taxi.

So we pulled up to the Hotel Minoa, and after our benefactor dealt with the desk clerk.  We decided to get our deposit back on the other hotel the next day. If my theory on big cities in anywhere near correct– and I think it is– I’m going to be avoiding them. After getting to bed at 2AM, I awoke at 6 to the thundering of the traffic 6 stories below. This place has all the charm of the intersection of Wilshire & Westwood and the neighborhood has a certain air about it too. I think it’s called smog, with a diesel chaser. I’m hitting the islands as soon as possible.

Athens

Morning view at the Hotel Minoa, with the Acropolis barely visible through the morning haze.

Anyway, I just went downstairs to find out the name of this place, and couldn’t get the lock to work to get back into my room, so I had to climb out the stairwell window and Spiderman over to my balcony (six floors above the street). It was fun, I suppose. One saving grace is that from my balcony, off in the distance (through all of the concrete buildings that make me think of Beirut) I can see the Acropolis. Even in the thickening haze it is impressive. Then again, so is the toilet which has the tank 8 feet in the air and is flushed by the pull of a chain!

3:47PM, Clare’s House, Athens

A lot has happened since this morning. First of all, Michael and Kathy, the couple I taxied in with, found out the Hotel Minoa was very near the one we were supposed to stay in. Yes, we were swindled, somewhat.

Fortunately however, we left that dump with no serious problems and trekked across town to get our refunds. The streets of Athens are tremendously exciting. Busy too. As we got further away from the Minoa, the street scene changed. News kiosks, commuters, police, tourists it was crazy, but at the same time not obnoxious.

We passed by the building where a bomb went off a day ago, and it was mobbed with rubberneckers. Anyhow, the commercial center of Athens is at least lively, with sidewalk cafes, vendors of all sorts, protesters and people all over.

Taking the advice of “Let’s Go”, we started looking for new accommodations (once we left our bags at the baggage check). Finally I got a good view of the Acropolis, Hadrian’s Arch, and the Temple of Zeus. Not too bad, really.

To cut this short, I’m now sharing a room with someone (who I haven’t met yet, but the bags are here) at a nice, clean place called Clare’s House, in a largely residential area of the city, near the Acropolis. The weather is not bad, and there really isn’t much smog to speak of; well in fact, none. I like this place. It’s very peaceful, and I’m still tired.

Athens

Outside of Clare’s House. Michael prepares to take a shot of the Acropolis.

002- “I see London…”

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A little rest and a bite to eat always soften the perspective.  I didn’t get a bite right away, but this is a good time to point out that much of this journal will seem like a search for food.  That’s just my metabolism.  I’m one of those guys who thinks with his stomach 😉 

Monday, 14 May 1984, 8:27 AM, London

Last night after a 3 hour nap, I took a walk around the neighborhood, managing to get lost no less than 3 times. London streets don’t seem to make much sense, but locals are very fast to supply directions– especially the “bobbies” who seemed to be out in force.

At first I went the wrong way to Pimlico.  I got turned around but made it back to Buckingham Palace, where not much happens at 8:30 PM Sunday night. By the time I got on course back to the Aadams Hotel, all the food places had closed, so I went to bed with only an airplane meal in my stomach.

This morning though, after an educational experience using the bathtub, I woofed down an “English” breakfast in the hotel’s basement dining room– 4 pieces of toast and marmalade, a fried egg, a strip of bacon and a gallon of coffee. Wish I had a radio.

Checkout time is 10:30 so I have to pack it up, also have to confirm my flight to Athens– between checkout and flight time I think I’ll be a tourist. HERE I GO– LOOKOUT ENGLAND!!!

12:04PM — On a rest stop on my wondering about tour.

Right now I’m across the Thames from Parliament. A bunch of parachutists just dropped into the river– and I got the pics! They were in some branch of the armed forces.

Parachuters

Random parachuters across from Parliament

Interesting grafitti on the walls along the river: “Thatcher is an old sow”, “Malvinas Argentinas” and it goes on like that.

I understand now why the British keep the countryside so beautiful– because London is smelly, dirty and needs a good cleaning. Not to deny it is also a very dynamic city with many lovely parks. But generally, it seems crowded in the central area, especially with tourists. I refused to watch the changing of the guard. I just can’t stand with 500 camera snapping tourists. It repulses me! Yeech!

3:08PM, Heathrow Airport lounge

Alright, I was hard on London. Smelly and dirty are part of all big cities. London has its more refined sides as well.

I met two girls on the way out of the Aadams Hotel this morning. They were freshly from New Jersey and were tired travelers like me. I told them they might bet a better deal by shopping around or reading “Let’s Go”.

001- Off I go! Jet lag or no

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It wasn’t until I checked into my first hotel on this trip that I put pen to paper and started my journal.  It’s a little stiff at first, but with time I find my stride.  My first impression of London was that it was more like a dismal scene from Dickens than I was expecting.  Things turn around.  Here goes.

Sunday, 13 May 1984 – 2:30PM, London:

What better place to begin this story than Room 6 of the Aadams Hotel, 17 Belgrave Road in London, a story in itself.

London

London- A rather gloomy start to a stunning trip.

I’ve been up about 22 hours, but still feel compelled to start this thing. To catch up, the flight from Los Angeles was alright, lasting 10 hours, all of which time I remained in the upright position due to the broken seat. Traveling companions weren’t too bad. One, an English grad student from USC going home, and the other one a young lady going home to Ireland.

All of the other passengers typified the British terms of “twit” and “mum” as I was surrounded by dozens of grey haired grannies rattling on at length about their “holidays”. The twits were not worth discussing.

On the train in from Gatwick, I was amazed by just about everything I saw. The living quarters of the people are almost exclusively brick, and dirty looking, making it kind of depressing. To make it worse though, each building was almost identical; in uniform rows, with uniform trees, gardens, etc. etc. It reminded me of my fast drive through Philadelphia and Boston– and the excesses of worker housing in the industrial revolution.

Anyway, I’m still confused about which way to look when I cross the street. So far so good. (Until the next day!!!)

I found the Aadams Hotel though a booking service at Victoria Station.  For £15 pounds, I got a room with 2 beds, a sink and some drawers, toilet down the hall, bathtub a bit further. It should be interesting. I had to splurge though because I’m so tired. It’s kind of drafty in this room. I think I turned on the heat– we’ll see. (I didn’t.)

The neighborhood is south of Victoria Station, and I don’t really know what to make of it yet. More later, very tired. (Rows and rows of Georgian town homes.)

A husband and wife team run this place and are very helpful. I just tried to make a phone call and they were a great aid.

British money bugs me. The paper notes are different sizes, £1 being the smallest, and the 50 pence piece is the same size as the 10p. The phone was bizarre too– but kind of fun.